ALLIANCE
NO DOGS OR INDIANS ALLOWED
What luxury to wake up naked, a crisp morning breeze coming through the open window, my legs curled together to keep myself warm, clean sheets, cheap but adequate pillows on a king-size bed in a motel room alone, peacefully listening to the chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp-chirp of a western meadowlark, the buzz of a single-prop plane high overhead, the deep crunch of train cars coupling in the nearby railroad yard. I have much to look forward to today. Good Friday. Today I take my little yellow Volkswagen rental on a 280-mile round-trip from my hometown, Alliance, Nebraska, to the poorest community in America, the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota, to hang out with my blood brother Vernell White Thunder, whom I’ve talked hours to but haven’t seen in a long time; I just want to sit in his living room, drink copious amounts of Susie’s “cowboy coffee,” and relive the many profound and sometimes funny moments we’ve had over many years in many places—Kyle and Wanblee on the rez; me trying to teach him to spell, him trying to teach me how to ride horse bareback; our silly idea about drinking Navajo girls under the bar in downtown Albuquerque; our Indian horse ranch in Boulder, Colorado, which we named Tiyospaya; the little matter of the Buffalo Ranch; and the unresolved dispute over which of us danced with Jane Fonda. But first I must go for a swim.
Now residing in California, with my parents long gone and very few friends in the area, I don’t visit often. My Lebanese former in-laws still live here, and I love seeing them, but not staying in Alliance, which might well be the most boring town in America; people drive five miles an hour down the middle of main street, park on the wrong side of the road, smoke inside the stores. I try hard to stay healthy at the only motel with a swimming pool, but this is hardly a Ritz-Carlton or Four Seasons. Perhaps it is a cut above the other motels here because it has an indoor swimming pool, but the pool is not long enough for lap swimming, and you can hardly get your heart pumping by splashing around. The best news is that they have a hot tub. I slip out of bed directly into my suit, grab the room key, head out, and amble down the hallway, only to discover a hand-scrawled sign on the door to the pool: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. So I march to the front desk to inquire how long the pool will be closed.
The twentysomething clerk, a local girl with orange-and-blue hair and numerous piercings, says, “All weekend.”
This is clearly wrong. I am on the verge of demanding a refund and moving across the road to the American Inn, which, by the way, is half the price. But before I start shouting, the older, mellow me emerges; obviously, this poor girl is powerless—she knows nothing about the pool, why it is closed, or why it will take all weekend to clean the scum off the surface.
I say, “Okay; thanks.”
I skulk back to my room next to the noisy soft drink vending machine to work out with the latex stretch bands I fortuitously stashed in my carry-on bag yesterday before taking an Uber to the Oakland Airport. Exercise is my elixir, my antidote to premature aging.
During the 1950s and ’60s, before America was thoroughly homogenized, when I still liked it here, Alliance had no Holiday Inn Express, Motel 6, McDonald’s, Kmart, Pizza Hut, 7-Eleven, or Dunkin’ Donuts. Hard to imagine, but we had two proper hotels: the downtown Drake Hotel and the Alliance Hotel across from the train station, both locally owned with real lobbies, bellhops, public dining rooms, full bars, and banquet halls. When my parents could afford it, I loved eating in these hotels—chicken-fried steak on mashed potatoes smothered with onion gravy was my go-to favorite. Alliance also had two drugstores with classic ’50s-style lunch counters, soda fountains, and jukeboxes. My mom worked at a shoe store called Howard’s—Howard and his wife were family friends—and my dad was the editor of the local paper. My best friend Nace’s dad worked at the Maytag appliance store, one of the few national businesses. There were three ice cream stands, one of which stayed open all year round even when the temperature dipped below zero, and two family hamburger places, the better of which was Rex’s Hamburgers, where they sold fifteen-cent miniature burgers fried in three inches of grease on a smoky-hot griddle, served in little square dinner rolls—juicy and delicious; my brother and I could eat dozens. The grocery stores were all family owned; no chains until a Safeway opened up in 1962. Hardware stores, auto shops, a lumberyard, the farm implement company, an honest-to-Jesus smoke-filled pool hall with eight-ball and snooker tables, a drive-in movie theater where you could eat popcorn and lose your virginity while watching Jerry Lewis in The Bellboy, and a downtown movie theater that sponsored Saturday morning kiddie shows where during intermission Pepe the Clown (local sign painter Leonard Glarum) would drive his toy clown car out on the stage, make silly jokes, and hand out dorky prizes. Strategically located next to the movie theater was a candy store, and not far away were an all-night bakery and a doughnut shop.
