"Go ahead," Adrian said. "Pull the trigger." I held a pistol to my temple. I was sober but wished I was drunk enough to pull the trigger.
"Go for it," Adrian said. "You chickenshit."
While I still held that pistol to my temple, I used my other hand to flip Adrian off. Then I made a fist with my third hand to gather a little bit of courage or stupidity, and wiped sweat from my forehead with my fourth hand.
"Here," Adrian said. "Give me the damn thing."
Adrian took the pistol, put the barrel in his mouth, smiled around the metal, and pulled the trigger. Then he cussed wildly, laughed, and spit out the BB.
"Are you dead yet?" I asked.
"Nope," he said. "Not yet. Give me another beer."
"Hey, we don't drink no more, remember? How about a Diet Pepsi?"
"That's right, enit? I forgot. Give me a Pepsi."
Adrian and I sat on the porch and watched the reservation. Nothing happened. From our chairs made rockers by unsteady legs, we could see that the only traffic signal on the reservation had stopped working.
"Hey, Victor," Adrian asked. "Now when did that thing quit flashing?"
"Don't know," I said.
It was summer. Hot. But we kept our shirts on to hide our beer bellies and chicken pock scars. At least, I wanted to hide my beer belly. I was a former basketball star fallen out of shape. It's always kind of sad when that happens. There's nothing more unattractive than a vain man, and that goes double for a Indian man.