Watching Rambo in Spanish

It was late at the convention center in Valle Hermoso. Most of the team had gone to play soccer at an outdoor stadium. I was in a mental set thinking about the relationships we had with the many children who showed up. As usual, the person who supervised the building was sitting on a van seat bench propped up in an alcove of the lobby. A TV, balanced on a low table,  was blaring as he stared mesmerized by the glowing screen.

At one point, he looks away from the screen and smiles at me. 

"Rambo" he says, with a toothy smile. I walk over to his area and for a few minutes we watch the TV. 

"Which Rambo?" I ask.

"Tres"  He smiles and turn back to the TV.

I nod my head.

I watch more. The heros, the good, the bad, they are all speaking Spanish. It all looks very foreign, until the guns come out. The guns don't speak Spanish. They speak with the authority of brute force and need no additional interpreting. 

As the guns fire, the keeper of the Convention Center settles deeper in the van bench seat and watches with admiration, the tough action figure, mete out justice to the nare-do-wells.  And in that the keeper and I need no other language for common understanding.