Unlike with today’s big-box stores in small-town franchise-dominated economies, most of the money made in Alliance stayed in Alliance; it was not siphoned off to some distant corporate headquarters in the Cayman Islands. People in Alliance felt prosperous and safe; they seldom bothered to lock their houses or car doors. On my tenth birthday, my parents gave me a Black Phantom Schwinn bicycle that elevated my status among my friends and brought me freedom and great joy. I could pedal anywhere—to the swimming pool, school, the movies, friends’ houses, the soda fountain—and park without worry. My bike would be there when I needed it. I wasn’t even aware that there was such a thing as a bicycle lock, much less a bicycle thief.
We lived in a Norman Rockwell painting during the 1950s, then moved on to American Graffiti in the ’60s. Lily-white Alliance had one poor black family, the Chandlers. An iconic sight was Old Man Hayes Chandler driving his horse and wagon through the alleyways to haul away discarded things for housewives. When I was a small boy, like many local children when I saw Mr. Chandler, I waved and hollered, and he always stopped to give me a ride on the back of the wagon, all the way to the end of the block. His grandson Ernie was the star center on our high school basketball team, and his younger grandson, Leroy, was the star running back on the football team. He also had two granddaughters, and there was a grandmother, Florence, but no parents in the Chandler household, as the grandchildren’s mother, Myrtle—Hayes’s daughter—died giving birth to her last child.
Alliance had a handful of Mexicans, mostly seasonal farm laborers who lived outside of town in field-side shanties provided by the farmers who hired them to pick sugar beets and potatoes. The few other Mexicans were “true” Mexican-Americans, people whose families preceded Europeans in settling in the Southwest from Texas to California, and also next-door Colorado—a vast swath of North America, which before the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was part of Mexico. One of these was my classmate and friend Tom Flores, a handsomely chiseled brown-skinned boy with a magnetic smile who was a track and wrestling star yet couldn’t get a date to the prom.
* * *
The only significant minority in Alliance was the indigenous population—four hundred or five hundred tortured souls—Native Americans, mostly Lakota, whom white people, when they weren’t using pejoratives such as “Injun,” “redskin,” or “savage,” referred to as Sioux, slang for “snake,” a nickname given to them by early French trappers. Some had families who had lived in Alliance for generations; others had been recruited from the reservations in South Dakota during World War II to help build the Alliance Army Airfield, which served as a training center for paratroopers and military police attack dogs. Some had arrived more recently for part-time work in the beet and potato fields, to break horses on nearby ranches, or to sweep sidewalks and shovel snow for local businesses. Many traveled back and forth from the reservations; others became permanent residents. Vernell White Thunder’s mom and dad met in Alliance during the summer of 1952, when they were picking potatoes. They got married, moved to Kyle, and never returned. Had they stayed, Vernell and I likely would have grown up in the same small town, but it is unlikely we would have met because I am seven years his senior. Or perhaps not. Vernell’s outgoing personality has led him to become acquainted with many people of all ages, native and white. My first wife, Linda, and I got to know Vernell when he started hanging out in our Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) teacher housing unit in Kyle at age twelve, and other than him and his younger brother, Anthony, we got to know very few students, as fraternization with teachers was frowned upon. Had Vernell been born in Alliance, like most Lakota he would have lived in a squalid tent city on the other side of the railroad tracks that looked like a Middle East refugee camp. I can remember peering out the back window of our car when my dad drove by “Indian Town,” wondering why the Indians didn’t live in tepees. When the snow melted or when it rained, the area around the tents and the dirt roads turned into gooey mud intertwined with puddles of burnt umber. It was impossible for children or adults to keep the muck off their shoes, much less keep it out of the tents. During severe blizzards or thunderstorms, people were forced to use galvanized buckets for going to the bathroom, later disposing of the waste in one of the outdoor johns. There were no baths or showers. When people got sick, a frequent occurrence among children and elders, the local doctors refused to see them unless they paid an office visit fee of seven dollars ahead of time. Otherwise they had to brave out their illnesses or somehow travel to the Indian clinic in Pine Ridge.
