INTRODUCTION

The old lndian parks his bicycle against the porch railing of the Three Rivers Bar in Northern Michigan and walks across the porch through the swinging doors. It is dark inside and it takes him awhile to accustom himself to this new light.

"Hello' Tom" says the woman behlnd the bar.

"Ugh," sald the Indian, his voice like an old watch.

"The same?"

"No, I thlnk I'll have a R.C. Cola today," sald the old Indian with the glass eye. "It's hot outside and a R.C. Cola would make me feel pretty good. Here, Adele, I plcked a flower for you today out on the range in New Mexico, I flew down there special." The Indian pulled a yellow rose from his jacket and held hls hand across the bar.

"Thanks, Tom. Here's your R.C. Cola."

Slurp, slurp, slurp.

The Indian wlth the glass eye finished his R.C. Cola and clinked a quarter on the bar. The woman picked it up and tested it with her teeth.

"It's silver all right," she says.

"I know," said the Indian, walking away across the expansive floor of the bar, where on weekends they had dancing and whole families showed up. Baby spotlights follow him, and as he reaches the curtains he tips his hat and in his old watchy voice from Indian hills says, "Good night, Geronimo, wherever you are."