Mount Rushmore & Rushmore Academy by Bradley A. Evans

Let’s assume for a moment that there’s another Mount Rushmore, but instead of Presidents, the faces of Wall Street titans, the Duke of Del Monte, the world’s finest golfer, and a young man from the University of Pennsylvania are immortalized in granite. Naturally, it begs the question, “Who are these men and why are they deserving of a grandiose monument?”

Good question – it started with a group of nitwits who gathered one day for cigars and cheap whiskey, with me at the helm, who thought it appropriate to enshrine the founders of America’s greatest clubs on an outcrop of ashen rock. We needn’t look any further than South Dakota for inspiration.

Front and center is the first president of the first country club in America, Mr. J. Dickerson Sergeant. Lost in the pages of history, apart from a few WASP’y historians, Mr. Sergeant lead the Philadelphia Cricket Club after graduating from Penn – he’s the “George Washington” on our out-of-touch Rushmore. To his right are Bobby Jones and Clifford Roberts of Augusta National. On his left is E.F. Hutton of Seminole Golf Club and Samuel F.B. Morse, founder of Cypress Point Club.

The nitwits and I were pleased with our selections, but before I slammed the gavel, we realized we were missing someone, who, appropriately enough, is an alumnus of Rushmore Academy – none other than a precocious young man named Max Fisher. Considered one of the worst students by Headmaster Guggenheim, Max never let his grades get in the way of his many extracurricular activities. When he wasn’t romancing Ms. Cross or building an aquarium with Herman Blume, he tended to his many interests. Of the eighteen clubs and societies he belonged to, Max founded four and co-founded one – quite the resume for a fifteen-year-old, so we squeezed him in next to E.F.

Unfortunately, when it was said and done, we didn’t have the funds, land, or any community support for our toffee-nosed Rushmore, so we paid a dilettante muralist to paint our men in Atlanta’s Krog Street Tunnel. It cost two hundred dollars, plus supplies and an All-Star Special at the Waffle House. Three days later a couple of hoodlums spray-painted a shockingly enormous phallus on it.

Back to our boy, Max. I listed all his clubs in order of how I’d take to them.

Yankee Review – Editor-In-Chief, Publisher. As a writer, this has to be at the top of the list. When you’re in the rarified air of George Plimpton and his Haaaarvard accent, Graydon Carter’s perfectly coifed hair, and William F. Buckley’s “mid-Atlantic” brogue, it’s safe to say you’ve made it. Cheers to Max – it’s quite an accomplishment.

Bombardment Society – Founder. Who doesn’t love dodgeball? Coming home from elementary school with the logo of the ball tattooed on your back was like a General getting his first star. It made a man out of a boy, and it didn’t long to figure out who the crybabies were (God help em’ when they got back in the game). Survival of the fittest reigned supreme in the gym. Of course, these were the good old days when PE teachers, all of whom were male, embraced Social Darwinism. They drove trucks, fished on the weekends, and wore shorts that barely concealed their Herculean set of nuts.

Trap & Skeet Club – Founder. I was a bit surprised to see Max shooting a side-by-side in the quad while his ten-year-old chapel partner operated the thrower; such is the whimsical world of Wes Anderson. I love skeet shooting, so much so, I founded the Eisenhower Cup – an annual tournament held in honor of our thirty-fourth President who had a skeet range on his Gettysburg farm (and the COOLEST pin flag of all time on his putting green).

Fencing Team – Captain. I don’t have a death wish, but man alive would it be exciting to be in a real sword fight (and know what you’re doing)! The Duellists, starring Harvey Keitel, is one incredibly well-choreographed sword fight after another. Unlike Hollywood sword fights between swashbucklers, this film shows how exhausting and drawn out they can be, and equally, how short. It’s gritty and far from glamorous, but that’s what makes the movie intriguing. I’m taking fencing classes this fall and cannot wait.

Yankee Racers – Founder. It doesn’t matter how old a man gets; go-karts are always fun. All I wanted to do from age 7 to 14 was put the pedal to the metal on a go-kart track; all the while cursing the governor on the engine. Nothing frustrates a boy more than a go-kart that doesn’t do what it’s capable of. Luckily, a buddy named Drew Beline, who’s the chef/owner of No. 246 in Atlanta, had two go-karts that hauled ass – Days of Thunder style. During summers we’d strap a cooler of beer to the back and spend the day fishing, swimming, and jumping off Rogers Bridge into the Chattahoochee River.

Stamp & Coin Club – Vice President. I too am a philatelist and numismatologist. I inherited a MASSIVE amount of stamps from my grandfather. Hailing from a fishing village in Scotland, he emigrated to America where he became a banker and a pillar in his community. Known for his well-made suits and disciplined approach to life, his collection is catalogued in leather-bound books and markedly organized. Per the coins, I’m working on Roosevelt dimes for the time being. Next up are mercury dimes and 1948 – 1964 Washington quarters. These days I need a magnifying glass to see mint marks and dates, but I love it. I find both hobbies to be calming and interesting.

2nd Chorale – Choirmaster. My Great-Grandfather, whose signet I wear, was a conductor of an orchestra when he wasn’t preaching at his Lutheran church, hiding Finns from Soviet mercenaries, or speaking one of six languages he was fluent in. I’ve long dreamed of conducting an orchestra, and it doesn’t have to be New York Philharmonic, I’d settle for The Maestro’s gig conducting the Policemen’s Benevolent Association Orchestra in Seinfeld.

