he nervously puts his hand under his jacket. a gun? he pushes forward to get a better view.
reaching under his jacket, he pulls out--a photograph. he looks at it--suddenly there is a scream from behind, then gunshots, patrons diving for the floor.
chet backs up, horrified. a large hand grasps him on the shoulder from behind. he turns to see otis standing over him, strangely calm amid the chaos
no sir.
drawing intently. he takes the notebook and lays his thumb over the corner.
startled, he hides the notebook under his hands --
uhm--everybody is killing everybody else?
dad--
dad--?
dad, can i talk to you about track?
dad, i talked to the track coach--
i have a b average.
he a black man or an indian?
the trail of tears.
so they stayed in florida?
they fought against the indians?
but they were indians themselves.
you know who i am?
that guy who got shot--
are you kidding? and face a court- martial?
no sports if i don't keep a b average, no tv on school nights, no pda's--
public display of affection. every time he moves up a rank, it's like he's got to tighten the screws a little more--
i mean, just 'cause he didn't--you know--
he's still pissed off about it.
so how come you got into all this?
so i'm part-indian?
my father says the day you're born you start from scratch, no breaks and no excuses, and you got to pull yourself up on your own.
i finished that. i'm just messing around.
you got to be in the army, you might as well have something slick to drive.
that's the general plan, isn't it?
you wouldn't?
fine. i'm pretty much moved in.
are we going to ever see your father?
yeah. he lives here, right?
cool.
he makes his own sauce.