I think it was some president that once said, “Some are born great and others have greatness thrust upon them.” I guess an elected official would fall into the category of “having greatness thrust upon them,” but as for me-- and others like me that fall into the “born great” group; greatness isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. In fact, I’d give anything to be normal, or at least my perception of normal.
My name is Bertram Bishop and for the seventeen years of my life I thought I was normal, well aside from the name of course. I mean, I guess my life started out normal enough; my being the product of Jane Austin-obsessed mother and father whose spine rivaled that of an amoeba‘s. Yet everything was almost normal before my father left. We were a family; not just a family but the typical, nuclear American family. The family that Christmas mornings were made out of. A family whose story could be told by a ceiling-high stack of filmed birthdays, first steps, and Thanksgivings with relatives we no longer spoke to. But as the saying went, “all good things must come to an end,” and they did. For the last four months it was just my mother, older sister Blanche and I, attempting to live the only life we had ever known, minus one. It was far from easy, but it was all we could do.
Even after the divorce I was happy to say that my life was comfortably mediocre. I was just starting my junior year of high school. My high school credits were nearly fulfilled, and my path towards the rest of my life was carefully under construction. I knew what I wanted and I knew the journey I had to take to get there. I was ready. Ready for anything. Anything, but that fucking town.
* * *
So now that you have taste of what my life was, let me give you a full bite, starting of course with the name: Bertram. It’s Victorian and probably hasn’t been used since. It also partially ruined my childhood in the early years, but I’ve since been known as Bert, which has shown to be a more effective means of naming when it comes to living to a non-Victorian setting. I guess I should consider myself lucky in comparison to my sister because there’s just no nickname for Blanche; but I had many nicknames beginning with a capital “B” that she embraced really well. I’ll get to all that later.
My mother was simply Barbra: Barbra Bishop, and despite how she sharpened her “s” or emphasized every “a” she said, she couldn’t change the fact that she had the name of a 1970’s porn star. This greatly bothered her.
You see if it’s one thing I learned a long time ago is that Shakespeare was way off: a name is everything. Not just what people call you, but what you answer to. It’s also the first line of judgment when it comes to meeting people and that’s what I cared most about. Not judging people--okay, maybe judging people a little bit-- but for another reason: unlike most seventeen-year olds, I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I wanted to be a journalist, but not just any journalist, a journalist to make all others look like they worked for school papers.
I wanted to make political leaders cry at the very sound of my name. I wanted to see my by-line just under the giant, bold print headings of all the predominate papers if the New York area. I wanted to be just a name. A name that was either loved or hated: a name that I would probably create from a crafty pun or the name of my first pet and street I grew up on. A name without a face that I could wear when I wanted to fulfill that human desired to leave a stain on this world, and keep the simplicity of my average life.
I grew up in a small suburb in the shadow of New York city. The town was called Bellmore and it was everything I could have expected from town that was rumored to be named after the doorbell-ringing habits of one of its first settlers. The town had since matured into a one-chain restaurant-town full of delightfully apathetic people. And as much as I loved to criticize it, it was home to me.
Bellmore, like the majority of Long Island, was an acquired taste. To the rest of the country we’re simply the sandbar with nice beaches, where the people from New York City live and play. A place with sky-high property tax and where if you are bleeding on the street no one will stop-- unless, of course, you bled on their overpriced sneakers. It really wasn’t too much different from what people thought. The funny thing was that I loved it for those same reasons. I loved the sense I felt of just sinking into the backdrop of all the chaos: that feeling that I could look and listen in on the lives of the oblivious people that didn’t even notice I was there.
The name of my school was Cedar High, and it was within its winding hallways and snug classrooms, where I already began to pave my “professional” reputation. I was one of the editors of the school paper, The Cedar Tribune, and the self-proclaimed investigative journalist. My name as it was struck terror in the hearts of the athletics department, and gave the English department a headache. In only two short years I had managed to produce a series or articles so provocative that the PTA tried to get me suspended and opted to shut the paper down completely. With a great deal of finesse I was able to regain my position as junior editor, under the condition that I would never again write things that I felt really needed exposing.
