Mint Condition

So, the Dallas talent agent said in his cultured and best professional voice, Do you think you can help?

He wanted a beautiful girl to play a doctor and a chiseled, leading man type to play a pilot. They both had to be in their 30's, in costume, and available for shooting on Monday morning. It was just after five on Friday afternoon and we were packing up to go home for the weekend. Absolutely! I assured him with a confidence that I hoped sounded better than it felt, Let me get back to you in a few minutes. Panic set in before I had even replaced the receiver. And this is how I came to find myself on a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning, headed toward the only Army Navy Surplus store within 30 miles. My pilot would be in a fur trimmed leather jacket and goggles, an overly long white fringed scarf blowing over his shoulder - the image had formed instantly in my mind, a rugged, young Spencer Tracy smiling from the cockpit of a fighter plane. The talent agent's pilot was from Delta - blue blazer and white dress shirt with an shiny brimmed hat complete with emblem. Dismally, I realized that I had seen too many 1940 war movies.

The owner of the surplus store had given me precise and careful directions but it was more than 20 miles out of town and as four lane divided highways and strip malls turned into a two lane blacktops and abandoned corner grocery stores, I began to have doubts. A turn off the blacktop and several miles later, there it was - Bob's Army Navy Surplus, a tumble down, unconverted gas station at a forlorn intersection in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The rusted remains of pumps still stood, the roof of the building was partially caved in but holding at a sharp angle, weeds had overtaken both sides and nearly covered what was left of the faded Uneeda Biscuit painted sign, and the door stood open, revealing a dark and musty carnival of camouflage. Behind the counter stood Bob, a short, bald, chubby little gnome with thick black rimmed glasses and an unlit, battered cigar clamped between his teeth, hip deep in clutter and military remnants. He was carefully transferring figures from a stained, yellow notepad to a relic of a faded, oldstyle green adding machine with a pull down lever, keeping his place on the yellow pad with a chewed yellow pencil. He worked by the sunlight filtering through the unwashed window behind him - there were no lights in the entire little building and dust and debris seemed to dance through the random rays of sun that found their way in. There were racks of camouflage clothes, backpacks, ragged recruiting posters, medals, a single pair of combat boots sat on a shelf amid fading black and white pictures in broken frames of smiling soldiers. A bayonet dangled from the ceiling, an American flag hung on a back wall, there were canteens lined up in a row on a window sill, a fur lined parka on a mannequin in the corner, mosquito netting draped over a window with a missing pane and model airplanes hung with fishing line - they swung to and fro with the breeze from the box fans.

From this amazing and long forgotten clutter, Bob produced an officer's hat with a shiny brim and a silver emblem,
two silver oak leaves and a pair of shining silver wings. Twenty bucks, he said gruffly, Mint condition. You can bring'em back Tuesday. I smiled and handed over a twenty dollar bill. My Spencer Tracy pilot had met the talent agent's Delta pilot and they were going to be perfect.