Friday night.
Good morning, Devil Dogs. Mission accomplished.
I’ve found him.
It took three weeks of recon, five tanks of gas, two bottles of Wild Turkey, a drive from Santa Cruz, California to Sacramento, to Eureka, to Redding, then to the Bureau of Indian Affairs and finally to the tribal police on the Hoopa Indian reservation, but I located our brother marine, Cpl. Gene Ryan.
We were squad leaders together in boot camp, (3rd BN. Kilo Company, Platoon 3029). We ran into each other a year later in Okinawa, Japan. From Okinawa we deployed to Somalia together as a security detachment in 93’ then spent a hairy-assed year in the shit, until “the incident” that sent me home occurred. We have neither seen nor heard from each other since.
The debriefing in Virginia had been a bit rattling for me. The confidentiality agreement we signed forbade us to speak about anything, much less have contact with the marines who were present when the rounds started going down range, at least for a period of five years. Once the five years were up, I was already in Mexico and in the middle of another world of shit. So I have never had the opportunity to find out what became of Cpl. Gene Ryan.
I guess I’ve been looking for closure lately. Being back in the U.S. and on this new crusade of conscience and curiosity, I had to know. I needed answers. I was afraid of the answers, either way it could turn out, but I just needed to know.
Did Gene readjust, adapt, and become Joe civilian when he came home? Was I just some mal-adapted freak of nurture? Had Gene able to do what so many of us have been incapable of pulling off? My mind wandered back to a time that I’ve tried to put as many miles and years in between as possible.
Until now.
The snow on top of Mt. Shasta reminded me of Mt. Fuji, of Camp Fuji, of Japan in general. I got out of the car and stared out over the lake for a while. Gene used to talk about fishing here when we were in Mogadishu. I climbed back into the car. It was a hot bitch. I guess spring would be over early this year.
“All that goddamned Aqua Net…” I said. I drove off.
I pulled up to the Win River Casino Bingo at sunset.
I’d already found Gene’s Grandfather earlier that morning around ten. He’s a full-blooded Pit River / Hoopa Indian Marine from the Korean War. We got to drinking and talking so much that I passed the whole day on the porch in front of his trailer with him. I laughed so hard I cried. God knows I needed it.
“Discipline creates strength, and perfection comes from absolute focus.” he had told me sometime that morning.
I repeated it to myself. Gene’s grandfather was an amazing human being. I found it hard to leave for some reason.
He gave me Gene’s work address. Gene was now a security guard at the Indian Casino Bingo Palace, on the Pit River reservation. Gene is only a quarter American Indian, the rest of him is Irish, so he makes one hell of a drinking buddy. He nearly got us butchered by a group of Yakuza in a bar in Okinawa once. He wouldn’t eat some egg dish then he started patting the boss guy on the top of his head like in a three stooges movie…. I’ll tell you later. You get the gist though.
The Win River Casino was in the middle of nowhere. The parking lot rumbled with activity. Groups of guys gathered around pickups with gun racks in their rear windows, drinking beer.
I didn’t even make it half way across the parking lot.
“You looking for someone?” said someone.
I avoided them. Walking, I counted them. They followed. The someone guy repeated his question. The group blocked my path, and there we were, in some sort of half-assed Sergio Leone cliche -
a Casino Bingo standoff.
I regretted not wearing my USMC baseball cap. It usually serves as a deterrent for undisciplined civilian types.
“Very well,” I said.
“Very what?” said Mr. someone.
“Well.” I said.
“Well, what?” said someone.
I grabbed his trachea with one hand and his Mr. someone in the other then pulled him towards me, using him as a human shield. I backed away from his friends.
Gene hit me in the back of the head with a Maglight.
I was still glad to see him, once I could see him, and when I saw him I told him he was a shitty security guard. I said he would probably get sued someday with that ready-fire-aim mentality of his.
Gene smiled. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He had already pepper sprayed me, himself, and all of the casino bingo parking lot mafia before the situation was explained and contained enough to finally talk with each other. We had a lot of catching up to do.
We’re heading back to San Francisco now.
I didn’t feel welcome on the “res” anymore. I don’t think the res was feeling me either. Plus, I want to introduce Gene to my wife and family. I want take him out on the town then get some answers, some peroxide, alcohol wipes, and some bandages for my head too.
“Why did you tell those guys you had swine flu?” said Gene.
“Gotta’ improvise, hard-charger.” I said. “Psychological warfare.”
Gene is driving my car for me.
I’m on the keyboard.
The lights of the city are just now coming into view.
It’s 12:06am.
Talk to you soon, my brothers, wherever you are.
Stay green, disinfect and keep it clean…
Semper Fi.
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