As a young boy, I wasn’t conscious of all these indignities and many others, but I do remember the ubiquitous NO DOGS OR INDIANS ALLOWED signs. They were displayed in the hotels and café windows, above cash registers, and even used as neon signs outside the bars. Most folks in Alliance said you should ignore the ugliness, but thanks to working on my dad’s newspaper, I knew what racism was. I had seen photographs of the fire hoses, read the racists’ insults and found them offensive, and never believed you should “turn the other cheek.” If the intention of these local bigots was to denigrate the local natives, for me, it only elevated the natives. The Native Americans I got to know were exuberant, expressive, creative, and fun. Perhaps this explains why two of my best grade school friends, Timothy Good Shot and Elgin Bad Wound, were Indian boys. I was attracted to their craziness; they were wolf cubs who came right out of National Geographic, determined to live large no matter which direction they were pointed in. These Indian boys were different from my white friends. We bonded instantly. Beginning in the sixth grade, we met after school at the public basketball court in the park behind my house to scrimmage and play an endless shooting-skills game they appropriately called “Crazy Horse.” But then one day after spring break, Timothy failed to show up and, sadly, I never saw him again. I worried. Elgin said the Good Shots had moved back to the reservation so Timothy’s parents could enroll him in a government school, but I often wondered what became of him. When Elgin Wound disappeared too, I really started to worry, but eight years later I unexpectedly met up with him in the parking lot of the big shopping center in Pine Ridge during a Columbus Day protest demonstration, and I was amazed to learn that he had a PhD, was superintendent of the nearby Oglala Lakota College, wasn’t diabetic, and seemed to have a happy family with many children, each of them enjoying the powwow part of the protest, all into Indian Pride. But Elgin still knew nothing about the whereabouts of the Good Shots.
Because Indians in Alliance weren’t allowed in the bars, they drank in the streets and alleyways, and because public drunkenness was a crime, many were arrested, some frequently. Too poor to pay their fines, they languished in jail. To get out early, they worked on the street-sweeping and trash-hauling crews, and when the crews were shorthanded, the cops simply rounded up a few more Indians. How funny we thought their names were when we read about their arrests and court appearances in the newspaper—Arthur Big Mouth, Jesse Kicking Bear, Martha Lame Deer, and, in particular, Clarence Pumpkin Seed, because he was arrested and convicted 250 times. This absurdity ceased to be funny long before it ceased to be funny, when during a nine-month Hell span from October 1970 to June 1971, four Indian prisoners on four different occasions died or were murdered in the Alliance City Jail. As we liked to say back then, “The shit really hit the fan this time!”
Arthur Gene Black Horse, age twenty-seven, was the first to go. Busted for prowling and intoxication late on Friday night, October 30, Black Horse allegedly wrapped a thin leather belt around his neck and tied the end of it to a cell bar. Twice, they say, the leather broke; twice he tied it back together. When it finally held long enough, Black Horse fell dead to the concrete floor, the belt dangling from the cell bar. Frequently arrested, mostly for drunkenness but once for removing a screen window from a house in the better part of town, Black Horse lived in a two-room shack with thirty-four other Indians, adults and children. Assuming the circumstances of his death as reported by the burly Alliance police chief Verlin Hutton are true, the obvious question is why did he have a belt? Was he properly searched? When Kansas City Star reporter Robert Dye asked Hutton about this, the police chief, staring at the belt in question curled into a tiny ball in his massive hand, said he didn’t know how Black Horse got it. “He may have hidden it inside his trousers.”
