AUGUST 9, 2023 – (Cont.) Late that evening, we boarded Amtrak’s western bound Empire Builder. I had reserved a private compartment for Uncle Bruce, and a family-size compartment for Cliff, Cory and me. After getting Uncle Bruce situated, I led Cliff and Cory to the larger quarters. It was quite late for an eight-and-a-half year old kid, and soon after the train lumbered out of the station, Cory got himself ready for bed and climbed under the covers of the top bunk. The gentle sway of the carriage rocked him to sleep in short order. Meanwhile, Cliff and I busied ourselves arranging things—hanging up our jackets in the narrow closet, straightening out our carry-on luggage and so forth.
It was the first time since the curbside pick-up at the airport that afternoon that Cliff and I had a chance to chat outside the presence of Uncle Bruce. I lobbed him a question to make conversation. “How was the trip out here with Uncle Bruce?”
Cliff laughed, as he pulled some things out of a small suitcase. “You kidding? The trip was a trip.” I could tell there was more, and I also knew that Cliff wondered how much more was appropriate to reveal. Prior to this, Cliff and I had had very limited exchanges, none lasting more than several minutes and all of them occurring over the counter at the Fun Ghoul shop way back in Rutherford, which seemed a million miles away, as the train flew northwest across the Minnesota tundra. However, I’d always been curious as to what, exactly, Cliff thought of Uncle Bruce, of the Holman’s of Rutherford, of my relatives, and now, of me—my eccentric relatives’ relative. I gave Cliff an opening.
“You might say that Uncle Bruce himself is a trip,” I said, stuffing my hat and gloves into a space in the tiny closet.
“Heh, heh, hah!” With a robust chuckle, Cliff stood up and turned to face me. “Eric, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You know, I really like your uncle. He’s an odd guy, very odd, but he’s so full of energy, and he’s an incredibly smart guy, and he’s been great to me, and I really like him, but here’s what I have to ask you: what’s the deal with Bruce’s toupee?”
Now it was my turn to laugh, and I did. “You mean the mismatched color, the space between the back of the thing and his hairline, or what kind of adhesive he uses that requires three pats on top every five minutes?”
It was enough to break the January ice on any lake in Minnesota. Cliff and I laughed together. “Cliff, you have to understand that Uncle Bruce has always been wonderful to us, to my sisters and me. I mean, after all, he was the one who got me hooked on skiing, and he loves to travel, and he’s the one who inspired me to travel, and he’s interested in everything under the sun, really bright—I mean really brilliant in so many ways—and he took such good care of my grandparents, but I have to admit, as much as we like him, he can be very bizarre. Maybe that’s partly why we like him so much, because he is bizarre.”
“I know exactly what you mean. He’s a pretty amazing guy, and gees, as much as I laugh at him, I really do like the guy, I mean he’s one of a kind. You know something, Eric?” he said. “I’ve worked with a lot of bizarre people, and actually, I find them really interesting sometimes, but your uncle has written a whole new book on bizarre. It’s called, The World According to Bruce.”
“It would make a great movie,” I said.
“Yeah, with Bruce starring himself,” Cliff had sat down by this time. We’d opened a subject that was no longer a matter of small talk, and with Cory sound asleep, Uncle Bruce off in his own compartment, the train now hurtling across the frozen Minnesota landscape and no reason to retire early, Cliff and I were ready for a long conversation. At the time, neither of us could know that it was the start of a rapport that subsequent events would transform into a deep understanding of life and the human condition.
“You know something?” said Cliff eventually. “All those times that you or one of your sisters or your mom would come to Rutherford and stop by and say hello—it’s never been more than a ‘hello,’ a ‘how ya’ doin?’ and a ‘good-bye.’ Every time, after you left, I wondered, Gees, they seem like perfectly nice people, but every once in a while, a couple times a year maybe, they drop in and then they drop out, and each time, I asked myself, ‘Does he get it? Does she get it? Does Bruce’s sister or his nephew or any of his nieces get it? Get exactly how bizarre this guy is?’ And now I know maybe you do. At least you do.”
If our laughing hadn’t woken up Cory by now, it wasn’t going to. “And do you know something, Cliff?” I said. “Every time Uncle Bruce insisted on taking me into your store and every time you greeted me, said ‘Hello’ or ‘What’s happenin’?’ or ‘So long,’ it was I who wondered about you. Does he get it? Does this guy understand how totally weird the whole operation is? Does he see just how odd Uncle Bruce is—a guy in an ill-fitting toupee under a pork-pie hat, living with his 90-something mother, spouting off whatever he thinks to whomever has ears, growing scrap metal in his vegetable garden, leaving an odd lot of improvised tools to rust amidst his flower beds, wrapping a fence gate spring around an empty Comet cleanser dispenser to tighten the tension, driving Grandpa’s last big, now ancient Cadillac that doubles as a paper recycling center, and placing insurmountable credit applications in front of prospective tenants for the decrepit real estate that he’s trying to lease—does this guy with the dangling skull earring, who looks like a rock star, who actually is a tenant of the property, does this guy get it? And now I know maybe you do.”
Thus began an understanding that would deepen unforeseeably over the years. During our seven days of skiing, on chairlift rides by day and over beers at night, Cliff and I got better acquainted, and for the first time, I heard his full story. It would take many years to verify it all, but in the end, Cliff would more than earn my trust. (Cont.)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
