Discretion advised

There are some things in modern, civilized society you just don’t do. Maybe you don’t do it out of common decency, like fart in church. Maybe you don’t do it because you know better, like pissing into the wind. And maybe you don’t do it because that’s just the way it’s always been, like putting honey on your child’s hand to get that nice bear closer to your Volvo. But I think, despite tradition and experience and all the studying in the world, one major “do not” in today’s time is this: Do not talk politics, government, and war with the average United States Marine.

Case in point: Sgt Hill and I were kicking back on Friday at the Heart and Crown, a local Irish pub. I was enjoying my ice cold Guinness, and he his Keats, at a small, round table with three wooden chairs. Barry Williams was on the small stage singing the likes of the Eagles, Simon and Garfunkel, Deep Blue Something, Don McClean, Billy Joel, and countless others. He’s a crowd pleasing dynamo, old Barry, but a little weird looking. Hill and I had just finished singing along to a rousing version of John Denver’s Take Me Home Country Roads, when an older lady, probably in her fifties, approached our table and asked if she could sit at our extra chair. I happily obliged, knowing at her age she could risk injuring her hip in the crowded pub if she didn’t take a seat soon. She thanked us profusely, sat down to my left, and small talk ensued.

Introductions were made and as soon as Sgt Hill, a real-deal Texan from the Waco area, opened his mouth, his thick accent poured out like syrup.

“Oh, are you guys American?” she asked innocently enough.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“So what are you doing here?” she asked again. I’ve answered this question a million times.

“We’re Marines. We’re stationed at the embassy.” The word was out. She knew we were Marines, historically the most brainwashed, extreme type of fighting man the United States, if not the world, has ever seen in 228 years, yet she still blurted out, “I just want you to know that Canadians don’t support what you’re doing in Iraq.”

What I’m doing Iraq. How did the finger get pointed at me? And how in the hell is one decrepit old lady going to speak for the entire country? I stared at her blankly, sizing her up, as she pressed on. “George Bush is the closest thing to Hitler there ever was.” All right, she just busted out the Bush-Hitler relationship but I still didn’t have the heart to give her a brachial stun despite my three beers.

I considered a thrust to her jugular notch and replied, “Well, whatever, but old G.W., that’s what I call him when we hang out, signs my checks so I do pretty much whatever he wants.” This quick line has diffused every potentially awkward situation up to that point with a touch of humor and sarcasm, but Blaire Witch would have none of it.

“And what about Donald Rumsfeld?” she quipped. “Don’t you think he should be held accountable for all that prisoner abuse?” I resisted the urge to ask her where her bleeding heart was when American troops, the same ones that patrol Canadian shores, were being tortured in Hanoi. I wanted to ask her, while administering and eye gouge, if she held anyone accountable for Nick Berg’s death.

“No, I don’t hold Rumsfeld accountable,” I replied. You can’t hold a single man responsible for the actions of a few idiots who get out of line. If they were trained that way, only then you can start pointing fingers up.”

She would have none of it. She continued to pick and poke and prod, getting further and further under my skin with every word she hissed between ignorant teeth. I traced lazy circles in the condensation on the table with my pint glass. My jaw tightened.

“Lady, what you don’t see are Americans fighting from behind women and children. What you don’t see are Americans hiding in hospitals, schools, and mosques as they fire into anything that moves. You don’t care about the humanitarian effort that’s going on behind the fighting in Iraq every single second of every single day.”

“Well, Americans have bloated images of themselves,” she retorted.

“Yes we do. Its called national pride. I have been all over the world. Your opinion is nothing new. No one likes the big kid on the block. Maybe when you can get your ass to the Middle East and look into the eyes of the Saudi people or the Kuwaiti people or the Iraqi people, you’ll see what they’ve been living with since Saddam took over in 1979. Because you know what? I have.”

She looked at me a long time. Her eyes traced my furrowed brow to my hardened stare to my clenched teeth. She settled finally on my forearm as I gripped my glass hard enough to make my veins bulge. No longer was I relaxed and preoccupied.

“I can see this is a losing conversation,” she said with her nose in the air.

I looked directly in her eyes. “You’re right.”

“Have a good night.” She raised her glass, stood, and disappeared into the crowd.

Barry Williams was ending a great rendition of Simon and Garfunkel’s Cecilia and Sgt Hill was hollering a fourth request for
Thank God I’m a Country Boy, by John Denver. Barry just smiled politely.

I drank the last of my Guinness and looked for answers to tonight’s confrontation at the bottom of the glass.

But there were none. There never are.