Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

Just as he straightened fully, suitcase firmly
grasped in his left hand, Coyote’s very baggy pants,
held up by a dirty-white piece of rope, suddenly
became a lot baggier.
Oops.
Not only was his butt hanging out for all the world
to see, but so was his pride and joy, and wouldn’t you
know it, right at eye level with the old Indita who’d
been ignoring him the whole ride.
There was something about her expression that he
couldn’t quite figure out, but it reminded him of his
brother’s face when they’d hit the jackpot in Vegas
one time.
An involuntary guffaw escaped Coyote’s mouth as
he grabbed the front of his pants and yanked up,
clung desperately to the handle of his suitcase, and
tried to spontaneously sprout another hand as the
bus driver went from 30 mph to nothing, screeching
to a halt. Barreling forward, Coyote blew right past
the driver, bounced off the dashboard and down the
steps, and landed breathless and barely clothed at
the foot of a gently dripping palm tree.
He looked up at the bus windows to see three pairs