Mr. Buckerfield
This is the legend of Mike Buckerfield, a humble lad who can be kind of a demon but who is not a bad guy overall. Because of his mom that totally doesn’t get it, our hero Mike is enrolled against his will into prestigious Wentworth Academy where tradition and academic excellence are as solid as it’s 1895 cornerstone.
Bla, bla, bla. Who cares?
Anyway, the snobby Academy is overrun by rich pukes with upturned noses that don’t drain properly. Although they are not nearly as dangerous as public school kids, they sniff a lot and Mike is pretty sure he will never like any of them, because who could?
As if that isn’t bad enough, three teachers immediately start picking on poor Mike. They are:
A. Ms. Shernick -The epitome of Evil.
B. Mr. Proffitt - Basically a moron.
C. Mr. Butler - A big, fat, plaid doofus.
(And the lunch lady isn’t very nice either.)
They don’t like Mike ‘s attitude, and to be fair, who could blame them? But the cool kids befriend our hero because Mike is as dangerous as jalapeno salsa and as exotic as a pet lion. Mike could actually have a chance at this school until his friends turn on him over an itty bitty little disaster and then everything turns to crap. Anyway, Mike is about to go berserk when the principal of the school (Mike’s natural enemy) gets really disgusted with Mike one day. He decides to do an experiment which turns out to be the most awesome consequence ever to happen to a nearly 13 year old...ever...
Enter here only ye brave and firm of stomach.
This tale is not for the weak of heart.
Caution: May cause ulcers and really, really bad dreams for educators.
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Chapter One
The Good, the Bad, and the Downright Evil
____________Mike____________
There’s going to be a fight or two today aside from the one that’s about to erupt any second now. Mom is poking along the expressway in our 1978 Ford LTD wagon with fake wood panels on the sides. While everyone is zipping around us in cars made in this century that have shiny paint that reflects actual sunlight, I’m looking out the window and getting more annoyed by the second. We might as well be parked.
As usual, my mom’s oblivious to the fact that she’s backed up traffic for miles. Somehow she hasn’t noticed that the people passing us are making faces and giving us the universal motorist greeting of ill will. Maybe that’s because they’ve been choking on our cloud of blue smoke for the past fifteen minutes. While subtly returning the greeting along with my trademark snarl to some wrinkly old lady, I try to clue Mom in on the obvious. “Everyone is passing us. Can’t this heap go any faster?”
“I’m sorry that I'm embarrassing you, but I’m going the speed limit.” Mom doesn’t even look at me because she’s basically ignoring me.
“Fine. We look like hillbillies,” I mutter back.
It’s not that I’m a turd or that me and my mom don’t get along. Most of the time we do. It’s just that my normally cheerful demeanor has taken a couple hits lately. I’m nearly thirteen. Do you think my opinion would matter on where I go to school?
Apparently not.
This morning I’m wearing a snappy blue Wentworth Academy blazer. Notice the lovely insignia embroidered on the breast pocket of the wool and cotton blend fabric. It is a suit of arms on a shield. Dry clean only. I’m wearing matching slacks and hard black shoes. I could be a waiter. Or a concierge. But thanks to my mom, I’m a dork.
“It won’t be that bad, Mike,” Mom says. “The kids seemed nice enough.”
Ding, ding. Those are the fighting words I knew were coming so I’m springing off the ropes. “Won’t be that bad?” I nearly yell. “Thanks for signing me up in some snobby school I’ve never even seen. I’m really gonna fit in with a bunch of rich pukes. Because of you, my life is over.”
After splashing water on her face, my worthy opponent comes out of her corner bobbing and weaving. “Because of me? Mike, it was the only thing I could do. You’ve managed to get yourself expelled from public school time after time. I am not the bad guy here. It’s this or home-school and we both know you won’t do that.”
That was a decent shot to the body, so I fold my arms, look out my window, snarl and return the finger to yet another motorist while I try to think of a comeback.
“Why don't you try blaming yourself and your attitude for a change?” She cheap shots me while I’m on the ropes. My attitude. My attitude! How dare she?
“I wasn’t that bad. They were out to get me from the start. They always are, but what do you care? Would you look at the stupid, dorky thing I have to wear?” I plaster the stupidest-looking smile to my face that I can. “Hi. My name’s Mike Buckerfield. I go to Wentworth Geek Academy.” Then my hideous smile turns into a snarl.
