It’s Not Brucie Anymore

Brucie Bogtrotter smiles.

He’s sitting on a wooden bench in a brightly lit atrium, his dirty white converse tucked neatly under black jeans that are perfectly folded at the hem. It’s an ambivalent smile. He is a shadow of the boy I remember. He probably weighs as much as he did then, save for the fact that these days he's at least six feet tall. And though I’ve known him for more than two decades, I haven’t seen him in as long and it’s the exact same smile I knew back when we were in the same elementary school. I’m still perplexed by what’s driving it and I can’t presume to know if it’s sincere or not. I dwell on that for a moment, but he begins to speak and the meaning behind his smile disappears from my mind.

“Under the fingernails. That took forever! It’s the hardest to clean, and it just took the longest. That’s what I remember. Can you believe that? So much fucking chocolate, but I remember the fingernails.”

He is of course referring to the mammoth-sized chocolate cake he was forced to eat—in front of the entire school no less—by a vicious headmaster whose tutelage we both had the unfortunate privilege of being under. Leaning forward with a sigh, he takes the calloused fingers we were just examining and catches his forehead in them. He’s very clearly digesting. I, however, am not. I am trying in silence to respect his process though I am certain my body is communicating otherwise.

It’s been quite the road to get here. Excursion, more like. Though much had to happen afterwards as well, the fact is that Brucie Bogtrotter became “Bruce” Bogtrotter because of that cake. And that pivotal event, in his mind at least, connected three people forever.

A cake.

You see, Bruce and I are doing each other a favor. Whether they equate in size, I don’t know, but both parties are guaranteed to derive a benefit of some sort. At least that’s what the pitch was when I heard it.

My favor to him was showing up to these law offices today to meet with him and the archvillain of my childhood. It’s meant to be a mediation of sorts, and as soon as I heard of this plan, I was, as one might imagine, quite uneasy about it. I had already achieved closure on that chapter of my life and it took no small amount of therapy to get there.

But I agreed nonetheless to potentially open a wound that took years to close because Bruce agreed to give me an in-depth interview into what exactly he experienced on cake day and how all of that led to this encounter. Also, it’s a nice reunion. For he and I, that is. For the aforementioned "villain", Trunchbull, well, Miss Trunchbull as I remember it, the type of reunion it will be has yet to be determined.

Bruce continues:

“I don’t remember her though. Not Trunchbull specifically, I don’t really remember her, or much of how she actually treated me during it. I mean she was a bitch obviously. But really I just remember the cake. Actually, what I really remember is the messy clean-up from that damn cake, under my fingernails, and everywhere else. I don’t know. It’s crazy how far away you can end up from where you first started. ”

His ending thought hangs in my mind. It is a good point and an important perspective to remember, and it reminds me just how lucky I am that he is poignant and direct. I am luckier even that my microphone is the one exerting itself, picking up every word of his for me to dissect later. This experience with Trunchbull is going to change my life he promises.

He says the cake changed his.

The glass conference room doors swing open and we stand up, adjusting ourselves as we head inside. We enter the long rectangular room, quickly taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows that provide a mind-blowing view of Los Angeles' sprawling landscape. I sit down, turning around in my seat to adjust the drape of the jacket on my chair. With my back turned I feel Trunchbull enter the room. Her proximity is inescapable and like an anvil I am hit with the realization that I am not nearly as ready for this as I think, as evidenced by the audible churning of my stomach.

She hasn’t aged well. Her skin tells the story of someone who has lost the battle for happiness long ago, existing more than living. Her face seems frightened. But when her gaze meets mine, I see the same anger I saw all those years ago. That sclerotic rage is still there. She’s angry.

I sit on the far end of the table opposite Trunchbull, while Bruce claims the middle, sitting to my left, her right. Equidistant. It is silent. I look over to Bruce in panic and he smiles. That same smile again.

He pulls out a tape recorder of his own, turns it on, and places it on the table between us.

“Matilda Wormwood, Agatha Trunchbull, and Bruce Bogtrotter, session one of…more than one, I hope. It is July 2021. I am Bruce Bogtrotter, mediator, and I have brought the two of you together to discuss the influence an event 20 plus years ago had on my life. I believe that enlightening you as to how it has shaped who I am might somehow create a bond between the two of you and perhaps lead to some sort of resolution for all of us.”

Trunchbull nods. She stares at him for a moment as if she’s just now reconciling just how much she's scarred him. She opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by a knock at the door.

In walks a delivery man with a brown paper bag nestled cozily in a white plastic one. Bruce handles the interaction, tips the man, and he parts—leaving the three of us alone again. Finally, Bruce breaks the silence.

“I ordered us some food.”

Trunchbull looks as perplexed as I do. Neither of us came here to eat.

“I hope you got me a piece of chocolate cake, Brucie” she says, taunting him, her voice riddled with indignation. She can’t escape herself.

Smiling, Bruce pulls out a towering chocolate cake and places a slice in front of each of us. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he says, as Trunchbull stares at him incredulously. He looks over at me and winks, handing me a plastic fork. I can do nothing but smile at the absurdity of the situation in front of me, clueless as to how exactly it is all about to unfold.

Trunchbull continues to stare, frozen in thought. It’s as if she’s seen a ghost. We aren’t children anymore, and she looks as if she's finally understanding she has no choice but to accept that. In awe of his boldness, I watch as Bruce Bogtrotter takes the first bite of his cake, as the room looks on in silence. He could not be more at peace it seems.

He turns back to Trunchbull assertively, finishing his thought: “Oh and by the way, it’s not Brucie anymore”.