Hutton recalled that on the same day years ago, when he was a rookie cop, Black Horse’s father hanged himself from the family tent pole by tying a rope around his neck and simply sitting down. “Arthur Gene Black Horse,” he claimed, “told another inmate it was the anniversary of his father’s death.” Hutton speculated that grief had driven him to do it, and then added, “You know, the relatives who watched his father kill himself made no attempt to pick up a nearby ax to cut him down.”
Jo No Leaf, thirty-four, was next. A few weeks after Black Horse’s reported suicide, No Leaf allegedly used a water hose to hang himself in a shower stall in the drunk tank. Picked up for drinking in public and disturbing the peace, No Leaf had been in many drunken brawls; his jaw was wired shut from a recent fight. Refused admittance into the Alliance hospital, he somehow got to the hospital in Pine Ridge, was treated, and came back. Unable to eat, No Leaf sustained himself mostly on cheap wine that he sucked through a straw. No Leaf had no home; he usually slept in a dilapidated car in the city junkyard.
When asked why Alliance cops arrested drunken Indians while they never arrested intoxicated whites, Hutton remarked, “The Elks Club has a tendency to take care of their own.”
The third Alliance City Jail victim was an eighteen-year-old named Chillo Whirlwind. In the wee hours of an early June morning, on the thirty-fourth day of his imprisonment, he allegedly stood on a wastebasket with a towel around his neck. After tying the towel to a cell bar, he kicked the wastebasket across the floor, which had to have made a loud, banging sound. Police Chief Hutton complained that Whirlwind’s dozing cellmates failed to wake up. Two years earlier, Chillo had been sent to the Nebraska State Reform School for Juvenile Offenders in Kearney, Nebraska, where he got into frequent fights with other kids and was often placed in solitary confinement. Back in Alliance only a couple of months, Chillo was arrested for breaking into a gas station. It is said that when he was two years old, his mother gave him up for adoption to the Swalley family, whose immigrant forefather came to Nebraska from Lancashire, England, and married a Lakota woman who may have been Chillo’s great-aunt. When a city councilman suggested the police install a closed-circuit TV system in the city jail to better monitor the prisoners, Police Chief Hutton huffed, “Some of our jail guards are women, and I can’t have women watching the sex acts that go on in the drunk tank.”
And finally there was Irene Blackfeather, forty-three, whose death later that same month may have been the most disturbing of all. Sick and lying in a pool of blood and vomit, she moaned and cried in agony while her sister Betty, in the next jail cell, yelled out for the cops to call a doctor. Police Chief Hutton, on duty at the time, ignored Irene’s cries and Betty’s pleas until they became unbearable. When he finally came up the stairs to the cellblock to tell “those noisy squaw bitches to shut up,” Irene had passed out and was barely breathing. Hutton called for an ambulance, but it was too late; Irene was DOA at the emergency room.
Bad press and the fact that Irene was the fourth to die in a short period prompted the governor of Nebraska, J. James Exon, to call for a grand jury investigation. As part of the investigation, an autopsy on Irene’s body was ordered, and when confronted with the news that she had died from pneumonia complicated by cirrhosis, Hutton complained, “God, we’re not doctors!”
Sadly but predictably, the investigation turned out to be a whitewash—Chief Hutton and his merry band of bigots were exonerated. Reports that the Alliance cops arbitrarily arrested Indians to work on the street-cleaning crew, beat them in jail and allowed them to fight among themselves until bloody handprints could be seen on the cell walls, sexually abused women prisoners, and staged suicides were found by the grand jury to be based on rumor and hearsay. The suicides in Alliance, the jurors concluded, were not attributable to criminal negligence by the police but were the “tragic consequence of the socio-economic conditions under which the Indians live.”