Here’s the other way I roll, I respect people that respect me. I don’t start fights because I’m not that big, but I finish them because I’m scrappy. I don’t back down because why should I? And I’m not stupid. I know when people are plotting against me and they always are. Mom says I have a bad attitude. What does she know?
Yet you’ll notice that she’s the one that continues to argue. “Hey, when I was a kid, this was the most exclusive private school in the state. It is a total miracle that they offered you, a ‘D’ student, sight unseen, a full scholarship.”
“And doesn't that make you just the least bit suspicious?” I counter, then deliver a dizzying barrage of rabbit punches. “Like maybe they're desperate? Or maybe they’re going to do experiments on me. Did you research them? Do their students end up missing? Are their teachers serial killers? Maybe I’m gonna be a lab rat. What if they lobotomize kids and turn them into zombies? You don’t know, do you?”
My mom sighs, then holds up her hand that she’s had enough. I grumble something under my breath like I always do and turn back to the window. Since we’ve both gone back to our corners, the drive continues in silence. Not good silence like we’re both thinking of candy and rainbows. Bad silence like we’re both thinking I should get a job and move out.
We’re off the big streets now and chugging down a country lane. These great big old trees with changing leaves shade the Academy’s landscaped, manicured grounds that go on for-freaking-ever. When I see the building, my stomach drops. It’s basically a stone palace. Mom says the cornerstone is dated 1895. It’s all very impressive. Too impressive. It feels like I’m being stabbed in the brain just to look at it.
In the drive that has its own roundabout are Jaguar, BMW, Cadillac, Lexus, Infinity, Lincoln, and Mercedes. Is that a Bentley? I’ve never seen one of those outside of a movie. That’s just great. I’m arriving in an aircraft carrier that should have been scuttled twenty years ago. I think I’m gonna be sick.
And then there are the kids. What a bunch of pukes! No one is running or laughing. They’re holding books and standing in circles talking about the stock market or politics or the economy or taxes. I don’t really know that – but it’s a pretty safe guess. Just look at ’em. Ugh. This is going to be horrible.
So then Mom leans forward like six more inches is gonna bring the driveway that’s still a hundred feet away into better focus. Both sides of my brain are suddenly stabbed. She’s gonna sail the U.S.S. Piece-of-Crap into the driveway. I plunge down on the seat and yell, “Don't stop! Keep going!”
So what does she do? She turns in the driveway. And then she stops. In the middle of the road. Under this big stone archway. She knows I have high blood pressure and it just hit the roof. Then do you know what she says all sweet and innocent like she didn’t just ruin my life or try to give me a stroke? She says, “Mike, what’s wrong?”
“Mom, drive! I don’t want to be seen getting out of this.” Just then, I feel it. The Dinosaur (aka: the U.S.S. Piece-of-Crap) quivers. This is never good. As the left rear corner of the beast slowly rises, a knocking sound comes from the engine. The dashboard gauges go berserk, then the left rear corner drops. There’s a small explosion somewhere underneath, a puff of blue smoke, and then the wagon lurches, chugs violently, sputters, and dies.
Now it is absolutely silent.
I look up at her from the seat where I’m hiding. She’s watching the cracks of the hood waiting for black smoke to come out. I have my fingers crossed. If she doesn’t run for the mop by the time I count to five, we won’t have to put out a fire. 3...4...5... Whew. Mom sighs too, but this isn’t over and I’m not done. “Thanks Mom. This should do it. Now my life is over.”
Then do you know what she says? She says, “Once again, I'm sorry. I purposely made the car die. I have those kinds of powers.” Like I need her sarcasm at this point in my crumbling, disastrous life. With her mom frown, Mom reaches for the key. The starter whirs as she pumps the gas pedal.
Like it’s gonna start.
This is how my life works: Nothing ever gets better. Things only go from bad to worse. There is no silver lining, pot of gold, or even rainbows. There are only storm clouds, golf-ball-size hail, tornados, and lightening bolts.
______________________
Eugene, an awkward and excruciatingly thin seventh grader, is speaking with a group of his peers near the Academy entrance. “My shares of AT&T are not performing like my broker thought they would,” he sniffs. (Before anyone feels bad for Eugene, possibly because his sniffing is due to a cold, Eugene is not ill. When the wealthy speak about things like their stock portfolios, they not only sound like they’re sniffing, but they actually sniff because their upturned noses don’t drain properly. P.S. They also think they’re better than everyone else.) Eugene continues, “Until Congress can pull its head out of its collective butt, I’m afraid my dividends just aren’t going to get any better.”
His classmates groan, because who isn’t just sick to death of the cranial/rectal inversion so endemic to the entire United States government?
