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She escorted us into the back yard and asked us to wait while she went inside to tell Mr. Wayne we had arrived. Her one request was that we not ask for any autographs. The back yard was beautifully manicured, framed by the blue water of the bay and centered by a spectacular pool. Beyond the pool was a dock where Wayne's yacht, The Wild Goose, a 135-foot converted mine-sweeper, was moored. We walked up the steps leading to the pool and turned toward the house where the curtains behind French doors were closed. After a short wait, the curtains drew open as did the sliding glass door. And there he stood, filling the doorway. The man Ronald Reagan said, "Gave the whole world the image of what an American should be." The man Pulitzer Prize winning author and historian Gary Willis called the "most popular movie star ever." The man New York Times Film Critic Vincent Canby decreed was, "marvelously indestructible." The man my father idolized. There in the doorway stood The Duke.  John Wayne with Ektelon's Ron Grimes and Kevin Fortson from Natural Light. When Grimes put his hand on Wayne's shoulder The Duke responded, "what are ya trying to do, make love to me?" Wayne's participation came out of a sense of duty as a survivor of a heart surgery years earlier. There were probably many other places he would rather have been that afternoon, yet he was amiable enough as he strode out and did the perfunctory greetings. I remember thinking his sports coat was a little big, not realizing that the cancer that would claim his life a year later at age 72 had already begun to consume his body. (Note to reader: To best enjoy what follows read the hero quotes in your best John Wayne voice and picture the majesty of his swagger in every step.) Pointing to a spot by the pool Wayne motioned, "Let's take the photo over here." Then it happened.
It was the moment the sun stopped shining.
It was the moment the earth stopped rotating.
It was the moment that all life as we knew it ceased to exist. "No," a voice interrupted, "I think it would look better here."
The words had come from my PR counterpart from Anheuser Busch, a young woman in her mid-twenties, the same person who was going to "take care of everything." I watched the color drain from Pat Stacy's face as I braced myself hoping we would survive the next 10 seconds. We wouldn't. After what seemed like an eternity, Wayne erupted. "Fifty years in the god dammed picture business, fifty years! You think by now I'd know how to take a goddamn fu**king snapshot. Take the picture any where you want Miss Artiste, but you're taking it without me." And with that he turned, did the John Wayne walk back toward the house, the sliding glass doors closed, the curtains were shut, and he and Pat were gone. As we stood in stunned silence, the photographer started gathering his gear. "Hold on," I told him. Clearly neutered, the gal from AB's work was done for the day. I looked at Grimes. He looked back, and he raised his head toward the house as if to say, "Go ahead, take your best shot." I tentatively knocked on the slider hoping Pat's head would appear rather than you-know-who. I got my wish. The curtain pulled back slightly, the door opened about two feet, and I asked, "What do we do now, any chance of saving this?" Pat invited me in. This time the curtains and the door closed behind me. "Wait here," she asked in a comforting tone, "let me see what I can do." I was in John Wayne's den. Just me, all by myself. The room was darkened to protect its contents from the damaging rays of the setting afternoon sun. It was paneled in a rich dark wood. An oil painting of John Wayne was over the fireplace. It was Wayne in the prime of his life, dressed in his cowboy finest – ten gallon hat atop his head, bandana around his neck. Strapping and self-assured. I had never before seen a portrait so life-like. So perfectly painted, so perfectly lit. Original Remington sculptures of the Old West further decorated the room. If it seemed like I was in a museum, well, maybe it's because in a way I was.
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