One of the pieces I liked a lot:
Eugene Boyd Don't Drink Here Anymore
The Stranger walks into the bar, orders a beer, and asks me where
the hell Eugene Boyd is, and I tell him, he got shot last year in the
parking lot of the Gold Coin, man, he's dead. The Stranger looks
me in the eyes, looks the whole bar straight in the eyes, and drinks
his beer in one drink. Who the hell did it, the Stranger asks me,
and I tell him that everyone knows but the police ain't going to do
anything about it because when one Indian kills another Indian,
that's considered natural selection. He holds that empty glass tight
and looks in the mirror behind the bar where all our faces are
reflected. All us stoic Indians rehearsing for parts as extras in some
eternal black and white western. Shit, used to be only whites ex-
pected Skins to have monosyllabic faces, but now, we even expect
it of each other. But the Stranger looks in the mirror and he starts
crying. Crying for the dead, not looking forward to the gifts he'll
get from the deceased, not looking forward to the wake, he's crying
for the dead. I used to figure strength was all a matter of being
waterproof, like our houses could never be. So the Stranger throws
his glass at the mirror, shattering us all into pieces, and in the silence
after that the Professor, at the end of the bar, tips his beer and says,
"that was some serious fucking dualism."