“He asks if you are tired,” said Father Kino.

Del Martes shook head, sweaty in the glittering helmet. Gods do not feel fatigue, he wanted to say, but did not.

The climb had been tortuous, but it was worth it. The Jesuit and his native consort had shown him the river of gold, and Del Martes had seen its glitter himself. Now, in the search for its source, he became the first civilized man to gaze out on this valley.

He thought about the empire he would build here once the mine was established. These friendly natives would make splendid slaves.

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Staff/Sgt Hooms missed badly.

“Mother FUCK!“ He swore loud enough that we heard him in the mess fifty meters away. He slapped his holster as though about to shoot the offending golf disc, then swaggered out to retrieve it and try again, shaking his head with exaggerated disgust.

This, like everything he did, was a performance. He wanted all of us to see that, despite his lack of combat experience, he was a salty old veteran.

I’d seen his type before. Career NCOs yearning for a combat star. They strutted around the FOB like John Wayne, armed to the teeth.

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I stand behind the bar in the same dirty black pants, the same stained white shirt and bow tie. Good thing they can’t smell me.

They schedule me to work just under forty hours, so no overtime. The theater can’t afford it, they say. Looking at how these crowds are dressed, I find that hard to believe. You never saw so many Rolexes and diamond tennis bracelets.

Come intermission, they’ll pile out like cattle, line up to buy a plastic cup of merlot or chardonnay for ten bucks. Then it’s back to the second-rate orchestra and the same tired ballet.

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