By 6 p.m., the “F.O. Eagles” sign that hangs above the door of the Aerie of the Middletown Eagles is the only light on all of Stack Street, save for a few flickering streetlamps. Located in a remote corner of the North End, the Aerie sits across the street from an empty field, and just up the block from a hulking red warehouse. It feels like the kind of place where you’re likely to return to your car to find your radio missing.
The headquarters of the Fraternal Order of Eagles looks suspiciously like a blue-collar bar. The air is thick with smoke. NASCAR pennants and posters emblazoned with Budweiser logos hang on the red brick walls. A state-run Play and Win lottery machine stands by the door. There are a few tables at the front of the long and narrow room, but all of the fifteen or so people in the building are sitting on stools at the long wooden bar, or playing darts and pool in the back.
The only tip-off that this isn’t just some commercial watering hole is the stunning preponderance of images of eagles. Photographs, paintings, and statues of bald eagles make up a totem-like tableau that covers every surface, both horizontal and vertical. Standing in front of a wall of Eagles posters in the event hall adjoining the bar, Mickey B., a retired teacher of manufacturing technology at Vinal Technical High School in Middletown, tells me that they all came from his personal collection. “I’ve got a bunch more I’ve been meaning to bring over,” he says, pointing to the posters with a hand that bears a gold ring embossed with an Eagles emblem. On his other hand he wears a silver ring with an identical symbol. “You come to my house,” he says, “you’ll see Eagles mugs, Eagles pitchers, Eagles plates. I’ve been collecting them for over fifty years.”
***
John and Mr. K. spend much of their time at the Aerie talking together. They seem like an odd pair. John looks about fifty, and is friendly and outgoing. Mr. K. wears a stocking cap and multiple layers of jackets and wanders about the bar with a wooden cane gripped firmly in his bony hand, muttering angrily to himself. Although he looks like he’s pushing ninety, Mr. K.’s actual age is difficult to determine, as it seems that, like many Eagles, he is suffering from the cumulative effects of a lifetime of evenings spent drinking $1.25 beers.
John says that he and Mr. K. first met as business associates. “I used to run a Dairy Queen, and Mr. K. was my produce man,” he says. Once, John tells me, he had planned a banana split special at the restaurant. Mr. K. brought him the wrong sized bananas, and he had to cancel the whole thing. John laughs, but Mr. K. grumbles and moves down the bar.
With Mr. K. gone, John reflects on the nature of the club’s community. “Everybody in here, they’re all here to make each other look important, to feel that they’re a part of a family,” – he lowers his voice – “without bringing them home.”
All at once, Mr. K. comes charging back, inexplicably angry. He points to the two small windows near the door, high above eye level and crowded with neon beer signs. “They put those in so the kids can’t look in and see their old man drinking,” he sputters, before turning back to his mug.
***
In an office near the bathroom at the Eagles Aerie, Mickey tells me that he spent 17 years as Worthy President of the club. Running his calloused hands through his grey hair, he reminisces about the annual national conventions he would attend. “They used to have good shows, I’ll tell you. Unbelievable,” he says. Bob Hope, Danny Thomas, and Jimmy Duran would perform. Each year, Johnny Weissmuller, the Olympic swimmer famous for his portrayal of Tarzan in countless black-and-white features, would tell the same joke. “People ask me how I got that yell,” he would say. “Well, Jane and I were swinging on the vine one day, and she slipped and grabbed my nuts.”
The office is large but mostly empty, and has the dusty, underused feel of a place where very little work gets done. Twenty-year-old recruitment pamphlets lie beside two-year-old copies of “The Eagle Magazine” in yellowing piles on the shelves. Desks of various descriptions line the walls. One outdated computer rests quietly in the corner. A few rolling chairs with torn cushions are marooned in the middle of the floor.
Sitting in front of a huge steel safe, Mickey tells me that he became an Eagle in the 1950s. When he joined, he says that there were twenty-one chapters of the Eagles in Connecticut. Now, there are only seven. The membership of this Aerie, however, has never strayed far from 400. Mickey credits its consistency to the low annual dues. While clubs like the Elks have jacked their prices up to nearly $100 per annum, the Eagles have only raised their dues once: from $15 to $20.
Leave a Reply