Chapter 1: Traveling In Style

(Should any autobiographers out there ever write my Life story, they might title the tome, ‘The Mysterious Case of the Inverted McGovern.’ Or, perhaps, ‘Bertram Owen Osgood Brewster Meets His Match.’)

Now, I make no career claims — unlike a certain Froggy Attenborough who I could, but won’t, name — that I’ve risen to the level of Assistant Account Executive on the Gibraltar Soup account solely because of my intellect, drive, and Work Ethic.

Those were Major factors of course, but in disclosure flagrante, if that’s the phrase I’m looking for, Brewster & Brewster, LLC was the first company to offer me a job. My sainted mother, Peggy Brewster, and her twin sister Prudence (Pru) Brewster, founded the advertising agency back when they were just out of college.

In the casual lingo of some Midwestern cities — like Kansas City — the ad agency is known around town as BB. My mother and Auntie Pru both being blondes. Now if one of them had been platinum, and then they had hired a redhead, the agency could be called PBR. (I occasionally have flashes of unprecipitated brilliance.)

It is well known, and also acknowledged, that some 24-year old boyos would chafe at living, still, at home. Moi? I loved it. The rent was zip, the fridge was stocked, our majordoma, Miss Randolph, has adored me for 24 years. We all call her Wandy, I had a little trouble with my R’s early on.

My father, rest his soul, went MIA when I was two. Rumors, unverifiedable, hinted at Another Woman.

Immediately, so family lore tells it, Auntie Pru moved in and the three of us get along famously. Well, four counting Wandy. Although a few years ago, the grownups did have the basement in our Brookside home remodeled to accommodate my new quarters — bed, bath, living room, closets and the like. Auntie Pru said, “You’ll have more privacy down there.”

She winked at my mother, “Boys his age need a lot of privacy. Several times a day.”

“Amen.”

Wandy nodded in agreement.

Oddest thing. About that same time, the Attenborough family remodeled their own basement for my pal Froggy. He still lives at home too. Smart lad.

While I am a true son of Kansas City, it would be a miscalculus on your end to mistake me for a Mere Midwesterner. After two years at UMKC, I took my Junior Year Abroad at the University of South Wales. Which wasn’t, as I had assumed, in sunny Australia, beach babes, but in gray, clammy, Cardiff, Wales.

But the Welsh birds trended to be friendly, and sometimes, quite friendly, so no complaints, international-wise. The stint over there did lend me a certain je-ne-sais-what that impressed the local talent over here.

Misfortunately, back home, my education was abstracted, if that’s the proper word for cut short, by a cultural misunderstanding.

Three other jolly lads and I were celebrating — tequila slammers in the Unicorn Club — a hard-won victory in the City darts tourney. The three pals, usually gratified with the society of Birdie Brewster, were even more convivial than usual that night. We decided to shake up staid old KC and go for a naked midnight ride on the new streetcar.

No surprise, Bones and Walleye chickened out at the last mo. You know how they are, a bit fuzzy in the upper story. Although they could have been conspic. by their absence, Froggy and I didn’t realize we were alone on our adventure for several streetcar stops.

We had boarded near the Unicorn and settled in for a midnight run to Union Station and back. Froggy, chronicling the larky journey on his cell.

Unexplicitly, the driver, conductor, whatever she was called, took umbrage and dialed 911. That seemed like an overdue amount of umbrage to me.

The gendarmes were not amused either and they cuffed us for the ride to the station house. By then the celebratory glow was starting to wear off. This joie de vivre diminution is not uncommon when one finds oneself in plastic bracelets in the backseat of a smelly car being driven by two men who don’t smile a lot.

My mother’s displeasure at having to bail two naked college boys out of durance vile hardly contributed to the festive atmosphere.

It would have, should have, ended there — the usual tongue lashing from Hiz Honor, $250 fines, 100 hours of community service. But no. Froggy Attenborough had to send that dammed video to several of our mutual friends. Since he was behind the camera, guess who was the featured attraction? A photo of me, thankfully censorious for family viewing, even made the next day’s edition of the Star.

The assistant dean of students at UMKC had me in for a chat which led to my mailing out résumés a year earlier than anticipated. But the personal Birdie Motto is Onward, Ever Onward and I would persevere.