Random Writings

mint julep

(Inspired by Marvel’s Agent Carter)

July 14, 1946

I stared at my shoes, gleaming steel tipped leather oxfords, and for the first time in my life, thought about the man whose job it was to shine them. His name was Jerry or Jeeves or Johnson, I forget, but his face came to mind that cool evening in July, when my father took me to the Arena Club. He called me the evening prior to inform me that the club had formally invited me to become a member. Being a legacy almost guaranteed my membership when I turned 30 but formalities were an inordinate eccentricity of the Arena Club. It was a Sunday and I still had on my best. My wife Margaret dropped me off on the corner of 8th after church. I distinctly remember that she was wearing her Monday perfume rather than her Sunday scent. I also remember noticing that her hair color was slightly different than that of our youngest, Shelley. I tucked those two pieces of information away where I could worry about later. I kissed my wife and daughters for the last time and walked down to Rita’s Diner where my father was waiting. Robert O'Donnell was a veteran, grizzled with scars and cursed with aggressive but ephemeral flashbacks. His hair was long gone and but his steely disposition remained. His brows made up for the hair he lacked on his head: dark, bushy caterpillars showed every emotion his mouth could hide. He sat in the booth, like he always did, reading The Washington Post. Eating at Rita’s was a tradition reserved for special occasions when I was young. Now, I brought my family there once or twice a week. Embellished with neon lights and plush red seats, the smell of fries and shakes being made in the back, it felt so much like home I almost took my shoes off at the door. I took off my hat, the bell ringing as I opened the door.

“You’re late,” my father said without looking up from his paper. I smiled. Ever the disciplinarian.

“Peggy had a highschool friend show up out the blue and she couldn’t leave without catching up.” He shook his head.

“You can’t let your woman control you, Michael.” I opened my mouth uselessly because I had no response but he raised his hand to stop me anyway. “Another time, Michael. Are you ready?” I shuffled my feet and mentally counted the weapons I had on hand. Three in easily reached places, two emergency if-I’m-tied-ups, and a pill delicately sown into my check. I glanced under the table at my shoes. Steel tipped oxfords shined by lovely man named Jay.

“Born ready.” My father laughed.

~~~

My father walked me down the street and took a left. We entered an unmarked building into a dimly lit room. It was empty and the concrete was swept clean. Two overly buff men stood on opposite sides of a large door.

“Romans in the Arena,” one of them said.

“Dirt to dirt and dust to dust,” my father replied.

“Blood will spill and metal will rust,” said the other man.

“The Romans shall rise,” the three men said in unison. I shivered. The men at the door grabbed a handle each and pulled away. The air was hazy in the next room, as older gentlemen smoked and talked and drank at the bar to my left. In the middle of the room were seattees and a pool table. Everything was expensive and red. The chairs, the carpet, every man had a fancy red ascot or tie adorning his raiment. Not an indigent man in sight. No women or colored folk. There was an illusory sense of privacy in the room: between the private conversation each man was having with his peers and the smoke, it felt like each person was in their own little world. In reality, everyone was listening, alert, waiting. The low hum of various conversations going on at the same time quieted as we entered.

“As you all know, today, my son Michael is to be initiated and become a member of the Arena Club.” Polite applause. Furtively, I tugged at my earlobe and looked around the room. A man about my age, blonde with glasses, mimicked my motion. So he was the mole.

“Please welcome your newest member: Michael O’Donell!” My father walked in with me and began to introduce me to people who I forgot immediately. Old, dirty money and too much booze, they all smiled too much and stood too close. Soon, we came to the mole. His name was Jefferson Carter and he smiled less despite being younger than most of the men here. He welcomed me, “a felicitous choice,” he said before excusing himself to the men’s room. Good. I thought. I had only been here for fifteen minutes but I was already growing antsy. After introducing me to man who was dressed most garishly, I asked my father if I could hold off on the pleasantries and allay my anxiety with some drink. He chuckled.

“Just like your old man. Go on ahead, Michael.” I shuffled to the bar, nodding and smiling at men who nodded and smiled at me. There were few people sitting at the bar, most with drinks loitered about the room, so the bartender came to me quickly.

“A mint julep, please.” He nodded and went on his way. I looked around a bit. There was another pattern I was missing, I could feel it, but I couldn’t see it. The bartender handed me my drink and I saw it. A tiny tie pin that all the men were wearing. It was a circle with an elaborate “A” for Arena in the center. Jefferson Carter was at my side as I downed half my drink. Three taps on the table in quick succession. I placed my drink down and walked to my father. He was telling a story to a few friends, his back to me and I placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned and smiled at me. I smiled back. I reached behind my back pulled my handgun from where it was hidden. I cocked it and aimed it at his head. There was shuffling.

“Hands above your head, O'Donnell.”

“What are you doing, Michael?”

“Michael’s dead. Been dead since ‘45. Name’s Stephen.” His face twisted from surprise to sadness and then to anger. It was almost comical. I fired a warning shot into the ceiling. I grabbed O’Donnell and brought him to the front of the room. The two men at the door rushed in. I ignored them. “Sorry to break up the convivial festivities ladies, but I’m on a time crunch. You’ve got quite the coterie going on here. Jefferson! Am I gonna have to do this by myself?” Jefferson carried a rifle and was inspecting it as he walked in.

“They’ve got a great display in the back, I got too many options to choose from, Steph.” I rolled my eyes. I pulled small notebook from my pocket and tossed it in the middle of the room. The men scurried away. “It’s just a notebook, you ninnies! Oi. I'm gonna need bank accounts, names and phone numbers of all your fancy friends who couldn’t make it. Who wants to go first?” A particularly wizened old man with a cane stepped forward. “Alright, that’s what I'm—” He lunged at me with his cane for all of two seconds before he fell, face forward, Jefferson’s hands shaking and gun still smoking. Blood flecked onto my arm and cheek. I locked eyes with Jefferson. I nodded to assure him. “Anyone else have a problem they’d like to discuss?” The men shook their heads. “ Better. O’Donnell, here’s a pen.”