Fish in a Barrel

Friday November 22, 1963

Manhattan, New York, 1 p.m.

Prime rib, asparagus and whipped potatoes, .5 cent beers and .15 cent Manhattans were the lunch special every Friday at Captain Cutler’s Lounge in Midtown. You could smell it as you turned from Fifth Avenue onto West Fifty-Sixth. It was warm, so the door to the lounge was propped open by a golden hoof of a door stop. Cigar smoke and plunky jazz wormed its way onto the street to mix with the low hanging clouds that blanketed the city.

Camille Trevore had a slight skip in her step as the prickle of jazz met her ears. She had indulged in a glass of champagne after her piano lessons and had stopped into the corner store to pick up a copy of Vogue and two packs of cigarettes. She hummed slightly as she dipped into the lively atmosphere and passed her light coat to the young woman who appeared from the coat closet.

A whistle reverberated above the lunch chatter behind the bar and Camille blushed as Captain Cutler himself shook a match and took a drag of a fresh Marlboro Red. “Looky here! Pretty as a picture.” And she was, if she did say so herself. He came around the bar and placed a rugged hand on her slender waist. “I’ve missed you.” He kissed her cheek, and she blushed further, scooping a wave of golden hair behind her ear. “Your light-loafered friend’s been waiting for you.” She smacked him on the chest and shook her head.

“Don’t say that,” she scoffed.

“Isn’t he?”

“That’s beside the point…I brought you cigarettes.” She pulled a fresh pack of Marlboros from her purse and placed them in his breast pocket with a gentle caress of his defined chest. “I’ll take a gimlet, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The Captain said with a grin. Camille sighed as he retreated behind the bar and felt a giddiness in her sternum that he was hers. A sharp featured man watched them from the end of the bar. Cradling a martini, he picked absently at a club sandwich. He waved a hand lazily as Camille met his gaze.

“You’re going to miss As the World Turns,” he said plainly. “I’m on my second martini, where on earth have you been? That’s pretty and new.” He slid from the barstool as she approached. She gave him a twirl to further present the gold A-line sheath dress with bow trim. They kissed each cheek and settled into the worn barstools. Simon Harris was as handsome of a thing as they came. He looked intelligent but mischievous. He had dark, swooping hair and fierce eyes. He was a notorious homosexual and that was Camille’s draw to him—how unabashedly flamboyant he was in a world that admonished him at every turn. He wasn’t wearing a tie and donned the jacket of shame, reserved for those who had wandered into the lounge without a suit jacket, overtop a cashmere sweater.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I was at piano lessons.”

“How quaint.” Simon smiled as he reared back in his stool and flipped open his cigarette case. “Care for a smoke?” Camille shook her head as her drink arrived with a sensual wink from The Captain.

“That’s progressing nicely. You might not even have to bother with your little well-mannered charm school at this rate. Cheers to marrying well.”

“Isn’t he divine?” Camille cut her eyes down the bar where The Captain wiped the counter while obliging a genial conversation with another patron.

“He’s delicious. He’s going to cause you unbearable heartache.” Camille rolled her eyes as she took a refreshing sip of gimlet and freed her hands from her gloves. Soon As the World Turns prattled across the little GE box television stuffed among the various hues of a thousand liquors in the carved wooden arches behind the bar. They fell silent then and Camille picked at Simon’s remaining fries as fresh cocktails and cigarettes were enjoyed.

The TV was low, and Simon waved a hand to the young barback to crank the volume up a notch and asked for two more olives. It all happened too quickly then. The screen went dark, and a CBS News Bulletin scrolled down.

“In Dallas, Texas three shots were fired at President Kennedy’s motorcade in Downtown Dallas…” Of all the things one expected from such a news bulletin, this was the furthest declaration. Camille looked up from her drink to stare at the dark screen.

“What did he say?” her heart twisted, and she held a hand to it as she grappled with the broadcast.

“Hush!” said Simon, his cigarette falling from his plump lips among the ravages of his sandwich.

“…Kennedy has been seriously wounded by this shooting.” Then as if it were a wrinkle in time, the soap opera returned to the screen.

The patrons along the bar looked at one another in confusion as the familiar actors resumed their roles. The Captain wiped his hands on a towel and frowned at the little box.

“He said shot? Kennedy was shot? Stop the band! STOP the GODDAMN band!” he bellowed at the little trio playing at the front of the room. “Turn that up. What the fuck…” Camille’s hands began to tremble, and tears instantly welled in her eyes.

“I don’t understand…you don’t just shoot the president.” Camille fumbled with her purse and shakily lit a cigarette. The room was quiet now and The Captain paced behind the bar. The soap opera was cut across again; this time Walter Cronkite himself appeared.

“There has been an attempt, as perhaps you know now, on the life of President Kennedy.” A sob from a woman lunching with her husband rang out. Her hand went to her mouth and her whole body quivered. One of the cocktail waitresses almost fainted and her tray of drinks clattered against the bar.