“And don’t get me started on the tax liability on my portfolio this fiscal year,” he warns with a very pale raised hand. Eugene then notices the stalled LTD and points at it with the kind of disdain usually reserved for maggots and cockroaches. “What. Is. That?”
One of his peers ventures, “It may be an automobile from the olden days when people were actively trying to melt the North Pole.”
The guess of another is, “It could be a dumpster that has fallen off a truck.”
“If the circus is in town, it could be a clown car on a publicity jaunt.”
“Shall we go curiously gaze at it?” a girl asks, then pushes her glasses up on her already upturned nose. Her peers regard her suggestion with detachment, shrug because they really don’t care, then migrate that direction because they have nothing better to do.
Eugene examines the LTD. “It does have tires, therefore it does appear to be some sort of vehicle.” Then he squints to attempt to see through the filthy windows. “There’s a lady sitting at the wheel talking to someone but no one’s there.”
Another of the peers whines, “She might be crazy. My father says that poor people are usually quite disturbed.”
“From the looks of it, this particular lady probably lives under a bridge.” Eugene shivers. “She must be here to dig through the dumpsters for cans.” Further contributing to the conversation, Eugene arrogantly adds, “Hide your credit cards. You never know what a wretch like this may do.”
Most of the kids pull their Platinum, Only the Best, American Spendalotbecausewecan cards from the breast pockets of their blazers to put them in their trousers or skirts. Everyone knows that dumpster-diving vagrants that drive jalopies are the archenemies of the wealthy.
Even though it’s doubtful anyone can see her through the filthy windows, Mike’s mom is smiling her embarrassed smile as expensive automobiles with distinguished-looking people creep past her stalled monstrosity of a vehicle and gawk at it.
Poor Brenda Buckerfield.
As the starter grinds away, every once in a while a mildly hopeful but eventually disappointing puff of blue smoke rises from the tailpipe. The grind of the starter eventually slows to an agonizing groan, then a death rattle.
After tapping the steering wheel a few times, Brenda turns to Mike who is now curled up on the floorboard. “It looks like we’re going to need the jumper cables.”
Mike groans.
“Mike, aren’t you feeling well?” Brenda asks with motherly concern.
Meanwhile, the curiosity of the group of peers who have been observing the dilemma has reached critical mass. A boy (who apparently has no fear of disease) walks over to the car. The crazy lady from beneath a bridge who could possibly rob them, continues to speak to no one. How strange. The adventurous lad cups his hands to the glass and looks inside the car. “Hey, there’s a kid in here.” He turns and whispers to the others. “It’s like all mutated or something.”
Mike’s mom is going on and on about how she needs Mike to get the jumper cables when she actually stops talking for once in her life and looks up. Mike follows her eyes and what does he see? He sees twelve eyes and twelve upturned nostrils belonging to six rich pukes who are all huddled at the window looking down on him.
“Thanks, Mom. This is just friggin’ great! Awesome! Thank you so much! I hope you’re happy. I told you to keep driving, but what did you do? You just had to stop under the freaking stupid stone thing.” Mike sits up. As he takes hold of the door handle he issues a dire warning. “No one had better say anything.”
Eugene and his peers retreat like scared cats when the mutant suddenly rises up from the floor of the car. The car door flies open and Mike gets out. With his freckled face now mostly bright red and twisted in anger, he slings his backpack onto the ground, then with every bit of strength he has, twists around to slam the door behind him.
This is very frightening.
“My goodness.” Eugene shudders then whispers with purest outrage to his peers, “That Neanderthal is wearing one of our blazers. But he’s not one of us.”
His classmates are momentarily speechless because who wouldn’t be?
“He must have robbed a dry cleaner,” one kid whispers.
Mike stomps to the rear of the station wagon where he yanks open the tailgate.
Although Eugene has never seen anything like this, he believes it could possibly be a temper tantrum. Eugene’s mother used to read to him of behavioral anomalies from the Statistical Manual of Psychological Disturbances in lieu of the more traditional and mundane bedtime stories. Theirs is a highly intelligent family that is easily bored yet strangely amused by the plight of the less fortunate and only marginally intelligent.
Evidently finding this particular circumstance to be strangely amusing, but not in a funny way, the group of rich pukes move to the rear of the LTD to watch the drama unfold. Mike (who by the rapidly assembling body of evidence is a complete maniac) tosses an assortment of buckets and mops over the back seat, then bends to dig through the mound of trash that occupies the rear portion of the wagon.