Piper Cub Club – 4.5 hours logged. Come hell or high water, I will have my pilot’s license in the next few years. I regularly dream of an impromptu flight from Atlanta to St. Simons Island; leaving behind spaghetti junction and skyscrapers for miles of unspoiled coastline, golf courses, and oak trees draped in Spanish moss. Upon landing, I take a deep breath of salty air, cleanse my lungs, and catch a ride to Ocean Forest where tee times don’t exist. After 18 holes I sink into a leather chair for a cigar in one of golf’s greatest locker rooms. Later in the evening, I sit in a rocking chair as the sun sets below the Atlantic, mesmerized by a celestial harvest of pomegranates, tangerines, and lemons.

Max Fischer Players – Director. Max got a full ride to Rushmore for writing a play in the second grade, “A little one-act about Watergate.” I too am writing a play but in my mid-40s. It’s about three strangers who end up in a Montana jail cell on a fishing trip. One is a bird hunting aristocrat from Georgia who went to Yale but can’t hit the broadside of a barn with a shotgun. Another is a supposed eleven handicap golfer from New York who went to Stanford but has lied on every Piping Rock scorecard since birth. And the other is a Bay Area sailor, born and raised in Pacific Heights, who went to Duke but still gets confused between starboard and port. The southerner thinks he understands the north, the New Yorker thinks he’s wise to the ways of the west coast, and the Californian is convinced he understands southern culture from his days at Duke, but they’re all bullshitters sitting in the same jail cell.

Calligraphy Club – President. As a writer, I’ve always been fascinated with fountain pens, antique typewriters, and the art of handwriting. My Father, a gentleman in every sense of the word, has perfect handwriting. He writes in all caps, at an eighty-degree angle, with the measuredness of a Flemish architect. A man’s handwriting says a lot about him. I’m diligent about improving mine, though no one sees it. I prefer using my Montblanc Meisterstück, which, admittedly, is not too practical in today’s world on account of several factors, including, but not limited to, waiting for ink to dry. Writing with an old-fashioned instrument is time-consuming and requires thought, as I’d imagine is the case with calligraphy. Cheers to Max for his interest in penmanship.

Track & Field – JV Decathlon. If I was going to join the track & field team, I’d shoot for the decathlon. Though I could do without the running portion. And the hurdles too, but the javelin and pole vault! Hell yeah! They look like a ton of fun. But now that I think about it, the shot put, and high jump seems a bit much. So does the discus throw. Maybe I’m more cut out for a decathlon, less eight sports – a biathlon. Hell, eighty-six the pole vault. I have nightmares of impaling my mountain oysters. Just teach me the basics of the javelin so I can spear hunt for Bobcat in Alabama (it’s legal and it’s real). How my brain went from decathlon to the most redneck of all sports is anyone’s guess.

Kung Fu Club – Yellow Belt. I couldn’t tell you the difference between kung fu and jiu-jitsu, but what I can tell you is Kramer’s domination in his “kar-ah-tay” class was inspirational…right up to the point where you realize he’s fighting grade school kids. In the end, the youngsters got their pound of flesh when they jumped him in an alley – inspirational, nonetheless.

Rushmore Beekeepers – President. I am very much interested in raising honeybees. It looks fascinating, and Lord knows it’ll be the only time this guy can say he, “Yielded a crop.” Every part of beekeeping looks appealing – from the crazy suits to making candles. The entrepreneur in me is running wild with ideas.

Kite Flying Society – Co-Founder. Outdoors – CHECK. Sit on my butt – CHECK. Cigar friendly – CHECK. Sign me up.

Debate Team – Captain. I was told by every teacher that I needed to join the debate team and go to law school. I did neither, but I’m always down for a good back-and-forth. Anyone game for a Jefferson-Hamilton national bank debate?

Lacrosse Team – Manager. This sport wasn’t in Atlanta when I was in high school in the 90s, but I wish it was. Seems to me that every American boy should have to play a physically demanding sport – for no other reason than to get these kids away from video games. I know I quote Royal Tenenbaum a lot, but he’s spot on with this, “You can’t raise boys to be scared of life. You gotta brew some recklessness into them.”

French Club – President. I took Spanish in high school and hated it. In 20/20 hindsight, I should’ve taken French. Nowadays, I dream of learning Italian and spending summers zipping through the Boot on a motorcycle. I’m thinking a BMW R 1250 with those cool aluminum cases would be nice. All I’d need is a bathing suit, cigars, and an unlined sports jacket (style always matters). Maybe start on the Amalfi Coast, enjoy a layover in Florence, and finish on Lake Como. Alright, Max, you’ve inspired me to finally pick up a foreign language.

Astronomy Society – Founder. Outdoors – CHECK. Sit on my butt – CHECK. Cigar friendly – CHECK. Sign me up.

Model UN – Russia. I never did this as a student. My guess is I probably thought it was too nerdy, but at 43 years old, it looks interesting, though I sure as shit wouldn’t be Russia.

It’s anyone’s guess as to what happened to Max. Despite his expulsion from Rushmore, we know he made a go of it at Grover Cleveland High. I like to believe he graduated and went to community college before transferring to Sarah Lawrence, where he was a C student. He managed the men’s tennis team, joined the Board Game Club, and majored in archeology. After college, he took a job at the Smithsonian in the Museum of Natural History and wrote several plays that Blume financed. But that’s conjecture. He may be cutting hair at his old man’s barbershop. Either way, he more than earned his place on our Mount Rushmore.

Contributor Bradley A. Evans is a good buddy, a UGA grad, and an idea guy. We’re lucky to have his thoughts here at RCS…more to come.

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