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Richard Lloyd Cederberg, click here
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Remembering that day with Billy Bergman...
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The weather was dismal. Heavy rain and an episodic dense fog had been curbing business for some time. It was the habit of several merchants to gather outside each morning under a common portico. When they saw me approaching they stopped complaining momentarily, smiled half-heartedly, and waved. Today I felt sympathy for these small shop owners. Surviving with such erratic cash-flow must have been discouraging at times. I was so thankful that my income was dependable, and I swore, for the umpteenth time, that I would never chain myself to a small business. Today I was visiting my favorite bookshop again. I was a regular here and came often on stormy days to browse and read. Traffic on the side-street was sparse this morning, and, as far as I could see, there were only a few souls like me braving the weather on foot. I noticed someone adjacent the front door who was unfamiliar to me; he was shaking rain briskly from his jacket. As I neared he glanced up.
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“Crappy weather!” He blurted. “It was like this in Chicago last month.”
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“Chicago? I was born in Chicago.” I blurted back with equal fervor. At that moment something connected between us.
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After exchanging jocularities with the owner – an old school chum – I pointed him towards the table I sat at regularly and ordered coffees and Danish. His name was William (Billy) Bergman; he was an author who had just completed a huge signing for his newest novel at several of the larger chain outlets in south/central L.A., Chicago, Portland, and Phoenix. He was here today looking for an old novel he’d been trying to find for some time. I felt my spine tighten when he told me. Seems both of us were searching for the same First Edition: ‘An Antarctic Mystery’ by Jules Verne. For some moments we stared at each other suspiciously. These misgivings, though, soon gave way to certain droll speculations about what may happen if there was only one copy left, which of us had struggled the most diligently in our search for it, and who was the most deserving of owning the old novel. This went on for some time…
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We both agreed about Verne; particularly the respect we felt for him, and how vital his work had been in developing our imaginations. I began sensing something as we quipped; almost as if meeting Billy was somehow meant to be. I began feeling a genuine kind of kinship, too, which was rare for me, especially with writers; so many of them (in my own experiences) being chesty, self-centered, condescending, and chronically opinionated…
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Around the third hour something strange happened.
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After returning from a personal call Billy remained contemplative for several minutes. Then, suddenly, he sat erect, and with a great beaming smile declared: “I trust you man. Don’t say that very often, not to anyone. Look, I’d like to share something pretty heavy with you, ok? It’s eventually going to be part of a book I’ve been working on for years; ‘When Petals of the Blossom Fall’. It’s about my family’s awful struggles. I was hoping you might be a sounding-board for me; offer some insight maybe. You don’t mind do you?”
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I shook my head. “No, I don’t mind, Billy. Not at all. Go ahead.”
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“Well...” Billy shifted uneasily, “this particular incident happened sixteen years ago. You should know; there’ve been many awful incidents with my family, but this is one of a handful that has always remained with me.” His eyes were piercing now. “The phone rang. It was my younger sister. I could tell she was loaded; probably blow; her voice was strange; throaty like a snarling animal. She began slamming my new wife. Despicable words man. Pissed me off bigtime. She couldn’t stand that I’d found someone to love again after my divorce. Her hatefulness was hard to stomach, and I was having a lot of trouble getting my head around it. At first I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle her. Of course I couldn’t, but you know; it was an awful emotion that flooded over me.”
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In only seconds Billy’s sister had gone from being a tolerable see-occasionally person, to a clamant antagonist spewing hatred towards him. The question, now, was how he was going to respond. A heated response would have put him at her level and he didn’t want that. He was convinced it would’ve been far too destructive to respond in like manner. But then there was the question about whether or not a rational posture would’ve been effective to help defuse the attack. He’d decided no. Given his sister’s deportment; a calm healthy approach would have only added fuel to the fire and made things worse. With thoughts whirring he told me, also, that the mental war about the incident had stubbornly clung to him. For a few days afterwards he kept hearing voices in his left ear: ‘Don’t let her get away with that. Get even with her. You’ll feel better if you do.’ It’d made him weary…
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“I’ve wondered what would’ve happened if I’d given in to that base-nature of mine,” he grimaced with a scoffing laugh. “I was totally capable of that, you know, and it was an awful struggle for me not to.”
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Despite the cutting anger he’d dealt with; Billy didn’t snap that day. Calm resolve had kept him from being consumed with hatred like his sister was. I remember how moved I was when he told me that even though he still had love for her; a great gulf had formed between them that had started in their childhood. Very early in life his sister had chosen to embrace Wicca. He had chosen Christ. Their personal choices had kept them from ever knowing each other any deeper than superficially…
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After pondering several moments Billy continued.
