AWOL

The young man sat down beside me in the aisle seat. He'd stowed a small carry-on bag in the overhead compartment but kept his shiny white Marine cap on his lap. The stewardess came around and asked if she could put the peaked cap in the bin above his head. The young man politely refused and placed it under the seat in front of him, arranged his feet around its pristine edges. I don’t know when we started talking, but he told me that he was a Marine stationed in North Carolina on furlough for two weeks to visit family back in Arkansas. That he was recently married, recently divorced. I asked how long the marriage lasted. He bowed his head and mumbled, “Not long.” He talked at length about the difficulties of living on base as a young married couple; how his wife got lonely and went AWOL, heading back home to Arkansas. “If she’s holed up where I think she is, well, you might see me on tv.” He looked directly into my eyes then went back to fiddling with his headphones. He took his Coke from the stewardess, smiling politely when she handed him the cup and napkin. “Really, I am a pretty calm guy.” When I asked him what size family he was returning to, he smiled and listed off its members. “Mother, sister, younger brother, a couple of cousins.” There was a long beat, then: “And my father...I guess.” A few more beats: “He’s a nice guy when he’s not drunk.” Turns out his dad was a fire fighter, or had been one until “he drank himself out of a job.” He was six years from retirement, on his way to being chief. My seat mate leaned over and shifted his cap a little. Later, as the plane began its gradual descent, the young man told me more about his life in the service. About how he often serves as his platoon’s designated driver. “I drink,” he said. “But only a beer or two. I just turned nineteen. I watch myself.” Lately, they have been training for cold weather action. “I am used to the heat,” he said proudly. “But I am not sure about the cold. I start shivering pretty fast.” I asked him about women in the Marines, thinking of the two women officers I read about who had completed the special ranger training. At first he skirted the issue, shifting the topic. “I love my Black brothers as much as I do my White brothers,” he said. “And my Mexican brothers…” Finally, as we waited for the plane to taxi to its gate, the young man explained to me his bias against women seeing action. “It’s biological,” he said. “Men are just programmed to take care of the female first. I am not saying its right. But it’s true.” The man rose up and grabbed his bag. “And there is no place for that in battle. There’s a protocol.” He shook his head sadly and picked up his cap. He held it carefully in his hands. Then he put his headphones back on and blasted his music until the line started moving. I watched him shuffle to the door.