Polly Pen: A sequel (of sorts) to Peter Pan

Note: After having some very confusing feelings after Peter Pan Live,  I began to remember that when I was ten, I wished there was an actual female version of Peter Pan and began to dream up the idea of Polly Pen. The idea of what would happen if the next eldest member of the Darling family (John) came confronted with a road block to growing up took hold. This may be the silliest idea I’ve ever committed to a story (and I’ve written about zombie Girl Scouts).

Also, I did not make up John Darling’s middle name. That’s canon. That’s crazy. That was inspiration.

Polly Pen

A fictional novella by Neva Reese

Chapter 1: Knot Here

I had not intended to spend the summer of 1922 in America. The insurance company my father worked for needed a poorly paid employee to be in New York to help with an upcoming business deal with a law office located on Wall Street.  As fortune would have it, a well placed aunt of mine who had an apartment off of 7th Avenue needed someone to water her plants while she was out traveling in Africa. My father believed I would be an excellent candidate for both these jobs and that by summer’s end, I would be on my way to becoming a man.

While I was not ready to grow up just yet, I was curious about the American prohibition on alcohol.

Just a few days after starting work at Gale Pearl & Riese, I had met a barrister named Leo who knew the password to a speakeasy called Knot Here. During my studies at Cambridge, I learned about Britain resisting the temptation of giving into prohibition several times. In fact, while Britain was subject to a temporary ban on gin for a few years, we highly encouraged beer as an alternative at the time. I promised to write to my sister Wendy about how silly the Americans were being about their spirits (my younger brother Michael was still too young to appreciate the finer points in being British). I had envisioned maybe publishing my findings.

“A Highball for me and get my friend a Shirley Temple.” Leo ordered our drinks from a man who reminded me of a white ape; the sort of man who shouldn’t be relegated to pouring drinks in an illegal bar, but protecting it.

“You’ll get what everyone else is shoving down their throats – gin, neat.” His accent was Irish and his tone was surly. “The Shirley Temple is no problem.”

Leo paid the Irish Ape who left to make our drinks. We went off to find a table. “It won’t be your mother’s gin and tonic, Johnny, but it sure will cure what ails you.” Leo was older than me by ten years and had a wife and two children. Leo had taken it upon himself to show me the city; most likely to avoid said wife and children. While going over speakeasy etiquette once more (which boiled down to “don’t cause trouble”) and settling at a table, a motley mob broke into the bar. This caused Leo to stop talking.

The Irish Ape returned with Leo’s drink. “Oh, great. The actors are here.”

“Famous actors?” I asked.

“Worse.” The Irish Ape set down two drinks for Leo. “Drink it while you can.”

After he left, Leo explained. “Those are theater people.”

“Like Broadway?”

“More like off-off-awful Broadway. So off Broadway that they don’t even perform in  legitimate theaters. And they will drink everything and pay for nothing.”  Leo held fast to his two drinks as one of the actors made way to sit at our table – a long, reed thin man with ice white eyes and a pointed grin.

“My dear old friend! I haven’t seen you in years!” His accent was part standard Mid-Atlantic, part had a few drinks prior to entering the speakeasy.

“I’m not your old friend,” Leo accused, trying to hide his drinks. “You’re Buzz Smith. And everybody knows that Buzz Smith has got no money so why don’t you just leave?”

“But you know my name, old friend! And you so kindly bought me a drink…” Buzz put a long, thin arm around Leo. “Remind me what your name is, again?”

“Leo,” he answered, regretting it immediately.

“Leo! Leo the Lion – of course!” Leo slowly handed Buzz one of the drinks, knowing he was no match for the actor. “Salud, proud Lion! Thank this Androlocles for taking this thorn out of your paw.” Buzz swallowed the contents of the glass quickly and kissed Leo’s balding head with a loud smack.

“Shirley Temple.” My drink was set in front of me by a russet haired barmaid with a soft, non-New York accent wearing a calico velvet dress. Buzz did not make a move for it. Neither did Leo. I had deducted from their reticence (and the fact that the drink was as pink as a cameo) that there was no homemade hootch in that glass. “Mind if I check your ID?”

Remembering speakeasy etiquette, I surrendered my passport to the barmaid.

“Really? You’re just going to hand this to a stranger?” She opened it up, narrowing her eyes at me.

“You asked to see it.”

“I was being sarcastic. Didn’t anyone ever tell ya what to do in a speakeasy?”

“Yes. I was instructed to not cause any trouble.”

“Yeah, well, add don’t give out your ID, your passport, your last will in testament, and so on to strangers,  mister…” She read my passport. “Darlin’. Seriously? Your name is John Darlin’?“

“Darling?” Buzz found this immediately hilarious and hooted to signal his enjoyment at my expense. “Daaaaaahling, meet me at the yacht in an hour!” he said in a more exaggerated Mid-Atlantic accent than the one he had sported before, hands clasped at his bosom.

“It’s my family’s name,” I weakly explained.

“Of course it is, Darlin’.” The barmaid handed back my passport and prepared to return to the bar. “Where else would ya get it.”

The night wore on. After Leo bought two more drinks for himself (and four more for Buzz), I left them to place another order at the bar. I got the attention of the barmaid who had served me before.

“Can I take your order, Darlin’?”

“You don’t need to keep calling me that.”

“Applesauce. Ya know I saw your middle name.” Her smile was too evil for mortals. “So, I can either call ya Darlin’ or Napoleon.”

“What’s wrong with John?”

The barmaid gestured to three men who had turned around, looking to see who had called their name.

“So. Ya wanna be Darlin’ or Napoleon?”

“Darling.” My middle name was no one’s business and I hoped she would keep it private.

“Where are you from?”

“London, obviously. You saw my passport.”

“Kinda got stuck on your name. Didn’t get to any other details.” She studied my face for a while before speaking again. “Yep. Ya got that real, authentic toffee covered speak – not like some limeys we get in here from Yorkshire or Chicago who think if they put on a real swank accent, they can turn any gal into a dumb dora. Some of them actually leave with them, expecting future filled with tiaras and tea with the queen…but they always wind up back here after finding their pocket books were nicked. Don’t matter if the Joe was uglier than homemade sin, just something about the British accent that makes a Jane’s insane.”

“This is real a problem?”

“Not if you know your onions.” She tapped her head with a blue painted fingernail. The nail matched her eyes. “What brings ya to this side of the pond? Gonna write that great British novel?”

“No. Working for my father at a law firm. I just graduated university. Cambridge.” I waited to see if she would be impressed; she wasn’t. “May I ask where you come from?”

“Thunderfoot, Georgia.”

“Ah, Georgia.” That explained her accent. “The prison state.”

“Don’t know if you’re aware of it, Darlin’, but once we established freedom from England, things changed. We’ve traded prisoners for peaches.” She withdrew a bottle of gin from under the bar and two glasses followed it.

“How much do I owe you?”

She put one of the glasses in front of me. “On the house. I feel bad – razzin’ ya about your name in front of Buzz and you’re friend. Plus, if ya ever come in here again, Buzz’ll be able to get a few drinks out of you. And on top of all that, you’re gonna have to drink this terrible gin.” She placed the other glass in front of her and doled out the gin between us. “Ya got it real rough, Darlin’.”

I raised my glass to give a toast. “To my new friend.”

She smiled as she raised her glass. Much less evil. “The name’s Polly Pen.”

I drank the gin, resolute to not show how much I despised it. While I managed not to spit it out, it took a while for it to go down.

Polly had no trouble gulping it.

“Welcome to New York City, Darlin’. Care for another?”