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Secret Code
It was while I was prowling a weekend estate sale at a boxy Dutch Colonial on the Portland west side that I stumbled
across the unbelievable: an official Captain Midnight Decoder Badge from the 1950’s Saturday morning TV series.
The badge was taped up inside a plastic sandwich bag, lying there placidly amidst a haphazard pile
of worn toys on a card table in the garage. I grabbed it up at once and examined it eagerly.
Except that it seemed smaller, everything else about it was exactly right. The swept wing shape of Captain Midnight’s
rocket plane, the Silver Dart. The “S” and “Q” letters on the wingtips that stood for the Secret Squadron. On the reverse
side of the plane, the yellow code wheel for secret messages. The red nose cone was even there still, the hollow one you
could take off to fill with lemon juice to make invisible ink.
I couldn’t recall what happened to my original badge, how I ever let it get separated from me. How could I
have forgotten how important it was to my life? But now, finding this one by wild chance, it was like a reconnection,
with a lot of emptiness between us since then. I had it back finally, that was what mattered.
I was elated. The price sticker said twenty dollars. A steal for a rarity like that. I went right
to the table by the garage door and paid the woman running the sale.
She gave me a canny look. “Oh, you like that little jet plane? I priced it up because I thought it might be unusual.”
She was in her late thirties, wearing an oversize sweater that hung over her hips, too young to know about Captain Midnight.
I smiled back. “Worth it to me to pay the price. Good luck with your sale.”
A brusque male voice interrupted. “Wait a minute! That item is a collectible. I’ll pay fifty for it.”
I turned his way, annoyed. He was about my age. Compact, wiry build, rose-shaved cheeks below a grayed fuzz of hair.
Dressed in a yellow Polo logo jacket and polyester golf pants. His oyster colored walking shoes had thick, rippled soles.
I looked him in the eye. “Too late. It’s already sold to me.”
“I’ll give you seventy-five for it. That’s a quick profit for you.”
“Not interested. Not at any price.” I made an obvious point to tuck the badge under the pocket flap of my plaid flannel shirt.
He wouldn’t give up. “I was a Secret Squadron member.”
“My sister and I were too. We watched every Saturday on Channel 12.”
“Is that right? What was the name of his plane then?”
“The Silver Dart. Who doesn’t know that?” I didn’t like him challenging me. I gave him one back.
“What was the name of the drink they made with Ovaltine on the commercials?”
He fumbled. “A Captain Special.”
I was disgusted. He was a trophy collector, that’s all. He would only stick the badge away in a deposit box
somewhere to gloat over its money value. But I needed it for more essential things. Nothing was going to take mine away from me again.
I sneered at him. “It was a Tut Special, named after his scientist friend, who invented it. You’re no Squadron member.”
I turned my shoulder, but he wasn’t through with me. He grasped my left wrist. I tried to pull loose, but he held me painfully
with that sinewy grip that regular golfers develop. I bent my neck and butted him in the face. I felt nose cartilage crack
and flatten against my forehead.
He gave a yelp and let go, reeling backward against a rack of yard tools. He raised his hands to cup his face.
Blood trickled already from his nostrils.
I stood still, shocked by the sudden rage that welled up out of me. My fists were knotted, ready to beat him some more.
Other browsers in the garage stared at us. The woman at the table waved a cell phone in her hand.
“If you men don’t stop, I’ll call the police!”
I pushed my askew glasses back up. He held a red-soaked tissue clump to his hurt nose. His lips curled beneath it.
“I’ll press charges! I’ll sue your ass!”
I nodded. “It still won’t get you the badge.”
I went straight to the Jeep and got in behind the wheel. I looked in the mirror and saw him planted spread-legged
on the driveway, making a bold show of writing down my license plate. Let him, I could care less.
I pulled the badge out of my pocket with concern. It was intact, undamaged in the scuffle.
I tore open the plastic bag to handle the badge itself after so many years lost. I turned it over and spun the yellow code wheel carefully.
That was the crucial part. It worked fine, just like it always had, ready to decode whatever messages I required it for.
Now I would be able to understand everything.
Email: William Wilde
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