With their hands held to their mouths in dismay, the rich kids take three steps sideways, then lean their heads in unison to get a better view. An avalanche of soda cans and fast-food wrappers fall onto the pavestones and roll into the gutter. Because the rich pukes all have butlers and maids that deal with refuse, they’ve never had to actually be this close to such copious quantities of unbridled, raw debris.
Finally, Mike drags a set of jumper cables from the vehicle, past the huddled group of terrified rich pukes, to the front of the car and pops the hood. When he takes the clamps in hand with flared nostrils and angry eyes, Mike looks exactly like a mad scientist about to charge-up his monster.
Just as he’s about to hook up the cables, an elegant sedan slows to a stop beside him. The window lowers with a sophisticated whir. A dignified man with a toothy grin asks, “You having a little trouble there, son?”
Son? Mike doesn’t know this rich sphincter so he glares at the man’s perfect smile and sparkling teeth. A glance toward the twin girls sitting properly upright in the leather-upholstered back seat does it. Mike snarls, tosses the jumper cables on the ground, swings around the car, grabs his backpack off the ground and takes off in a huff up the driveway.
“Mike, Mike,” his mother calls from her window. Like Mike’s gonna go back. He’s been humiliated enough.
_____________________
Inside the stately stone walls of Wentworth, Simon Proffitt is pretty sure he heard an explosion and he’s been looking through the Venetian blinds toward a broken-down station wagon sitting at the front gate ever since.
His nostrils are flared and his eyes blazing. They don’t need to be. They just are. It’s the intimidation factor. Sure he’s 265 pounds of solid muscle and pretty much fills a doorway, but a man like Simon Proffitt can never project too much menace. This is especially critical when teaching phys ed to middle-school-age boys. He releases the slats so that he can take a huge gulp of vitamins – which he swallows dry.
Gosh that hurts, but he does it anyway because he’s a real man. He looks at the smoke-filled lounge of teachers mustering their courage for the day and announces the most recent development in the never-ending saga of middle grade life. “It looks like Wentworth’s latest charity-case is getting a jump-start at the front gate.”
The very strict Elizabeth Shernick, queen bee of science and all living things – or so she thinks – pulls a momentous drag on a very thin cigarette. She narrows her beady eyes to look between the blinds, then, directly in front of the No Smoking sign, speaks with smoke billowing from her slender nose and blood-red lips. “Oh, that’s sophisticated. A jalopy with its hood up, belching smoke into the hallowed gates of Wentworth. Don’t these people have any class?”
Paul Butler, a particularly worn, not to mention dumpy-looking veteran of the social studies department with an inch of ash perched on his cigarette, is heaping sugar into his coffee when he adds his commentary. “Of course they don’t have any class, Elizabeth. Wentworth’s vision of economic diversity won’t be fulfilled until we’re rife with delinquents and trailer-trash.”
With the back of her hand held dramatically to her forehead, Shernick laments, “There is no prestige whatsoever left to the Academy.”
“Yeah, well, he’s gotten us another superstar,” Butler fumes, his soft jowls wobbling with his speech. “Mike Buckerfield, a complete terror and lucky if he can even spell a ‘D’. I have him first period. Lucky me.”
Still looking through the blinds while taking another drag on her cigarette, Shernick speaks with smoke puffing past her lips. “There’s only one way to deal with a child like that, break his spirit.” She feigns breaking a stick. “Crush him with homework.” She mercilessly grinds a bony fist downward on an imaginary victim.
Mr. Butler rolls his eyes at the dramatics, as does Simon Proffitt. Elizabeth Shernick takes the mellow out of melodramatic. Butler swallows a gulp of coffee, then warbles, “Oh, believe me, Elizabeth, I’m ready for the little menace. If I can help it, he won’t last a week.”
Amber Selk of the art department, always graceful as a swan, is going through her yoga routine. Her perfectly straight black hair with a hint of gray, flows down to her waist. With eyes closed to reveal heavily shadowed lids of purple and cobalt blue, she speaks serenely. “We must cultivate his free, unrestrained spirit to bring more beauty into the world.”
That’s like fingernails scratching down a chalkboard or finding a rotten potato in the cupboard. Shernick, Butler and Proffitt all look at her with disgust. Just then, the ash falls from Butler’s cigarette and lands on the notepad he’s been scrawling on. He brushes it aside while he guzzles more coffee. Ms. Shernick peers critically over his shoulder, then taps a long bony finger on his pad. “That’s incorrect,” she observes. “It should be, whom. Not, who.”