Some people may have gone as far as to say that what wrote was pure lies, but I feel that was a bit harsh. I wrote in a style which I saw as mirroring the American media model: if it was rumor, it was good enough for me. So I may have published an article or two about drunken party shenanigans involving the football team or alleged pregnancies, but it got people to read the paper. You see I am a firm believer that words make for the best weapons, and if the newspaper itself was a gun, then my articles were the bullets.
I used my articles as a way to reduce the most untouchable students: the sports stars, prom queens, and class presidents. I felt it was my job even playing field and to pull those “untouchables” down onto the same ground as all of us.
It was about the third week of Junior year, and school was in full force. The hallways were no longer buzzing with the tellings of alcohol-fueled summers and who was no longer a virgin. The entire life of school was drained out by the caustic sway of bells and tests, tryouts and overtly complex assignments. A good story was therefore hard to come by, but for seasoned high school reporters such as myself, there were always ways to get stories.
For the majority of my lunch and off periods I would walk around and just listen. Of course most of what I hear was as meaningful as white noise, but occasionally I would overhear something juicy. But at the end of the day, this was still Bellmore, and even the juicy at its best was just moist.
It was eighth period and my wandering had already made me late to the weekly meeting for Tribune reporters in the library. I felt a mental sigh of relief as I entered the same vacant library to find the same-blank stares coming from the same motley crew of students.
“Nice of you to show, Bert,” greeted Janelle. Janelle Sayers and I had known each other since elementary school. She was a big girl with a body the body of a trophy wife from the 1950s. Her round hips and shapely figure were the cause of her near-constant teasing from third grade on, until she got boobs. Yet one look at her emerald eyes and soft-rounded face could tell you of the golden person she was. It was my near-constant protection over her, from the forth grade on, that kept us best friends.
“Yeah I canceled my twelve-thirty just to make it here,” I responded as I took the open seat beside her. “So guys we’re in our third week back; what’s going on to substitute for real news?”
They all stared blankly as I got situated while one upperclassman gathered his books and stormed off. I sometimes had that effect on people.
“Anybody have anything? Anything at all?”
“Well,” began a tiny, freshman whose name eluded me. “I know you don’t like these stories, but Mr. Kelly said to branch-off and cover more diverse news. The football team might make it to the state championships this year and-”
“Cady, allow me to interrupt,” I said, putting my feet atop the table.
“My name is Cindy,” she responded blankly.
“Right. Cindy, I know your new to whole ‘news game’ but let me remind you that we are a newspaper. Given that nothing interesting ever happens in Bellmore, there are about three other local papers who would love publish a story on insecure guys that enjoy grappling other men, but I want, ’Valedictorian Gets Pregnant’ or ’Star-quarterback Involved in Gay Craigslist Ad.’ You know, something of real substance.” I answered, much to the discontent of the other four underclassmen who looked like they too wanted to leave.
“Good thing it’s not your paper, Bert,” interjected Janelle. She was senior editor of the paper and the only one to keep me in check. She thanked Cindy and asked if there were anymore ideas that would not get us all expelled.
The other four, who ranged from Jonathans to Andrews, looked blankly at each other before nervously shaking their heads.
“Okay, well let’s think of some more ideas for Friday’s meeting after school with Mr. Kelly,” she continued. Like insects beneath a disrupted stone they gathered their wheeled backpacks and cumbersome textbooks and scattered.
“What a group we have this year. Football? Is that what we have been reduced to writing about?” I asked forcefully, as I shrugged-off the librarian’s glare. “I feel so … audited.”
“Oh my God; a story that shines a positive light on Cedar High, what’s next? Have you ever heard of ‘human interest’ stories?”
“Yeah I have Nell, and I find them uninteresting,” I replied.
We both let out a slight bout of laughter gaining us another “Shhh” from the increasingly-volatile librarian.
