THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO FISTFIGHT IN HEAVEN (1993) is a collection of short stories about Native Americans by Sherman Alexie.

We were playing euchre with my sister and her new husband. Clubs was flipped down and everyone passed. I was eating summer sausage with chunks of cheddar cheese and club crackers and casually called spades once it got back around. Then we made the deal. Actually the new guy brought it up, I knew better. I knew it would cause two a.m. arguments, and at some point I would be sleeping alone on the couch, jerking off to Girls Gone Wild infomercials, but the new fucker, he was a drunk, and I doubt he would have known better even if he wasn’t.

“Okay” he said, “If you could have sex with one famous person, who would it be?” My girlfriend said Adam Sandler, a little too quickly maybe, like she’d been waiting for someone to ask her that question her entire life. I already knew because she said it every fucking time we watched Billy Madison. My sister smiled and shook her head, maybe in agreement, maybe not, it meant something different to all of us.

“Okay then, this is the deal. You get one famous person, and if the chance ever comes up for you to have sex with them, you can and nobody can hold it against you.” Even though he just finished the last bottle in the twelve pack, we all stopped smiling like it was Sunday and the preacher just confirmed our names had been erased from the Book of Life, but we all agreed. We almost all agreed.

“Wait” Ashley said, “you never told us who your celebrity is.” And instead of doing what I should have done and said the first name that popped into my head, someone safe like Taylor Swift or Hannah Montana, I paused; examined the possibilities, the likelihoods, the odds, all the far out scenarios that could end with my mouth and lips and tongue buried in some famous woman’s pussy; a few of her pubes lodged in my throat.

“I’ll have to think about it.” My sister and the husband laughed, but not Ashley. I threw out my next ace, clubs, but nobody else followed. They were watching my lips, waiting, there was no way out.

“You never answered the question bro.” He was drunk and stupid.

“It’s a stupid fucking question.”

“Come on. It’s all fun.”

“Alright, Monica Lewinsky.”

He laughed, my sister did another one of her nods, Ashley said she expected someone dirty like me to pick a cock sucking whore like Monica Lewinsky.

“Yeah I know, I like cock sucking whores.”

The game was over.

She never brought the conversation up, not for seven months, but I knew she thought about it. She used to lick my dick until it was sopping wet then climbed on top and slid down because she knew that was my favorite. But now that Monica’s in the picture she just lays there. Until yesterday; she came home from work two and half hours early, speeding in the driveway, slamming on the brakes. She left the engine running and came busting through the front door. I was sitting in front of the TV, playing NFL Blitz 95 and she threw her purse at the back of my head, causing Aikman to overthrow Irvin by a foot or so, causing me to lose by a touchdown.

“The deal’s off. I know what you’re up to.”

“What deal? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know what deal. You think I’m gonna let you fuck Monica Lewinsky?”

“Are you out of your mind? You left work early because you think I’m here trying to have sex with Monica Lewinsky? You’re a goddamn lunatic.”

“I was checking around online. Monica’s one of those smart bitches. She has two college degrees. You think that after you become famous, she’s going to come to one of your readings and you two are gonna hook up.” The harder I laughed the louder she got.

“I’m not trying to be famous. I picked Monica because I like thick women with big tits. I didn’t do a background search.”

“You think you’re some college boy, some hot shit poet, and I’m just a poor dumb waitress who gives great head and—”

“Let’s not get carried away, I didn’t say great.”

“Fuck you. And what about all your friends who write books? They’re famous.” Still laughing.

“Poets aren’t famous. Nobody knows they’re alive until they’re dead. You can’t name five.”

“That crazy guy who wrote the poem about the talking bird.”

“What?”

“Knocking at my door, forevermore – .”

“Poe?”

“Whatever. Mr. College Boy who forgets he’s from west Philly.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything, that’s why I went to college. Not that any of that has anything to do with you.”

“If it don’t than what am I doing here?”

“Right now you’re trying to name five poets, one down, four left.”

“Shakespeare. William fucking Shakespeare. You know what, I don’t have to do this. Why am I doing this with you?”

“Three more. But you see this is my point, was my point. I had a goddamn point. Both of those guys are dead. Name one poet who’s alive right now.”

“What about that Indian guy we saw last week? He’s famous.”

“What guy? Sherman Alexie? He’s not a poet.”

“Monica is smart. I read her bio. She loves poetry and she goes to readings and she’s a dirty whore. I bet she’d give Sherman Alexie a blowjob.”

I walked outside and shut the car off.

“Leave it running. I’m going back to work.”

“What time you coming home?”

“Why?”

“My sister called. She wants to know if we want to come over and play some cards.”

“Okay, we’ll be there at eight.”