Outraged, I wrote the protest poem that serves as the overture of this libretto, and submitted it to the Alliance Times-Herald for the annual “Poetry Day” edition. Of course, my father, who was the editor, published it, but I rather wish he hadn’t positioned it as the lead poem in the two-page section. My words ignited a firestorm—subscriptions were canceled and advertising pulled, and letters to the editor flooded the newsroom; at home my dad received anonymous threatening phone calls and my mom was embarrassed. I became a persona non grata.
Thinking about good old Alliance, how wonderful and yet how monstrous it was, makes me super hungry. Holiday Inn Express prides itself on the “free” breakfast brunch it serves every morning, and I know people who say it is delicious, but what do they know? OK, I admit that living on the West Coast has spoiled me food-wise forever. I refuse to eat microwaved biscuits, yogurt infused with high-fructose corn syrup, powdered eggs, chewy toast with fake butter, sugar-laden cereals—at least the Holiday Inn has real bananas picked from real banana trees (I presume), and the coffee, while it looks and tastes like it was brewed during the Eisenhower administration, does the trick as long as I drink a lot of it and drink it black, without the complementary powdered cream. Banana, black coffee, plus a tangerine and a few almonds from my travel bag, and I am good to go.
* * *
Alliance is a small town in an area of Nebraska called the “Panhandle,” because if you look at a Nebraska map, the state is shaped like a pan and Alliance is in the middle of the handle. Founded by land speculators in 1888 at the north-south, east-west junction of the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad, the town grew quickly, populated by Civil War veterans and European immigrants drawn by the promise of “free” land courtesy of the Homestead Act, the claim size having recently been increased from 160 acres to 640 acres (equivalent to one square mile). Never mind that in 1868 this land had been ceded by treaty to the Lakota Sioux Nation.
Due to the lack of law enforcement, Alliance also attracted a subculture of thieves, prostitutes, and escaped convicts. Within a few years, the population grew to five thousand as churches, hotels, schools, and farm and ranch supply businesses sprang up alongside the saloons and whorehouses. Ranchers and homesteaders traveled to Alliance by horseback and wagon from as far away as Torrence, Wyoming, to trade and buy goods, gamble, get drunk, and get laid.
The terrain north and west of Alliance has always been much the same—boring patches of flat farmland where farmers mostly grow wheat, potatoes, barley, and sugar beets. South and east of Alliance is dramatically different, breathtakingly beautiful—the Nebraska Sandhills, twenty thousand square miles of semi-arid sand dunes pockmarked by hundreds of spring-fed ponds and lakes, with a thin coating of prairie grass, a frozen ocean of green-gold-brown colors stretching out to faraway horizons, and a vast metallic-blue sky arching overhead.
In more recent times, the consolidation of farms and ranches and the flight of young people to bigger cities have depopulated most of the surrounding Nebraska towns, but Alliance keeps on growing thanks to the little railway company Nebraska mogul Warren Buffett purchased in 2007 for the bargain price of $44 billion. Every day, hundreds of 120-car Burlington Northern Santa Fe trains slowly rumble through Alliance. They haul coal from the Powder River Basin in Wyoming or crude oil from the fracking operations in North Dakota—and Alliance is not just a point on the map that these sooty trains pass through, it is also the location of a huge locomotive repair shop, by far the city’s largest employer.
