Curt

Have Gut — Will Travel or Go West, Young Mike or Darth Vader, My Ass
Chapter 10

MESCAL, AZ -- Viewers of "Tombstone" may recognize this cottage as the residence of Kurt Russell. My wife certainly did, posing behind the picket fence for a quaint, must-have photograph.

I know the rustic home was her favorite area of our visit to the movie location. She said as much. We've been married long enough for me to interpret her guttural "poxes upon Goldie Hawn" as "Golly, that was the swellest!"

I, however, take the opposite view. I've felt an affinity for Miss Hawn since high school, so when our guide mentioned she had visited the set, I perked up. I whipped out my emergency tin of pomade and nearly broke a tooth on the trusty GEM pocket comb while trenching a coiffure part in my newly and neatly paralleled flaxen locks.

I ran up onto the porch and posed myself in provocative moods in case Miss Hawn returned. I thought the styling with my back to the door, palms on the woodwork, and left leg bent at the knee, discount sneaker on the knob, was especially alluring.

When the flimsy door flung open, I flew through the house, landing light as a heifer with my head thrust inside the spring section of a moldy, threadbare sofa. Yet -- like all good men of the west -- I was still on my feet.

Although stooped and stuck, I kept my dignity, persuading myself Miss Hawn is a hiney woman.

I held this stance for a quarter hour, waiting for Goldie.

I spent the interval feeling a bit guilty for telling folks my hair is flaxen. True, it has grayish tones. The blondness disappeared in boyhood. I decided she'd never know the difference under all the goop, now festooned with chicken feathers and mites.

Fifteen minutes was also how long it took for the fireworks display to end inside my head and seat cushion.

I don't know what Donna sees in Kurt Russell. What is it with women and him? Donna, Goldie, and ... and ...

We met during my first real job, selling candy at a movie theatre. I was a natural for the business, eagerly grasping the trade. I was on my way. I was 14. Time for a spouse.

There was a pretty cashier my age who I yearned desperately to notice me. She adored Kurt Russell. He's all she talked about.

"Kurt. Kurt. Kurt. He's so cute. Cute Kurt. Cute Kurt. Cute Kurt."

Cute Kurt flirt. Cute Kurt flirt. Cute Kurt flirt.

That's all she was. It was very off-putting and took away from my valuable time learning how to water down Cokes.

Cute Kurt flirt hurt. Cute Kurt flirt hurt. Cute Kurt flirt hurt.

When we showed his picture, Walt Disney's "Follow Me, Boys," I think the girl simply melted away because there was someone else selling tickets by the end of the week. The replacement lady was older, droning on about Fred MacMurray this, Fred MacMurray that.

I wasn't so much bothered by her chatter, as I had, gallantly, moved on, busy mastering how to serve drinks with my thumb in the cup.

It's always fun to reminisce, but I HAD TO GO! Donna insisted I return to the tour, which I did, after jogging out to the car to grab the metal detector. Miss Hawn might have dropped an earring in the dirt. If and when she materialized, I aimed to please.

Sure, it had been 10 years since her visit to "Tombstone." I reckoned she was due.

I never did find any jewelry, but I did come up with a rivet used to weld Jack Palance's smirk together.

Alas, Goldie stood me up. Our group would be globetrotting to the highway shortly thereafter.

As I shuffled over the Mescal grounds, I cursed Kurt Russell for what he did to my girls. I even remembered the first time I saw him. I was in the front row at a 1963 flick, "It Happened at the World's Fair." He's the bratty kid who gives Elvis Presley's leg a swift boot.

And now, honest to goodness, just this moment, as I'm writing, I surfed over to The Internet Movie Database to check a date. There, in Kurt Russell's filmography for "It Happened at the World's Fair," he's listed in the role of "Boy Who Kicks Mike."

Some things never change.

Next: Chapter 11 | Rewind to Chapter 1

Photo copyright ©2003-2004 Mike Durrett. All rights reserved.