Butler corrects the word and responds tersely, “My editor usually catches the little things like that.”
Mr. Butler has delusions of grandeur. He’s someday going to be a big-time columnist for a big-time newspaper – if anyone knows what that is. He cannot be bothered with whos and whoms. He also cannot be bothered with physical fitness.
With an arrogant fling of her cigarette, Shernick adds another morsel of wisdom. “There are no little things if you’re serious about wanting to make the big-time.”
Another roll of his eyes expresses Butler’s further perturbation. It goes unnoticed as Shernick once again bathes her face in smoke and is still absorbed in correcting Butler’s work. She does that sort of thing because she’s always right and everyone else is always wrong.
The opening of the lounge door draws the teachers’ attention. Principal Jonathan Wentworth III enters. “What a great day it is. The sun is shining. Fall is in the air. Our semester is off to a great start. We are making a difference in the lives of these children entrusted to our care. What finer calling can there be? Good morning fine educators.”
Through the haze of rising smoke, his fine educators are frozen with dull, expressionless eyes – much like those of the lobotomized zombies Mike fears he will be turned into.
Wentworth’s smile remains as he waits.
Upon finishing a position, Miss Selk replies with a lilting tone. “Good morning, Mister Wentworth.”
“Thank you, Amber. You look radiant today.”
Miss Selk smiles wonderfully as she sways into another position. Her positive outlook is always a bright spot in Principal Wentworth’s day.
“Listen,” the overly enthusiastic leader continues, “I just wanted to introduce our newest student. Mike Bucker...” He motions to his side, but when he finds no one there, Principal Wentworth is momentarily taken aback. “Uh, excuse me just a moment.”
When Wentworth steps out into the hall to see what happened to little Mike Buckerfield, Ms. Shernick bends to Butler’s ear and repeats Principal Wentworth’s compliment to Amber Selk with loathing. “You look raaaaadiant today.”
Here’s why: Amber just annoys her. Peace, love, sunshine. Yuck. Shernick thinks Amber should kiss her skinny fanny. This isn’t a love-in. This is school. There needs to be order and discipline. Order! Discipline!
Amber teaches art.
How in the Sam Hill does art qualify as a subject? Sit a kid in a corner and give him a Crayon. How hard can it be? Then to illustrate Shernick’s disgust, she pokes her finger into her mouth and gags. “Ack - uuch – iiggghhh.”
Butler subtly moves his head away from Shernick’s gagging because who wouldn’t? Then he raises his chubby finger to point out Wentworth’s timely return. Shernick, of course, pretends to clear her throat and then smiles ingratiatingly. Shernick is a master of the suck-up, mainly because paychecks don’t write themselves.
Wentworth takes Mike proudly by the shoulders and positions him before the teachers. Obviously unaware of the scowl oozing from the little heathen’s face, he speaks glowingly. “Fellow educators, I’d like you to meet our newest student, Mike Buckerfield.”
Then to demonstrate his enthusiasm for being enrolled in the prestigious Academy and his interest in meeting its distinguished staff, Mike allows his already sagging book-bag to thud onto the floor.
Even if the staff didn’t already know, Mike Buckerfield has “scholarship student” written all over his dim little face. (A scholarship student is a child without the financial means to afford an education like that of Wentworth Academy. A scholarship student is a child of inferior breeding that lacks the essential innate qualities of the students with higher breeding, superior intelligence, and unlimited financial resources.)
In secret conversations held behind Principal Wentworth’s back (because paychecks don’t write themselves) some members of the staff feel their dear principal is determined to undermine the foundation of their fine institution by enrolling the poor. To those members of the staff, Mike Buckerfield is not only a freckle-faced little urchin sporting what appears to be a classic bowl haircut popular among the morons; he is a pint-sized clod that obviously has no civility or breeding. It is those like him that will eventually be the demise of the Academy’s fine reputation and eventually the Academy itself. Or so they think.
Of course Amber Selk has to make the rest of them look bad by graciously stepping forward with her artistic hand extended. “Welcome Michael, I’m so...”
Mike interrupts her flowery welcome with a great deal of lower-class attitude. “The name is Mike, not Michael. Do not call me Michael again. Got it?”
As a stunned and awkward silence grips the room, Ms. Shernick’s heart veritably leaps with glee. Amber Selk is momentarily speechless. Ms. Shernick has been trying to get Amber to shut-up for years. Amber’s neon purple and cobalt blue eyelids blink as she chokes, “Uh – I – am so sorry – I...”
