ARR 1988 - Flipbook - Page 33
could see his scars like .. .like dried apricots on his round belly. I've seen bones
and I've seen both sides go down, but the kids amazed me. Beats the hell out
of "G.I. Joe" toys forever.
He was no chicken, farm or human variety. The soldiers had to push
the men into the compound and could intimidate the women with a modified
"Boo, "but the kid walked the line like he'd rehearsed it. They sat the farmers
on the ground to my left, planted a man and a rifle behind them as a reminder
of the urgency of their situation. The man's shoulders and head were up and
down like a spring. Give him a chance and the animal in him would bolt, but
the man in him knew he'd have a bullet in his back and-big deal, reallyno lawyer to plead his case. The woman just put her head down and that was
it. But, this kid. He was looking at me and I was looking at him and it was
... that we knew. I knew what life was worth right now, right here, and this
kid knew his world and he didn't look twelve! Me twice his years and we were
equals in the sums of our knowledge. It was all in the eyes. He was just cool.
Like, ifl could talk to him he'd set down his book of Nietzsche's Beyond Good
and Evil and we'd discuss meanings. Eyes say more than any book.
From one of the corrugated tin shacks came three men. One, a man of
pointing fingers and grand (grandly annoying) words, one a soldier who
looked like he believed in all this crap, and one who believed in nothing. They
came closer. The words became louder. The smells came to the nostrils. You
could see ... the eyes. This zombie one, his eyes were like coal. YQu couldn't
see the pupils. He was just staring as this officer was pointing at me and the
campesinos. They kept saying "Perro." A name? Perro? Means" dog". Dog?
I don't think it was an insult, probably just one of the war-names these people
adopt.
The brass was talking to Dog and pointed at me, and the troop behind
stepped forward, opened the man's hand and placed a knife in his palm and
closed the irresponsive fingers around its handle. The troop stepped back
like the knife was going to explode, holding his rifle like it was a security
blanket. The officer had sidled over a few steps also during the passing of
this grisly baton, pulling in his shoulders as if something was going to run
up his back and grab him. Just a slight tension. Funny how slight things can
say a lot about a man, write his story. Short story. Epitaph. Anyway, this
eulogized officer then pointed at the civilians and the guard behind them,
pulled back the rifle bolt and let it snap, which shook the poor sweating
farmer like flesh gelatin out of a twisted mold. And I thought, Christ, this
is a joke. A melodrama. Yeah. It's a holiday and this is a play (the kid did
rehearse after all) and the theme is them-them or me. A movie. Now wait.
Where's John Wayne? Shit. I'm in a movie so John Wayne must be real and
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