The Adventure Issue Editorial
While brainstorming what adventures we wanted to have this year, the Record staff broke out into a heated argument: which is more deadly, a tornado made of sharks or a shark made of tornadoes? In the ensuing scuffle, we uncovered a mysterious stack of yellowed papers hiding under our taxidermied Great White head, which contained their own adventure: that of O. Owell ’42, chairman of the Record way back in 1940. In lieu of writing an editorial, I decided to reprint this tasty slice of history for the entire Record audience to savor like a bowl of shark fin soup. And here it is, in its entirety:
“It was a typical summer day in the city of New Haven. The muggy heat was smothering me, causing me to move slower than a baby with two left dog paws. To alleviate these harsh working conditions, I had all the windows in my office open, although this had the unfortunate side effect of forcing me to look down on the Green. But ah well, better to look down on it than look up from it, my old man always said.
I didn’t have much on my desk at the moment; work was slow going because my co-editor, J. Thomas Thompson, was sleeping with the fishes. There had been a nasty rumor going around that his satire was hitting a little too close to home for one of the city mobsters, so they gave him a South Haven sunset. In reality, he had been getting too close to a piece of pro skirt while under the watchful eye of his obsessive wife, who nailed ol’ Tommy with a double-barreled derringer.
But anyway, I was just sitting there, thinking that I would sell my soul for a block of ice – hell, a cube of ice! A bullet of ice! - when all of a sudden a dame rapped on my doorframe. I quickly sat up and cursed myself for having pawned the actual door last week for ten bucks to go in my scotch fund. I mean, this wasn’t just any dame. She deserved to knock on a real door, like mahogany or teak or some such. She was all leg – and when I say that, I mean it was literally like her legs were coming out of her armpits. Exactly my type. She had topped it all off with a fur coat, and despite the heat she looked downright frigid.
She pursed her beet-red lips and spoke, voice sounding like a cat in heat – but in a damned sexy way. “Mr. Owell, I presume.”
“Uh.” My voice caught from the dehydration, and I reached for my lukewarm glass of scotch, only to discover that it was empty. They don’t make secretaries like they used to, I’ll tell ya. I cleared my throat. “That’s me.” She nodded, sat down in my office chair, and arranged her furs. I had the eeriest feeling that the fox head on her left shoulder was staring at me, but since it didn’t actually have eyes I waved my fears away like the dean of admissions to the audacious broads who keep trying to get into Yale. I chuckled awkwardly to fill the silence. “Kitten, you didn’t have to put on your glad rags on account of me.”
“I’m actually in mourning.”
“Sad rags, then. Point still stands. So you need a–”
“Yes,” she interrupted, meeting my eyes with all the intensity of a Yale man shopping a seminar capped at five. I was a little puzzled as to why she would need someone like me, but I chalked it up to her needing a good laugh. That, or the fact that I have the best angled-hat-cock in New England.
“Well, sugar, what can I help you with?”
“I’ve heard about your… skills.”
“I admit, I can spin a yarn about as well as my grandmother after three shots of whiskey! ... But before she takes her teeth out, mind you.”
“Maybe so, but for this I need you to be square.”
Square? I’m starting to get the idea this bird doesn’t know what I do for a living. Us Record men are as circle as they come. “But–”
“Just shut your yap, Owell, and listen for a minute.”
Her eyes darted madly around the room like a school of minnows fleeing a hammerhead. “They’ll be here any second, and then we’ll be in a jam. Strawberry.”
“Strawberry!? Wait… who will be here any minute?”
“Skid rogues. That’s all you need to know. They capped my husband at the haberdasher’s and tried to take this.” She reached into her fur’s fox mouth and pulled out a pale yellow diamond the size of a shark eye. “I need you to keep it safe for me, Owell. I’ve heard that you’re the best private eye in all of the adjectived Havens. So for you, this job should be eggs in the coffee. Duck soup. Cannibal in a daycare. Easy pie.” She set the rock carefully on my desk. This was really not the kind of ice I was looking for. “For now, I have to run. I’ll show myself the doorframe. But a lot is riding on you, Owell. Don’t let me down.” And with that, she swept out of the room, a broom in a dirty world.
It took me a second to get over my shock, mostly thanks to the four whiskeys I’d consumed in the past hour. “But wait! I’m not a private eye! Hell, I’m not even a public eye! You’ve got the wrong Owell! I’m a humor editor! For The Yale Record! Didn’t you see the description on my office–”
Oh, damn. I knew I shouldn’t have pawned that door. I looked around the office quickly, trying desperately to think of a place to stash this chunk of ice. And then, I saw it: the taxidermied Great White Shark head that some heeler had brought us to try and curry our favor. I rushed over and forced the stone under its tongue, cursing as the flesh of my arm scraped its teeth.
From below, I heard pounding footsteps on the stairs. They were here. I slowly walked back to my desk and pulled out a few fresh glasses and my extra secret bottle of scotch. I capped off my glass and drank one more shot, then took my lucky shark’s tooth from my desk drawer and clenched it in my palm. Whatever came up those stairs, I was ready.”
-S. Shea