To salvage the moment, Wentworth interrupts. “Um, come on, Mike. I’m sure you want to get out there and make some new friends... or something.” Wentworth whisks Mike out the door with little more than a shrug and feeble gesture to Miss Selk, who appears nearly ashen.
An evil smile slowly comes to Shernick’s face as she leans forward to whisper to Mr. Butler. “Well, maybe the kid’s not all bad. He shut down Little Mary Sunshine. With a little manipulation, a spunky kid like that could very well be Wentworth’s undoing without us having to do much at all.”
Shernick then freezes at the sudden and very close presence of Miss Selk. “What?” she asks scathingly while glaring up and down the entire length of Miss Selk’s slender body.
Miss Selk replies timidly, “I’m sorry to interrupt. I only tried to welcome him.”
With words that reek of sarcasm, Shernick offers a heart-felt consolation from a heart that is not only cold and dead, but could actually be petrified. “Listen sweetie, maybe morning is just not his time of day.”
“Oh, do you think so?” Amber asks hopefully. “Because...”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Do yourself a favor, blow it off and go stretch something.”
Shernick’s flicks her long fingers with blood-red nails to indicate the direction Miss Selk ought to blow off to. Amber smiles uncertainly, then bows humbly and backs away. Immediately spinning toward Mr. Butler, Elizabeth bends to his ear. “Do you think she heard me?”
“Hard to say. You know it’s not safe to talk about the plan.”
Proffitt approaches to huddle with them. “What’s going on?”
Because of his size and strength, no one is unkind to Simon Proffitt. However, even a casual observer can see the dumb on the man’s face. Simon Proffitt may actually be an idiot. Sure, he can bench press a car, but he isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. His elevator doesn’t travel to the top floor. He’s a brick shy of a full load. Get it?
Trying to clue in the big goon, Mr. Butler leans forward and whispers, “Elizabeth was just noticing that little Michael may have some uses, if you know what I mean. He’s exactly the kind of child that our paying parents send their kids here in an effort to avoid. He could be a candidate for plan three-A.”
(Plan 3-A is an option under the Master Plan. The Master Plan is a coup, an overthrow, a rebellion, a freaking revolution! Simon Proffitt and Paul Butler are in cahoots with the esteemed leader of the subversion, Elizabeth Shernick. Theirs is a devious plot to overthrow their overly optimistic principal, Jonathan Wentworth III.)
Shernick corrects, “No, Paul, plan four-C. Do I need to make index cards for you to reference? Four-C! So don’t crush the little goof just yet. Keep Mike Buckerfield in line but remember that he might be useful to us. Groom him. Make him think he’s actually someone or has something important to offer the world.” She snickers. “The lowest classes fall for that load of poop every time. And then we’ll simply point out how others who actually contribute something to society, unfairly do better than him.”
When Mr. Butler remembers, he acknowledges, “Ah, plan four-C; discrimination and preferential treatment. I see where you’re going with this.”
“If there’s any karma left in the world, the lower classes our dear Principal Altruism wants to litter our halls with should be his undoing.” Shernick rolls her eyes and shudders because the poor are so wretched and Wentworth Academy’s halls are so impeccable.
The three teachers nod and share a devious smile.
Like Mr. Butler cares. He has a column to write and columns don’t write themselves.
III
Author’s note:
About twenty years ago I was speaking with an older coworker about miscellaneous childhood experiences. He related a story about a kid that had tormented him endlessly throughout middle school. I don’t remember the story he told, and I felt for the discomfort caused him by the kid, but I fell in love with the name of his tormentor: Mike Buckerfield. What a great name! I determined that I would one day write a story with a main character named Mike Buckerfield.
Of course, a story about a bully isn’t going to be funny and no one is going to like one very much, but it was only the name I liked. There are probably a million Mike Buckerfields by now, or at least a dozen - maybe closer to two. Who would name a kid Mike Buckerfield? Anyway I figured I could make up my own Mike Buckerfield and make him a likeable sort that…
Um, you try to make up a Mike Buckerfield. What a disagreeable little… Anyway, Mike told me to get out of his way and shut up. But I have ways of getting even with characters that are little turds. I can put them in really uncomfortable situations and when I narrate their story I can be as rude and sarcastic as I want to be. So deal with that, Mike Buckerfield.
But seriously, what a great name!
Then I needed a cover. What are the chances of finding a photo of a middle grade age kid with a bad attitude, freckles, and a bowl haircut done by a nearly blind Chinese butcher? I laugh every time I look at this cover.
