Sometimes There Aren't Bananas

            Bagwell entered the shop, whistling low. They really try, he thought, as he walked amongst low, scuffed and dusty shelves upon which were reams of fresh fool’s cap.

            “Psst! Bags!” the only customer in the large shop hissed, standing against the back walls, under the windows which were only frames with sunlamps behind panes made of cheesecloth scrim.

            “Thanks for meeting me halfway,” Bagwell answered him quietly, sidling near him as he checked the general quality of a ream of 20 pound bond.

            What they were in was considered a working stationery shop, but it might as well have been a set. The only other person in the shop, a young man of working age behind the counter, leaned back away from that counter, and away from the shop floor, and opened the door of a cabinet behind him.

            “We need you to pick up a trail for us,” Walters whispered. “Something vague about a necklace. But, we assume that you need the ‘society skills set’.”

            “I’ve seen some of this ‘society’, Bagwell demurred.

            “That wasn’t society. That was escorting stars to premiers. By the way, how did it go with Hayworth and Hepburn?”

            The young man behind the counter found what he was looking for. A two-foot-long carpenter’s pencil. He gave the two agents a sideways glance, just long enough to make sure that they were still there. Bagwell told Walters that the Hayworth assignment was a small event for the premiere of ‘The Sea Hawk’ with nothing after.

            “She showed me pictures and letters from her husband overseas during the intermission,” Bagwell told him. “It was fun.”

            The young man behind the counter spun furtively to face the shop floor, stuck the pencil down the back of his collar eraser-first, and scratched and scratched!

            Walters asked about Bagwell’s premiere with Hepburn.

            Bagwell answered sotto,

            “I had a cummerbund malfunction in the lobby and it knocked my tub of popcorn all over the lobby carpet. Extra butter. Jimmy Stewart wound up in the middle of the mess, and, needless to say, they shoulda sold tickets to that intermission. Hepburn laughed so hard I think she farted a little.”

            “Did you ask how Spencer Tracy was?”

            “I didn’t dare,” Bagwell responded. “Besides, it’s all there in the expression.”

            “With that in mind, Bags, I think we need to work on your society skill sets. For example: Do you know what the small fork is for?”

            Bagwell wished that he’d found Walters in the pencil department. He could pick at things in an object-adaptive manner. But, not the pen department, he thought. Those, he knew, were fake. Either way, he thought of an answer quickly.

            “I think it’s for salad…”

            “Good. Do you know where it goes?”

            Bagwell could only guess.

            “In the cutlery drawer, to the left of the small spoons.”

            “Wrong Answer!” Walters then lowered his voice. “Wrong answer. Do you know why humor is discouraged while the soup is being served?”

            “…no idea, boss.”

            “Because Alexandra is high-strung, and we don’t want Alexandra to laugh and have consommé come out her nose. These are rules that protect society from themselves.”

            “I guess there is a lot to learn about this ‘being in society’.”

            Walters told Bagwell that he would be taking a remedial course in ‘society skills’ with Lois, then going to a soiree outside of Nerblesville, Pennsylvania, where he would keep an eye out for an especially vague necklace and someone codenamed ‘Smaygles’.

            As the two went down separate aisles to the door, then met at it to leave, the young man gave them a- “Nice day, sirs.”

            The young man behind the counter was impressed with the two that day. They seemed to have the whole ‘meeting in a fake stationery store’ thing downpat. Before then, he had no interest in intrigue. He had an interest in model airplanes and Hedy Lamarr. But, boy, after watching that meeting, intrigue went to third on the list. Months later, after doing what he had been doing for a year in that shop, (keeping a discreet ‘sharp eye’ and not asking why the pens were actually a lump of pressed and painted wood dust) a visiting agent was impressed with him. The agent’s first lesson to him was to ask the young man if he had noticed the difference between the browsers in the shop and those who came in asking for directions aside from their respective role. His trainee said that the lost ones were simply lost, and the others were agents. But that no one bought a thing, and one guy throws his paper water cup on the floor. He was immediately sent to spy school, which sure beat dusting off the same ol’ fool’s cap and writing a big ol’ zero in the ledger 4:59 pm after 4:59 pm. Anyway, that young man made use of the ‘rendezvous in a fake stationery store’ gambit a couple of times in his career. Saved his life, once, in Helsinki.

