"JOHNNY RUNNING WOLF" — © 1987 - 1999 by Charles Dobie

JOHNNY RUNNING WOLF : Page 2

I had seen the movie being shown in the cafeteria, and wasn't interested in the euchre game two isles down, so I settled into a chair to read and to daydream and to speculate whether Henry had a hard-on under his blanket.

He was laying on his bunk, reading a Mickey Spillane pocketbook whose front cover featured a bleached blonde female with impossible boobs. He had a grey blanket wrapped around him, and from its movements I could see he was slowly rubbing his crotch. I couldn't stop watching; I imagined myself under there with him. Just as he removed his hand from under the blanket to smell his fingers, he looked up, straight into my eyes. I jerked away, my face scarlet.

He convulsed with laughter and threw down his book. I looked up and he pointed at me as his laughter grew. Finally he held out his hand: "Wanna smell?"

I should have taken him up on it. Perhaps if others had been watching I would have, with enough macho bravado to get a round of applause. But there were only the two of us, and I didn't really know the small, dark man with the slow, sweet smile.

"Must be a good book," was all I said when I could finally speak.

"Not bad." He sniffed his hand, then put it back under his blanket.

My face was still blazing.

"So what're you reading?" he asked.

"This?" I glanced at the book laying forgotten in my lap. "I picked it up in a book store in Victoria for two bucks. You probably wouldn't be interested." I set it on the table and dismissed it with a wave of my hand.

"No? So, what's it about? Or do you think it's too complicated for a guy like me?"

"No! I just meant that . . ." even I could see where this could lead. I grabbed the book, cleared my throat with mock importance, and grandly announced the title: "Catalogue of Coins, Tokens and Medals in the Numismatic Collection of the Mint of The United States at Philadelphia, Pa., 1914." I flipped to the last page: "Six hundred and ninety four pages, plus God knows how many illustrations." I held it out to him.

He took the book and hefted it. "Yeah, guess you're right. I probably wouldn't be interested." He thumbed through it. "Amazing."

"What?"

"That they would write a book this big about a buncha coins. Seems like a waste of time to me, unless you can spend them."

"But these are old coins, like in a museum. People collect them. They're too old to spend."

Henry's face slowly flushed with anger. "What you mean is white guys collect them. Besides, I've seen stuff in museums. You know the one in Victoria? All the Indian stuff? It's all stolen. Buncha white guys stole it. Its like they don't think it's real until they can steal it and put it in a fuckin' museum. Then suddenly it's real." He tossed my book back to me.

"But . . . but . . ."

"But-but-but. You sound like your engine won't start."

We laughed, but I felt righteous indignation lingering in my throat. "Everything in the museum, it was all collected and bought from people, wasn't it?"

"Yeah? Really? You think givin' some joker a bottle of rum for a ceremonial mask is buyin' it? You think tearing down totem poles and whole fuckin' villages is collecting them?"

"C'mon, Henry . . . if they weren't put in a museum they'd all be gone by now. They'd all be destroyed, rotted away."

"So what's wrong with that? It's the natural way. Besides, there'd be new ones to take their place."

"But they don't make new ones now. It's all been lost; all the craftsmen and traditions."

He threw off his blanket and sat on the edge of his bunk, bare feet on the deck: "Lost? You mean like one day, we looked around and said: '"Well fuck me, how did I useta make them things? Jeez, I musta forgotten how."' You think it got lost like that? Use your head, man."

"But . . ."

"We all got put in jail, man. You know that? They took everything from the old religions that was sacred to us and put them in fuckin' museums. They kicked us out of our villages and put us on reservations. They stole kids from their parents and put them in white fuckin' schools. They went right across the country like a bulldozer. Now nothing's left that's free. Nothing. Nobody. Museums are jails, reservations are jails. So what's left? The Navy? The Army? They're fuckin' jails if I ever seen one. And anyone who tries to do fuck-all about it gets put in a real jail. Know what I mean?"

I was stunned; I had never thought of any of this before. Blame it on being 1960, but it had never even crossed my mind. I tried to break the tension the only way I knew: "Jeez, Henry, all I do is collect coins. English and German."

He chuckled. "You think I'm saying it's your fault? You're finished with us and now you're starting on the English and Germans, that it?"

I nodded eagerly, grateful for his humour.

"That's the problem," he said. "It's nobody's fault. Everybody's hands are clean. Like, you know, lily white."

I was desperate to change the subject. "I know someone who thinks it's my fault. Running Wolf; he hates my guts. He bites my head off every chance he gets."

He nodded. "Yeah, well . . . he's one angry man alright."

I took this as encouragement: "I think he's an asshole. What did I ever do to him?"

He shrugged. "Maybe it's because you're so . . . white."

"What do you mean? Everyone on the ship is white except for you two guys, aren't they?"

He shook his head in pity. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"C'mon man, tell me. What do you mean I'm so white?"

He flopped back on his bunk and slapped both hands over his face.

"C'mon Henry, tell me or . . . or I won't show you my coin collection."

He spluttered with laughter under his hands. Finally he raised himself on an elbow, his face red. "It's just that you're so . . . like when you walk, your arsehole goes fuckin' 'squeak', know what I mean?

I felt wrenching, numbing shame. "Candy-ass, right? That's what he calls me. That's what you're saying."

"C'mon, don't get me wrong, man. You're a nice guy and all that. Shit, you're better than most. But face it, you're just a tourist, right? You only signed up for how long, three years? Jesus! Three fuckin' years! And then you're gone. You're not signin' up again, are you? Where d'you think I'll be in three years? Or ten? Maybe even twenty? Right here, that's where. I got nowhere else to go. I can't afford to play no fuckin' tourist."

"You've got a trade, you can leave any time and get a job."

"Yeah, sure. After eight years I know how to grease a fuckin' anti-aircraft gun. Lotsa jobs like that on civvy street, 'specially for Indians."

"Well, same as me. Not too many jobs for guys who chase submarines. More guns on civvy street than subs, you can bet on that."

Henry picked up his book and dismissed me with a shake of his head. "Jesus, Sweetman, use your fuckin' brains."


"Hey you! Candy-ass! Over here! Now!"

My heart sank. I looked wildly behind me hoping for a miracle, but saw a chest-high wall of green water snarling along the deck toward me. Johnny Running Wolf stood by the Bofors anti-aircraft gun, his angry walrus face glowering at me from under the hood of his parka. I leaped toward him to escape the wave; he grabbed my arm and yanked me to safety beside him in the almost dry space between the gun and the quartermaster's shelter.

STORY MENUPREVIOUS PAGENEXT PAGE

"JOHNNY RUNNING WOLF" — © 1987 - 1999 by Charles Dobie