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“It was Sunday afternoon,” He shrugged casually. “The whole thing slammed me bad. I felt as if I’d been forced into a quagmire and I was slogging through muck; nothing felt right. I realized I was helpless in every way except one. Somehow I fully understood that my response to her would set a tone for my wife and me for the rest of our lives.”
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Tears fell as he capitulated freely to the memories. Feeling somewhat embarrassed I remember glancing around to see if anyone was looking. This was real, and far too personal for the crass objectivity of onlookers. There was something in me that wanted to protect Billy, to surround him with a hedge, so he could share his story without any hindrance. For a while he sat with his head down brushing away tears. Then, what came next, was as bare-faced as anything I’d ever heard in my life.
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Billy sat up with newfound resolve.
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“I’ve not been able to figure out why it happened, not to this day. How can a sister turn against a brother like that? Dude, it was oppressive; like being trapped in quicksand with a baboon hunched over you ready to chew off your face. The weirdest thing, though, was that despite my resolve I also became aware of my own shortcomings, and how I’d failed often in my own choices. It came up in mind’s eye like a movie for me. Refocusing on that helped me a lot.”
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For a while he stared blankly. When his focus returned he continued.
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“Apart from my own heated reactions at times, I have always tried to respond to someone else’s bizarre behavior as calmly and thoughtful as I could. Been that way since I was a kid. Haven’t always succeeded though. That’s a fact. Failed often actually. Still though, each time I responded with calm wisdom my thoughts remained clear and I felt stronger. So, I can tell you from experience that there are times when it works. This time was different though. Somehow I knew that calm intelligence was not going to defuse this thing between her and me. It was too deeply rooted, and I had no workable defenses for it. I knew that the only thing that was going to work was to walk away. So I did. Now… know this… what a man believes he believes for himself and not for another. Especially in spiritual matters. So I prayed, and forgave her, and gave her to the Most High. It was the only thing left to do. Guess what? Two days later, after the voices stopped, peace flooded into me. Honestly… it was like someone was pouring oil over my head. I’d won the battle and the reward for it was peace and focus. You know something else… I have never once regretted my decision in the matter. Neither has my wife.”
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I saw in his eyes the valuable lesson he’d learned. And despite never finding any rhyme or reason for what’d happened, it had ultimately made Billy a stronger and wiser man, with a unique inspiration for writing. Tempered with dark emotions; his sister’s pernicious attack had ultimately failed in damaging Billy, or his marriage. I fully believe, today, it was because of how he’d chosen to respond. By not descending to those perverse depths to confront the hatefulness head-on, he was given the perspicuity necessary to address the situation from a far more effective position. Notwithstanding the gratefulness I felt for what Billy had accomplished, or the respect I had for what kind of man he was, the thought of something similar happening to me was something I hoped and prayed would never happen.
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Some months later...
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On one of our bi-yearly holidays an almost yearlong search finally came to an end. In a quaint little bookstore in Coos Bay Oregon, on one of the upper shelves in the far rear corner, I discovered, to my great surprise, a dusty old First Edition of ‘An Antarctic Mystery’. It was in remarkable condition too. I was blown-away. Despite the price – which I haggled over for some time with the owner to no avail – I still felt more elated than I’d been in some time. My excitement bubbled-up on the drive back to our lodgings in Brookings/Harbor, and I became quite loquacious. My wife was understanding though and listened smiling. Forgoing dinner I dove into the novel at once. Something strange happened, though, as I was reading. It was like a fuzzy warm wave had washed over me. My wife began crying when I told her what I’d decided. But she agreed and the next day we packaged up the novel, insured it, and mailed it off to my new friend as a gift. It was the best way I knew of expressing the thankfulness I felt for that day with Billy Bergman.
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Richard L. Cederberg
2018
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Web Site:
Between the Cracks
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thought provoking read , well stated
Never stop writing
m
I resonated a bit with Billy's story. You are lucky to have an old school chum is also a writer that you can commune with. I've done the same with high school friend, who after high school, spent some time conquering Chicago while at Illinois Institute of Technology in ROTC preparing for an Air Force career. I find his biography (unpublished) to be fascinating.
I, too, have had difficulty with my sister. She suffers from agoraphobia, an unfortunate genetic trait in our family that has affected several members coming from my maternal grandmother's side. In recent years, she became a member of the cult, The Tea Party. I have found her to viciously attack me for my views. But I have never once hated her for it or heard voices like Billy telling me to do vile things. It's just not in my psyche. I never react to violent insults with violence or violent thoughts. I don't get emotional or angry over other people's anger. I'm more likely to feel sorry for them.
That was very generous of you to give up something you prized so much. It made me remember the architect from Chicago who "borrowed" my elaborately beautiful brochure from The House on the Rock and then, never returned it. So it goes. I'm not angry. I guess he needed it more than I.
Please share more of these vignettes from your life with us. They are much appreciated.
Ron