“God in heaven,” the man down the bar groaned and investigated his beer. There was a great scuffing of chairs as everyone scrambled to line along the bar as the CBS newsroom became a flurry of men in white shirts. It seemed that though severely wounded, The President and Governor Connally were still alive. At this, the woman who lunched with her husband sobbed again and reached for Camille’s hand.

“Praise God,” she said through an onslaught of tears. “Praise God.” Camille returned the gesture.

“Put it on my tab, Captain, I’ve gotta get home to my wife.” The Captain nodded and waved the man away. Captain ran his hands over his black moustache and Camille saw that his hands trembled too as he lit another cigarette, his eyes barred unblinking into the screen. It was a view of a crowd lunching, exchanging whispers, apparently coming slowly to terms with the news as well.

The patrons and staff of Captain Cutlers suddenly become as lifelong friends. Their plates of prime rib stat ruining on their tables as everyone, including the band and cocktail waitresses, sat or stood along the bar, comforting one another through sudden outbursts of emotion. Simon smoked one cigarette after the next as fast as he could.

When Walter returned to the screen it was to usher in their greatest fears. “Mrs. Kennedy who was in the car with Governor Connally and President Kennedy was not injured but was said to be in a state of shock and is stunned…she was heard to cry out, ‘Oh no!’ as the bullets rang out and The President slumped into her lap…with the­—it is reported, a bullet wound to the head…” Camille almost screamed and put her hands over her mouth as tears ran down her face.

“God damn it.” The Captain fell against the bar looking ashen.

“We need to go,” the man said to his wife as she became hysterical.

“What kind of life…a bullet wound to the head…my god…” Simon inhaled ruggedly and put his head in his hand; smoke rolled over his dark hair. The barback behind the bar lurched for a waste bin and hurled violently as he sank to the floor.

“Poor Jackie,” Camille sobbed. “Oh, poor Jackie!” Simon nodded his head and asked Captain for a cigarette. “I’m all out Bernard, be a friend,” he said. Captain tossed him a pack from under the bar.

“Is he dead?! I heard he was dead! They’ve killed him, oh god!” The young boy who operated a paper stand on the corner clambered into the bar and hoisted on the tips of his toes to catch a glimpse of the tv.

“Close the door, son,” Captain said, being familiar with him. “We’re closing. Stay and drink if you want, but we’re locking up. Murray, get everyone a drink.” The paperboy crossed and latched the door and pulled the shade. The phone began to ring and Captain groaned as he reached for it, giving Cronkite another worrying glance. “Captain Cutler's…yeah…yes, Mr. Trevore. She’s here…I’ll make sure of it, sir. Yes sir. It’s a damn awful thing.” He placed the receiver back on the cradle and turned to Camille. “You're staying with me. I’ll take you home. The whole world’s gone mad.” She nodded and stifled another sob as Murray poured out shots along the bar.

It was then a jumble of reporting from Dallas. Cronkite stopped and stalled. CBS correspondents reported him dead. Priests who had delivered last rights still believed him to be alive as they nudged their way out of Parkland Hospital. The remaining patrons in the lounge became anxious and one by one began to peel out of this harem of grief.

“I can’t take any more of this! Is he; is he not? Priests and reporters…always the harbingers of death.” The woman asked the paper boy to hail her a cab and she left in a bustle of tears and prayer.

The Captain hadn’t spoken a word. He stood behind Camille and massaged her shoulders between sips of bourbon. One of the cocktail waitresses had been praying over the golden cross around her neck since the broadcast began and Camille thought that she herself would’ve run out of words for God by now. The band had taken off their jackets and smoked in tandem with Simon. It had been nearly 36 minutes when Cronkite removed his glasses and announced, “From Dallas Texas, the flash, apparently official…President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time…”

A wave of devastation rippled across them. The young waitress crumpled into herself with a horrific sob. The band all bent their heads. Camille made the sign of the cross and reached out for Simon who stared blankly at the screen, his cigarette eating away at itself. The Captain swore loudly and sent his rocks glass flying across the room where it shattered in a spray over the handsome wallpaper. The coat check girl took a black cloth napkin and draped it over the photo of The President behind the bar. Everything suddenly felt dirty to Camille. It was as if in an instant their eyes had been scrubbed clean, and the underbelly of the world made itself known to them. The world was not piano lessons, Doris Day, good manners, and high fashion. It was wicked. It was a world now where men would shoot The President like, “shooting fish in a barrel,” as Cronkite had described it. No one said anything to each other as they collected their things and shuffled out into a world that was changed. A dirtier, more savage world than the one they had occupied before entering the bar that day. The Captain and Camille sat in the front seat of his Cadillac and Camille sobbed uncontrollably until The Captain kissed her lips. “I love you, Camille.” It was as earnest as anything she had ever heard. She knew it was meant to be a comfort. But in that moment…even love felt wicked.