Although I was very critical of Bellmore, and Cedar High and the people that I came across in both, the truth was that deep down, beneath my teen angst, I loved living in Bellmore. I loved the people I mocked, and the authority I questioned. I had known it all well, and this was where I had learned to be comfortable.
“So Bert, I know you’re against all things typical of high school, but rumor has it the football team is throwing a winter dance in November. It might be fun to go. Like, I wanted to go, but not alone. So if, maybe, you wanted to go or something. Not like a date-- so not like a date. But … you know, to get … information and report and stuff. Together, as opposed to me going alone,” babbled Janelle.
“So you’re asking me out?” I asked crudely, cracking a crooked grin and raising my eyebrow in a douchey display of mockery.
“Don’t be an asshole, Bert,” she hissed.
“I’ll consider it. I like you a lot, but not nearly as much as I hate the football cult. But I have to run: Mama Bishop has a family dinner planned tonight. Which usually means a big announcement is to follow, like laundry day switching or planning a family vacation that will never happen.” I gathered my things before giving her a fake friendly, one-armed hug.
Before I left I turned back to her.
“Hey Nell, remember I don’t put out on the first date, just so you know!” I shouted across the empty library. Janelle looked livid as her plump face absorbed her narrow eyes. She gave me the middle finger before Librarian the Hut offered another hiss of silence.
I walked home on the same path I had taken since middle school. Down Newbridge Road, past my elementary school and street-lightless corners where I would drink and smoke cigarettes late at night. Every step I took was a step rich with memories of best friends past and present. I walked through my typical surroundings barely even thinking about the memories that passed me by. I finally arrived at the corner of Norwood and Harlane; to the white split-level I had called home all my life. It was just like any other day. I stepped over the pile of free newspapers at my driveway’s apron, and over the oil stain left by my father’s car and up to the overflowing mailbox. Carefully juggling my keys, books, and mail I just made it through the threshold before everything just came crashing from my grasp.
“Bertram, is that you, honey?” called my mother as foreign smell drop-kicked my nose from the kitchen.
“Yeah mom, it’s me,” I responded, kicking all my stuff beneath the nearest table.
“Wash up and come into the dinning room. I’m cooking Sri Lankan tonight. I got a recipe from one of the girls at work.”
“Is something burning?” I asked. The smell intensified as approached the dinning room.
“No, it’s just the curry powder … I think. Let me see,” she responded. The smoke alarm went off.
“Shit!”
I sat down at the table, straightening the napkins and the utensils that sat on top of them. I pulled out my cell phone and placed an order for a pizza. I had just finished opening the windows, when my mother emerged from the cloud of smoke I had formerly called the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, I think ruined dinner,” she sighed. Her lanky arm washed across her damp forehead, and her chipped nails poked and pried at her large, curly bob. “Better order a pizza or something before you sister gets home.”
“I got it covered mom,” I responded.
“Do you have any idea where your sister is?”
“Not a clue, but I’d check the span between the nearest liquor store and motel,” I scoffed.
“Bertram, don’t say that about your sister!” she blared.
We sat there awkwardly exchanging a play-by-replay of our days. We spoke about everything down to the most miniscule detail in hopes that we would both not look to the end of the table where my father would have sat, and where nobody had sat since.
“We ordered a pizza?” said Blanche as she stormed in about a half-hour later, holding the much better-smelling box. Her hair was the fakest color blonde imaginable which cheapened her natural beauty. Her vibrant clothing colors made up for the general lack of it.
“Oh hey honey, how was your day? I’m glad your home. Here use this to pay the pizza guy and come sit. I have some fantastic news for you guys!” exclaimed my mother, with a desperate enthusiasm that was nothing short of horrific as she handed Blanche the money.
“Bert is finally leaving for boarding school?” spat Blanche.
“They found a cure for herpes?” I spat back.
“No,” she responded. “I really hope I’m doing this right, but guys I’m making some changes. Not just for me, but for all of us. I know it’s been hard for us since your father left, but I think this is the right thing: we’re moving.”
“What?” shouted Blanche and I in unison.
