“She better not look like no squaw,” said Simple. “I want a woman to look sharp when she goes out with me. No moccasins. I wants high-heel shoes and nylons, cute legs—and short dresses. But I also do not want her to talk back to me. As I said, I am the man. Mine is the word, and she is due to hush.”

“Indians customarily expect their women to be quiet,” I said.

“I do not expect mine to be too quiet,” said Simple. “I want ’em to sweet-talk me—‘Sweet baby, this,’ and ‘Baby, that,’ and ‘Baby, you’s right, darling,’ when they talk to me.”

“In other words, you want them both old-fashioned and modern at the same time,” I said. “The convolutions of your hypothesis are sometimes beyond cognizance.”

“Cog hell!” said Simple. “I just do not like no old loud back-talking chick. That’s the Indian in me. My grandpa on my father’s side were like that, too, an Indian. He was married five times and he really ruled his roost.”

“There are a mighty lot of Indians up your family tree,” I said. “Did your granddad look like one?”

“Only his nose. He was dark brownskin otherwise. In fact, he were black. And the womens! Man! They was crazy about Grandpa. Every time he walked down the street, they stuck their heads out the windows and kept ’em turned South—which was where the beer parlor was.”

“So your grandpa was a drinking man, too. That must be whom you take after.”

“I also am named after him,” said Simple. “Grandpa’s name was Jess, too. So I am Jesse B. Semple.”

“What does the B stand for?”

“Nothing. I just put it there myself since they didn’t give me no initial when I was born. I am really Jess Semple—which the kids changed around into a nickname when I were in school. In fact, they used to tease me when I were small, calling me ‘Simple Simon.’ But I was right handy with my fists, and after I beat the ‘Simon’ out of a few of them, they let me alone. But my friends still call me ‘Simple.’”

“In reality, you are Jesse Semple,” I said, “colored.”

“Part Indian,” insisted Simple, reaching for his beer.

“Jess is certainly not an Indian name.”

“No, it ain’t,” said Simple, “but we did have a Hiawatha in our family. She died.”

“She?” I said. “Hiawatha was no she.”

“She was a she in our family. And she had long coal-black hair just like a Creole. You know, I started to marry a Creole one time when I was coach-boy on the L. & N. down to New Orleans. Them Lousiana girls are bee-oou-te-ful! Man, I mean!”

“Why didn’t you marry her, fellow?”