* * *
But now it is time to let my adventure begin. Back in my room I grab my camera and head outside to my yellow Mexican VW rental car, which I have decided to christen Villa VW in honor of the great revolutionary hero Pancho Villa, because building Volkswagens in Mexico is definitely revolutionary, isn’t it? There’s a cold, bright sun peeking over the horizon, but my iPhone tells me it’s going to be an unusually warm Good Friday, with temperatures in the mid to high seventies. Already, cars are parked at the Arby’s drive-through across the highway from the Holiday Inn Express, and there are more at McDonald’s. I notice that the Kmart opposite McDonald’s is also open and can’t help recall a recent book I read called The Magician’s Assistant, by Ann Patchett, which takes place in Alliance some year during the freezing days of February, a time when according to Ms. Patchett, many locals, including teachers and students, meet up with each other and find refuge from the cold in Kmart. I’m wondering if they are doing that now. Driving out from my designated Holiday Inn courtesy parking onto East Third, a brick-paved road, Villa VW and I cruise past the Wonderful Kitchen Chinese takeout and head directly under the railroad underpass where as a high school sophomore my brother, Roger, tried to outrun the local cops. His souped-up Chevy Impala was definitely up to the task, but unluckily, Roger spun out across the highway into a pillar and ended up spending his next six weekends in the county jail. There are so many things to remember driving down the streets of Alliance. There’s Ken and Dales Restaurant, where I should have had breakfast, but there is no time for that now. Vernell is waiting and I can’t wait to see him.
A few minutes later I’m outside the Alliance city limits, driving past my old classmate Jim Furman’s sprawling ranch house, his veterinary center and horse corrals and the prefab metal barn where in the summer of 1995 we had our thirtieth high school reunion dance in ridiculous ninety-degree heat, an overflowing beer keg on the straw floor and a tape player barking out country tunes. I could see right away which of my classmates had moved to Colorado or California and which ones had stayed in Nebraska—the exiles looked trim and healthy in their Polo outfits; the left-behinds were much heavier, and decidedly less stylish. I smile thinking of the impression my wife and I must have made with our in-your-face interracial family: my dark, large-framed stepdaughter, Jazz, her massive dreadlocks piled on her head like a coiled boa constrictor; my toddler granddaughter, Jamaica, so precious with designer wire-rim glasses magnifying her sparkling brown eyes; and especially Darrell, Jazz’s latest boyfriend, fresh out of San Quentin, licorice-black, pick comb sticking straight up from his head, a true pioneer of the sagging-pants look. At all times, Darrell was on DEFCON 1 alert for racial slights—poised to confront local cowboys who happened to look at him in the wrong way.
News that my crew and I were going up to the reservation over the coming Fourth of July weekend for a powwow at Vernell White Thunder’s ranch along with my friends Dennis and Connie McCullah; Don Nace and his wife, Linda; and their unsuspecting children only added to the shock value. One of my ex-girlfriends warned Linda to stay in the car. “White women who venture onto the reservation,” she said, “get killed or worse,” which would have made me laugh if it hadn’t been so stupid.
* * *
So little traffic. Windows down, I can take in the clean country air, hear my tires humming on recently repaved blacktop. I’m only seven miles down the road, but already I need to make a pit stop because I drank so much weak coffee. So I stop at Carhenge—an odd replica of Stonehenge formed by thirty-eight classic cars from the 1950s and ’60s, uniformly coated with gray spray paint. Without seeking the advice or consent of the locals, farmer Jim Reinders buried some of these cars upright in five-foot pits and welded others on top to form Stonehenge-like arches—on his own land, mind you, but within clear sight of the highway. The citizens were scandalized; they insisted Reinders dismantle his atrocity, which surely would turn Alliance into the laughingstock of the nation.
And then, as Reinders was wrangling with the city council over a business permit, an online travel Web site, TripAdvisor, named Carhenge one of “America’s Top Roadside Attractions,” and the tourists started coming. Carhenge was featured in a network TV commercial. More tourists came. Some stayed overnight, gassed up and ate in Alliance, even wrote appreciative letters to the Alliance Times-Herald. Reinders suddenly became a local hero. These days people from Alliance love Carhenge; if you happen to run into one of them, say in Pocatello, Idaho, they will invariably ask, “Have you been to Carhenge?”
Copyright © 2017 by David Hugh Bunnell
