I have my life through admired the native American Indian and have been outraged that encroaching whites committed their crimes against them. I reverenced a vision of the wise old Indian, a man in tune with the Earth and his past and felt I had perchance met one that day in New Mexico, when I the hitcher got let out at a restaurant. He was standing beside the door, his greeting scarcely a grunt. I felt honored that he followed me in and sat next to me at the counter.
"Give my friend a hamburger," he told the waitress, who frowned.
"Give my friend a hamburger," he repeated.
She scolded the old Indian, who broke into a fit of coughing.
I got a cup of coffee.
As I sipped the tepid liquid, the Indian decided to impart a great wisdom upon me. "Don't ball up," he said between fits of coughing. "Don't ball up," he said several times.
I gulped the last of my coffee, paid hurriedly, and got the hell out of there.
"Give my friend a hamburger," he told the waitress, who frowned.
"Give my friend a hamburger," he repeated.
She scolded the old Indian, who broke into a fit of coughing.
I got a cup of coffee.
As I sipped the tepid liquid, the Indian decided to impart a great wisdom upon me. "Don't ball up," he said between fits of coughing. "Don't ball up," he said several times.
I gulped the last of my coffee, paid hurriedly, and got the hell out of there.
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