            At the soiree, Bagwell was certainly impressed by the opulence. I mean, here in this mansion in Nerblesville, PA, there was opulence on top of opulence. Literally. Above the table hung a chandelier that had its own chandeliers. The crystals scattered light which flickered like the thinnest confetti on the crown roast, steamed carrots, the linzer torte, the prime rib and the corresponding Grey Poupon. The one-dimensional, iridescent, wavy light called attention to all the items on the table before the diners with hints of all of the spectrum. It called attention to the salad forks and finger bowls, the bottles of veuve clicquot and the huge stacks of fruit. The scattered rays fell upon the beluga caviar and petit-fours in a way that those spying the phenomenon weren’t quite sure what was before them, but knew that it was good. And this was just a soiree. From the moment Bagwell sat at the table, next to Alexandra, he was waiting for the bananas to be served. This was because from the moment he sat down, he smelled bananas. Per Lois’ advice, he didn’t even use the finger bowl. While he was being coached at an exclusive facility in Langley, he’d never gotten the finger bowl right. Nor did he fathom many of the subtleties of napkins and such. He’d failed linen outright. And, that wasn’t the only ‘society skill’ that went by the wayside. In fact, during that three-day session, you’d have thought that Bagwell’s name was ‘Silly’, as much as Lois called him that. The last bit of advice that Lois had given him was: “Just do your best to look like the oldest of money, silly.” So, he did his best to act like a caveman aristocrat and dug into his lambasted filet of sole and redundant asparagus spears while checking the pyramidacal fruit stacks nearby for bananas. There was a pineapple in it, as there was in each of the bowls down the length of the table, and, of course, apples, oranges, grapes and a peach and pear or two, and they all looked like wax anyway. No bananas. Then Bagwell noticed, seated across from him, a lovely young woman with a pointy chin and expression of ready skepticism who wore a necklace that looked like Dali. He wondered if Dali’s work could be referred to as vague. If so, this lady was his gal.

            The necklace she wore had several strands, all looking more like long, tiny trains with cars that varied widely in size and shape. Bagwell finished his meal slowly, nodding when Alexandra declared that FDR never paid ‘shrub taxes’, and learned from listening through the corner of his ear that the one seated across from him was ‘Kimberly’. And he waited to enjoy those bananas he smelled. Perhaps it would be bananas jubilee, or banana upside-down cake.

            But, suddenly, he was helping Alexandra out of her chair as she told him that ‘of course, you’ll be dancing with Kimberly.’

            Bagwell was taken aback. Then, he realized that he was Thesaurus Man! He could deal with anything. She stood tallish, as the table slid from between them, in a kind of dusty, crème yellow chiffon dress. (He- insured against a recurrence of the cummerbund malfunction through the use of a prototype from 3M, with a concomitant rise in his security clearance.) Servants in vests spirited away the table and chairs and decorations, and Bagwell heard a long note on a trombone. A large curtain had been drawn, revealing the smaller dining room extension, inside which was a really Big Band! He stepped to Kimberly, (as it turned out, to the center of the dance floor that had been created) remembering the ‘May I have this dance’ thing Lois had taught him, but Kimberly couldn’t wait, giving him a calm, ready ‘yes’ with her face. It was as if they were already dancing. With the sudden rush of synchronicity, Bagwell pert near fell down. But before he knew it, they turned away from each other, hooked their arms together at the elbows, and swung each other over their respective backs. The band had lit into an arrangement of ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas’. But, there had to be bananas! He could smell them! Maybe it was a ‘society’ post-dance custom to finish with ‘banana something’. There had to be bananas, because, dancing with Kimberly, he could smell them all the more. Bananas everywhere, and the crowd had already pulled back around them. They twirled again, this time with a bit of ‘side to side’ action. Bagwell hadn’t done anything like that before, even at the times when he snuck into the USO.

            Some in the crowd surrounding them had already voiced wonder at Bagwell. Namely, (which was ironic) wondering who he was. Kimberly wiggled her shoulders, he wiggled his. She rattled her knees beneath that floor-length, tapered chiffon, and he rattled his. Then she leapt at him, and he assisted her in a noisy somersault. With her, he realized, that at least for the moment, until this dance would end and they served the banana soufflé, he had all the good qualities of both ‘Bagwell’ and ‘Thesaurus Man’. The band went to just tom-toms and cymbal, with trumpet punctuation keeping the melody. Someone from the crowd shouted- “Go, Smaygles!” Bagwell leaned forward, put his hands far back between his knees, and Smaygles grabbed his paws and slid between his legs to a standing dismount. Cymbals. He performed a backward somersault, perhaps, either way, their hands remained clasped and they both wound up in front of the bandstand. He was now certain that this woman was the one he was looking for. The band struck up the melody for the finale. Bagwell faced Smaygles and peeled the banana, predating what those kids would be doing thirty years later. And, Smaygles somehow knew it. She followed with a ‘mashed potato’, he followed, and they finished with flipping in each other’s general direction, and stood with their faces smushed together (a la Garland and Rooney a decade too soon) smiling at the applauding semi-circle of crowd. It all happened so fast and spectacularly, and they’d done everything but lick a finger, press it to their ass and hiss.

            Bagwell knew that he had to keep an eye on ‘Smaygles’, but how to do so and not draw attention? He had no evidence, which was ok, because he didn’t know what she was guilty of. He couldn’t bust her for going ‘twirly-twirly-flip! and the splits. If he busted her for that, he’d have to bust himself, too, and half the western world. As it turned out, he didn’t have to be that crafty to keep tabs on Smaygles, because he would be leaving with her in her big ol’ Rolls. As they left discreetly through the front door of the mansion, though, through the corner of his eye he could see Alexandra sending port through her nose.