"I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness,
nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory.
I love only that which they defend."
- J. R. R. Tolkien
Los Angeles, California; December 22, 1941
Steve had wanted to serve his country. He would do anything, anything, but not this.
"You have to be kidding me," he muttered as he looked out from behind the curtain to the awaiting audience. They shifted in their seats, watching expectantly and conversing quietly amongst themselves while they waited for the show to begin. "This is a joke, right?"
The disgruntled and balding stage manager, Chuck Walter, crossed his arms and glared at Steve – or what part of Steve that he could see that wasn't bedecked in a woolen star-spangled costume. "Look, kid, you want me to call your commanding officer? 'Cause I'll call your commanding officer. You made a commitment to do this, remember?"
"I made a commitment to fight for my country, not prance around on stage in tights!" Steve hissed, careful to keep his voice below the murmuring of the crowd. "And do I have to keep the shield?"
"If you can tape the script to the barrel of a musket, then be my guest," Chuck scoffed. "Now go! You're on!"
Steve was forced from his position by a harsh shove onto the stage. A thousand lights blinded him as he stumbled forward, holding his shield before him awkwardly and squinting to see the attentive faces staring up at him from behind the wash of white. Martial music began to pump into the auditorium and cheers rose from the audience as the dancing girls filed out with a swish of red, white and blue skirts. Lifting his shield to eye level, Steve skimmed over the notes taped to the inside of the metal disc.
"Not everyone can shoot a gun or drive a tank, but we all can make our own individual contribution to the war effort!" he stammered to the awaiting crowd, who leaned forward in their seats as the girls began a sing-song chorus behind him. Steve swallowed hard and looked down at his notes again; from the corner of his eye he could see Chuck sigh and clap a hand to his forehead.
"Don't you hate the homeless?" Disgruntled whispering spread through the audience and Steve looked back at his cards again. He could swear he heard one of the trumpeters cough into his instrument with surprise. His hands were shaking so badly he could hardly lift the shield. "Um, I mean, don't you hate the homelessness that plagues our streets? Victory bonds will get the young men of America off the streets and bring them to fighting shape to shape our better tomorrow!"
The last line felt ridiculous falling from Steve's tongue, but the audience cheered and stamped their feet as the chorus girl started into a low kick line, beaming dazzling smiles towards the crowd.
"Let's show them the red, white and blue doesn't just fly in the States, but a flag of freedom the world over. From the beaches of Pearl Harbor to the Atlantic Wall, we can make this dream a reality. But we need your help to do so!"
The crowd was so riled they didn't notice Steve was reading from the back of his shield almost constantly. The girls behind him brought their catchy chorus to new heights as they wove in and out of each other in a complicated short step routine, and the trumpets mounted from the tinny sound of the ill-concealed pit symphony. One of the girls, Sharon or Karen or something like that, stepped forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. Was that part of the script? Steve blushed furiously and the crowd went wild, drowning out the music and anything else he might say.
The standing ovation lasted long after Steve had retreated to backstage, where the stage manager looked both incredulous and impressed with his performance. "You did horribly, but they still love you. Hate the homeless, huh?"
"This is great, Chuck, really great. The money's pouring in, and all the girls are clamoring for pictures. You up for it, Captain America?" An eager stagehand grinned up at Steve, hefting one of the donation buckets that rattled with coins.
"Damn right he's up for it, he's under contract! Get out there and hold some babies, will ya?" Chuck tapped his pen against his clipboard, somehow still irritable through the shouted cheers.
Steve glanced down at his ridiculous woolen uniform and tall red boots – he looked more like a comic book hero than a war hero. "Pardon me, sir, but wouldn't it be better if I –"
"Nope! Get out there."
Keeping his comments to himself, Steve followed Chuck's assistant to the back door of the stage, which was on the receiving end of a horrendous pounding. When the assistant opened the door a cluster of girls fell through the opening, giggling and squealing as soon as they saw Steve standing before them. He followed the assistant through the crushing crowd and back into the foyer of the auditorium, where even more people had gathered to meet the super-soldier.
"Golly, mister, you sure are strong!" a young boy called up from Steve's knees, and he shook the kid's hand like he would an adult.
"You are too, son," Steve's head jerked up and he saw the assistant mouthing something from behind a mob of adoring parents, "And you'll grow strong too if you drink your Ovaltine!"
"Aww," the parents gushed as if Steve had said something remarkably profound.
Flashbulbs snapped as reporters danced to and fro, stepping on each other's toes to get the best angle of Steve shaking hands with the people of America. The foyer was soon illuminated in a second sunrise from all of their frantic photography. The chatter mounted to a deafening level, and Steve could hardly shake hands or sign posters as quickly as they were being thrown in his face.
"You're my hero, Captain America!"
"Oh, he's so handsome, isn't he?"
"A real American lad, huh?"
A pretty girl with a short blonde bob sidled up to him and smiled sweetly, and immediately the cameras erupted again. She slipped an arm around his waist in a short hug, then faded away into the crowd as other young girls, now emboldened, came forward for their personal meeting with Steve. It was all very confusing, and the attention was beginning to overwhelm him.
