John Wayne S--t

"So," I asked him, "what possessed you to join the army?"

We were tramping through Europe, and I was trying to fall in to the rhythm of his steps. "Are you kiddin' me?, he answered. "That's John Wayne shit. I always wanted to do John Wayne shit."

Hm. Up to that point, I was certain that the generations whose heads had been turned by the exploits of The Duke had either grown old and died or gone to WW2 or Vietnam and died. But here it was, 1986, and this tall, curly-topped 25 year old was still listing John Wayne as his life's inspiration.

"Come on, High-Speed" - he called everybody, and everything, he liked "High-speed"; in the highly mechanized environment in which he normally kept company, "high speed" was, well, high praise - "Try and keep up."

I smiled and walked a little faster. We were traversing Barcelona, en route to the train station. He had decided the manner in which we were going to part company, four days after our chance meeting: he would leave for North Africa.

"Why North Africa?",I asked, with the same Sancho Panzian respect I had used asking about the army. "I don't know", he answered with his usual inoffensive placidity, "It's just a place I've never been before."

We walked some more. Eager to hear more "why this's" and "why that's" from me I guess, he dramatically broke the silence:

"I killed a guy once." Just like that, just like "John Wayne shit" or "Never been before." "Really?", I marveled, my Canadianess showing through in my absolute devastation over this American's confession. "Yeah. We were told to go into this hut and retrieve some dead rangers" Grenada. It's a trivia question now, was a big deal then. "There were no dead rangers in that hut. It was a secret ammo hut. They were snipers in the trees and everything. I got one. The guys were all impressed later. They were like, 'Man, you got a confirmed kill.'"

He got ahead of me. A sunbeam hit him, and yes, for a moment, I did see John Wayne.

"I think about him sometimes. Maybe he had a girlfriend, maybe he liked soccer..." The light changed. No. Not like John Wayne.

"See this?" He brought one of his big, long hands to his sweaty forehead and swept some grapevine-shaped curls back, revealing an ugly faintness. "What is that?" I was getting very good at this stooge thing. "Guy threw a grenade, right in front of me. I had just enough time to look down and say 'Shit!' Boom!" I gulped. "They sent me home. I threw up all day for a week. They had to buff it of, the damage. The needles hurt worse than the grenade, I got them everywhere: under the eyes, in the temples..."

Where were those scenes, I wondered, in all of those John Wayne flicks? Where was the throwing up at home scene and the needles to the boniest parts of the face scene?

"Well, here we are." The train station. How I bided my time in there I don't remember but I do remember the sight of him waiting in a long line - he was the tallest, by far, in it - and his return, what seemed like hours later, to say what I thought was going to be goodbye. "Well, doesn't look like I'm going to North Africa." I can't remember what the hitch was either. "Let's go back to the hotel, High Speed."

Yet another long walk in the hot Spanish sun? Why not? John Wayne shit.