The Thought That Didn't Count

Contrary to popular opinion, church hall pundits and too polite receivers of lousy gifts, the thought does not always count. For proof I offer you the tale of a guy named Bamberger, as unlucky a cuss as there's ever been. He didn't grow up on the wrong side of the tracks; he grew up underneath the tracks. In Clearfield, PA, of all places. Much to his ever-increasing ire as he grew older, Bamberger was born at precisely the wrong time: he was too young to be a beatnik and too old to be a hippie. Thus, his drug of choice was chocolate, rich milk chocolate. "Untethered," was what he used to write on job applications and such where it asked him to check the single, married, or divorced box.  And there's no better word, not just for Bamberger's romantic state, but for the totality of Bamberger. The word could have been his nickname if anybody--including himself--had called him anything but Bamberger.

At the age of nine Bamberger suffered a life-altering experience. Bamberger's father, Bamberger Sr., operated a small-time fencing business when he wasn't installing the real thing, mainly barbed wire. Among the hot items in the shed out back Bamberger was rummaging through one day was a dictaphone. Always good with mechanical objects, Bamberger got the thing to work, much to his undying horror. The sound of Bamberger's own voice coming out of the machine repeating the words he had just said, "How the hell does this thing work?" spooked the boy so badly he lived in fear of speaking the rest of his life. "Bamberger," Yes sir," "No sir," and "Gimme a Hershey's," was about the extent of his verbal repertoire. When Bamberger turned sixteen (Bamberger Sr. was by that time on year three of a seven to twelve rap) he got a job twenty miles away in DuBois at a bacon processing plant. Every morning Bamberger would trudge out of town, past the row of fast food restaurants, and go stand near the ramp for I-80. He always would get a ride, getting in a vehicle and muttering, "DuBois," and doing the reverse at the end of the day, simply muttering, "Clearfield." This continued for ten years, at least.

For a while one of Bamberger's regular rides in the morning was a NEMF driver. After about six months of picking up Bamberger two or three times a week, the driver once said to him, "You don't say much, do you?" That was right after picking him up one morning. Fifteen minutes of silence later, as Bamberger disembarked, he substituted "nah" for his usual "obliged." Now Bamberber was taciturn, but he wasn't discourteous or mean, so the exchange got him thinking. Three days later, when the NEMF driver again picked him up, Bamberger was ready. For ten straight minutes he talked. Rambled, really. He had never spoken so much to anyone in his life, let alone all at once. By the time he had touched upon gun control, integration, the Allman Brothers band, and eternal salvation, the NEMF driver interrupted and said, "Hold on there, Bamberger, I lost your train of thought back there around the Rapture and the motorcycles."

"Train of thought?" Bamberger had never heard the expression before, or if he had, this was the first time it registered. "Hmm, I guess my switchman fell asleep or something and put me on the wrong track to obfuscation or something. Derailment at least, probably." He kind of laughed at that, the first time he ever knowingly expressed any awareness of self-bemusement. "Indeed," said the NEMF driver, who a few minutes later slowed down enough near the DuBois exit for Bamberger to hop out, and never saw him again.

Some time later (this would have been the Seventies; Bamberger was portlier by then, and balder, but he had a driver's license and his own pick-up), the bacon processing company's baton of leadership passed on to the founder's grandson, from the son. This boss had been educated, so a whole new system of procedures was implemented. The upshot was one day Bamberger found himself in a conference room with a bunch of his fellow "line" bacon processors discussing all sorts of "possible internal and external improvements." The grandson, who seemed too peppy and nice to be a real boss, was excitedly writing down on flimsy white papered flip charts any and all suggestions from the gathered employees. By the time the grandson had flipped the chart about seven times, through employment benefits, safety issues and the like, Bamberger was feeling like he should probably say something, for appearance's sake, not that he cared much for such a thing. It was just that he had never really felt anything needed to be changed about his job, other than the smell, and you might as well complain about having to breathe. But the topic was now "product enhancement" and the ideas were flying right and left about all the ways the company could increase its sales. Finally, Bamberger damned it all to hell and raised his hand, endured the whispers of his colleagues who were amazed that he was going to speak, and spoke out loud and clearly his suggestion. Undaunted by the explosion of laughter that greeted his suggestion, Bamberger stood upright and stared at the grandson, who stared back, perhaps a fellow visionary. "Okay," the grandson snapped himself and the room out of momentary hiatus and started to write in the tiny upper left hand corner of the flip chart, the only space available: "covered with--" just then the loud whistle blew signalling the end of the day shift. In the mass exodous melee that ensued, Bamberger noticed that the grandson never finished writing the idea, whether due to space limitations or all the distraction. Maybe he'll remember, Bamberger thought to himself.

Well, if the grandson did/does ever remember, he's kicking himself now, managing the graveyard shift at the old DuBois Wal-Mart. You see, over the years the grandson did implement many of those employee suggestions, but not Bamberger's, and none of the suggestions could help the company stave off the inevitable--bankruptcy. True to his nature, Bamberger worked the last day of the company's existence as diligently as he had worked every day for a few decades. And after a lean year, Bamberger ironically found employment with NEMF, probably running the same route his old friend had run, Middle PA to Northeastern OH. It was on the slushy streets of Cleveland one February when Bamberger heard over the radio what he couldn't believe, and in the process almost took out an SUV packed to its gills with a youth metal detector enthusiasts club. At once, Bamberger saw millions of dollars floating in front of him, just out of reach. "Damn," he muttered. "Missed again."

It was about this same time that Bamberger, seeing mortality's vacancy sign blinking at every turn in his life, started considering the notion of un-untethering himself. His affections fell on a roundish, jovial woman named Marci who worked the register at the Emlenton truck stop. "What the hell," Bamberger thought to himself a couple days after the revelation in Cleveland. So he made an extra trip to Cleveland, found a Malley's, and made his purchase. Later that evening he shyly approached Marci, who was ringing up some microwaved burritos for that driver from Altoona. "Here Marci, Happy Valentine's Day." He hesitantly handed over the box. "Bamberger, I never knew!" Marci cooed as she unwrapped the package. "Oh, Bamberger, I can't," she sighed when she saw what the gift was. "Why, are you teth--are you married?" "No, sweetie," she grabbed his wrist. "I'm diabetic. And Jewish. Practicing. Chocolate covered bacon just won't do." "Shit," Bamberger pulled his wrist away from Marci, then the box of bacon, covered in chocolate, away from her, all the while damning himself for ever, ever, speaking. "Don't be so upset, Bamberger," Marci cried. "I'm touched. After all, it's the thought that counts, you know." "The hell it is."