Or 1972. Perhaps as late as 1978. The white stranger would see over two hundred Indians dancing. A white stranger might have assumed the Indians were celebrating something special, and they were. Mick had opened the bar, despite the Indian Killer scare, and was pulling in the dough. The Indians were dancing to Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash, Chuck Berry, early Stones, earlier Beatles. Disco had been outlawed by the patrons of Big Heart’s. Black music was rare. World music never made it through the door. Lou Reed and Kiss were favorites, though. Blood, Sweat, and Tears, Three Dog Night, and Creedence Clearwater Revival were revered. But there were no white strangers in Big Heart’s that night, though a few dozen Indians were new in town, just visiting, playing in a basketball tournament, looking for love, lost. All thinking about the Indian Killer. John was there too, neither stranger nor tourist. He had no definition for what he was. Drinking his Pepsi, he sat at the bar.