"You're a real ass, Captain! Why don't you get a real soldier to show off, huh?" a derisive catcall rose from the back of the foyer, and heads turned to make out the dissenter. Mutters and frowns swept across the crowd as a ring formed around a young man, a teenager really, who cupped his hands around his mouth to be heard.
"That's right, you faker. You don't give a damn about the guys killed at Pearl Harbor. You just want your money and your fame! Some hero America deserves, eh?"
Steve stood with his shield at his side, silent as the boy was dragged out by his elbows, Chuck and his assistant ferrying the young man out the doors. He dragged his heels and continued to heckle the crowd as he left, kicking and fighting to free himself. "Take me away, but I know the truth! It won't be long before the rest of the world knows it too. Faker! Cheat!"
A collective sigh of relief rose from the crowd when the boy was deposited outside, and Steve was once again assaulted by handshakes and autographs and a significant increase of hugs from girls. Tony and Clint would ridicule him for years if they could see him now!
The rest of the day followed without incident, and Chuck's eternal scowl had lessened somewhat when he tallied up the donations and bonds sold to the members of the crowd that day. The showgirls had headed off to their dressing room to change, but Steve had stayed behind to help ferry the donations and prepare the money for transfer. He knew nothing about bond sales or what constituted a good profit, but there was more money in the storage room that night than he had ever seen in his life, maybe ten lifetimes.
Chuck's assistant, whose name Steve learned was Talbert, evaluated the day's earnings in a highly favorable light. "I've worked the bond business for years, Mr. Rogers, and I'll let you know I've never seen someone criticize the homeless and pull in this much cash. The public loves you! That bit about Pearl Harbor was good – did Chuck put that in the script?"
"I was only being respectful."
"Well, respect pays well and it pays in grade-A bond donations!" Talbert grinned, adjusting his spindly glasses
on the bridge of his nose. "Say, I'm not supposed to show you quite yet, but do you want to see something amazing?"
"I'd be glad to," Steve rose from his chair, setting down the bookkeeping record and following Talbert into an adjacent room under the stage. A golden placard indicated that the room was off-limits and for staff only, but Talbert inserted his key and flicked on a series of bare lightbulbs that illuminated the room in stark detail.
Posters hung from every inch of the wall, some even suspended on easels in a state of half-completion. Desks were littered with toy soldiers, plastic colorless discs, and reams of paper that slid off of one another in disorganized stacks. Strands of ribbon drifted from their pinned positions on mannequins. Fabric hung in bundles on the ground and swung around the legs of tables. There was no rhyme or reason to the organization of the room, but every object shared one trait: they were all related to Captain America.
The fictional character Steve had come to embody grinned down at him (although some scowled, in an effort to look tough, he supposed). Posters showed him rallying in front of clusters of troops, piloting airplanes, or parachuting into enemy territory with tracer fire sparking all around him. The discs, which revealed themselves to be shields, were child-sized playthings. The action figures were bedecked in the standard Captain America gear figured in miniature. Steve lifted a comic book and scrutinized the cover, which showed him socking Adolphh Hitler in the middle of his miniature mustache.
"Why am I punching Adolph Hitler in the face?"
"You'll be punching him on a regular basis once the tour gets under way. Chuck didn't tell you about that?" Talbert observed the room with a beaming pride, nodding his head toward the least flamboyant of the posters. It depicted a schedule of Steve's tour with the USO bond campaign, hopping from state to state in a meander across the country. Steve was about to ask Talbert to elaborate when he shook his head and turned back to the decorations. He would never understand show business.
"You have this down to a science," he noted as he lifted a helmet that was 'Captain America Approved,' complete with a sticker signature.
"We've had the Captain America line planned since the government started talking about the super soldier program. You only furthered things along with your heroics in London. Now that the world's so inflamed about Pearl Harbor, we knew it was the time to strike. There's not a house in America that doesn't know your name."
"How's that?" Steve pulled lightly on a child-sized uniform that matched his own ridiculous costume, down to miniature Tinker Bell boots.
"You've got your own radio show, of course."
"Right. Of course."
Talbert noticed Steve's emerging smile and grinned even wider, arms akimbo as he observed his handiwork with pride. A similar streak of pride rushed through Steve as he excused himself and started back towards the state, boots slapping against the concrete floors. He still felt a little foolish in the costume, though – he would have to ask Talbert about any possible costume changes.
A discarded, day-old newspaper lay crumpled in the hall as it declared the news of Pearl Harbor in a bold, half-page header. Real sailors, real soldiers. And I'm wearing tights. The words of the young man in the foyer rang clear in his ears as he surveyed the décor of his future. Faker. Cheat. He wasn't wrong, was he?
Of course he was wrong, Steve asserted to himself as he recalled the posters and toys and vinyl discs. He could hardly believe he was allowed to participate in this sort of thing. After one botched performance, he would make up for every one of his stumbles with a resounding success. He would be the best USO showboy in the country – if that was what the colonel wanted him to do, he would bring in the money. Never let it be said that Steve Rogers didn't do his part in the war effort.
Steve banished these doubts as quickly as they had come and followed the sounds of marching tunes as Chuck's caustic drawl back to the stage. This was his duty now. He would not fail again.
(A cool fact about the quote above - Tolkien was almost enlisted as a codebreaker in WWII! Reviews/critiques/your thoughts are always appreciated!)