Interruptus Americanus

Prompt: Someone’s most sacred ritual is interrupted. What happens next?

Interruptus Americanus

Sixty miles north of London is the renowned city of Cambridge, famous for its university and for the Cambridge Folk Festival offering amazing music, lively dancing, and local crafts. I thoroughly enjoy my time there celebrating the blending of English diverse heritage when the opportunity lends itself. The melding of traditional and contemporary practices enthralls me as an old-fashioned Briton commoner. I guess I am more of a traditionalist than meets the eye, but I am no fuddy-duddy. I am a barrister employed in the midst of London’s progressive financial district by a prestigious law firm. This Sunday I was able to pry myself away from the intense frenzy of the city. As I strolled the Cambridge streets, however, (and very unfortunate for me), I found it spoiled by the vocalizations of an illiterate, ill-mannered buffoon as “it” aped its way down the streets of Cambridge.

I thought, “Just what I need is a rabble rouser to upset my day. This individual displays no sense of decorum and by my estimate is a complete stranger to Cambridge and probably England.” Given his youthful age, I figured he likely was an exchange student shooting off steam in a very improper manner.

My inner reflections softened a bit thinking I should not be too judgmental. I likely have pissed off a few people during my time. I checked my pocket watch noting that the time was approaching early afternoon. I wanted to see a short play in one of the outdoor arenas. My sense of timing was off because a long queue had formed by the box office for this final showing. I took my place at the end of the queue. Of course, the buffoon was hastily moving to the front. Anguished expletives rang out at the ape for his audacious attitude. His finger and arm gesticulations confirmed his disrespect at the people who had queued up in an orderly fashion. In spite of the commotion from the crowd, the plonker was admitted into the arena.

I felt my pulse throb in my neck. Fortunately, I was able to see the play and my blood pressure lowered significantly. I had to figure things were getting better because I happened upon an old acquaintance of mine, I knew from his efforts to help foreign students get visas. He was an associate professor at Cambridge and an honorable chap. I had not seen him for many months. At his urging he invited me for a spot of late afternoon tea at a café close to the arena. I was chuffed to oblige him. The café had a few tables outside very close to the street.

Who should grace our path but the boisterous, annoying plonker from the street. As he walked down the street, he turned his gaze toward our table. Then in an impetuous move he strode over to us. His abrupt manner upset the pleasantry of my afternoon tea with my friend. I was discombobulated and frustrated. I quietly mouthed the words, “How dare this wanker interfere with my time with the Professor!” He had the bloody nerve to speak to us, or at least to the Professor. The Professor on the other hand recognized him. I was shocked.

The bloke said, “Professor, fancy meeting you here.” Sarcastically he added,” Enjoying your spot of tea with lots of cream, a brick of sugar and one of your snobby mates?” He laughed thinking his humor would be appreciated. I grimaced but the professor continued the conversation. This bloke was just too unpleasant for my sophisticated tastes. Inwardly I wondered why the Professor would even accord him the time of day.

“So, Appleton, what brings you out into the streets of Cambridge on this fair day? I hear you are usually hidden away in the dark alcoves of the library archives. Once in a fortnight you grace me with your presence in the classroom. So, what is special about today?”

Appleton responded saying “Surely you jest. Have you forgotten? I need some sunlight to survive and something more substantial than feeding on the pitiful souls who are lost forever in the archival stacks.” He chuckled at his attempt at humor. His guffaw was throaty, crackly, and wicked. I sensed something ominous about his reply; nevertheless, the professor motioned him to join us at the table.

The Professor proceeded saying, “Appleton is a Harvard University graduate student studying old world literature in the post-doctoral program here at Cambridge. He makes his gruesome home in the library archives as he indicated. His mannerisms suggest has no heart for humanity. Nonetheless, he is an amazing connoisseur of historic literature. With such knowledge he applies it to his creative writing of incredible fiction. His writing style is unorthodox with incredible realism. Sadly though, he has no respect for any English traditions or rituals let alone anything or anyone.”

I asked Mr. Appleton, “So you live in the library stacks? Where did you originally call home?”

He said, “I am a domesticated book worm. I was spawned in Cambridge, Massachusetts, good ole U.S. of A. My mother was a gifted librarian and my father an illiterate admissions director at Harvard. I was a casualty of their love sickness.”

The Professor admonished Appleton. “You are an impertinent liar Appleton. The only truth you said was your American birth. Please behave yourself or I shall send the cleaning crew to oust you from the stacks.”

Appleton said disrespectfully, “Professor you read me like an open book. I shall respect your painfully boring rituals. Ok teatime is over, dudes. Let’s meander over to the pub and hoist a few pints to the virtue of integrity and to the ritual of getting bladdered by the finest ale in Cambridge!”

Incredulously I whispered to myself, “Dudes? How dare you, you pompous twit.” I had hoped the Professor would not tag along with Appleton. In the back of my mind, I wondered why their relationship seemed so casual, so disgustingly informal and lacking the spirituality of British ascetism. I speculated why his behavior was so aberrant. I concocted these reasons: his youth, and his over-inflated sense of self-esteem intertwined with American impetuosity.

I gulped down my remaining tea. I felt disrespected by the fact that I could not savor the remaining amount. I was feeling outright hatred for Appleton and now we were tagging along with him to the pub. I doubted that he would even be served by the barkeep given his youthful countenance and overabundance of impish behavior.

Appleton was intrigued to have a third wheel accompany the Professor, but he never asked me any questions about myself. It was a relatively quick walk to the Parker’s Tavern hastened by the speedy gait of Appleton. The pub was virtually empty when we entered. Instantly, the barkeep recognized the Professor and Appleton. He quipped, “You two are a sight for sore eyes. You brought a hostage. Welcome friend.”

The three of us sat at the bar each ordering a pint. The Professor sat between Appleton and me. He could sense my strong distaste for the bloke. The Professor and I savored our libation while Appleton guzzled down his pint. He proceeded to order a second and then before he finished, Appleton ordered a third with a whiskey tracer.

If Appleton was determined to get drunk it seemed like he had to drink several more pints to show any intoxication. He went bonkers on drinking several more pints after the third. Then, surprisingly, Appleton, without difficulty got off the bar stool and announced to us, “Professor Da, and Professor’s guest it is time now to partake in our Sunday Roast. Follow me to the backroom you two chaps. I am hankering for that Angus beef and pork belly.” Appleton walked to the entrance of a backroom.

None of his words were slurred but I was hit by Appleton’s reference to the Professor as “Da.” I looked at the Professor who seemed indifferent to the label but, he noted that I caught its significance.

The Professor looked me squarely in the eye saying, “Appleton is my son. About twenty-five years ago when I was on an extended sabbatical in the States, I met his mother who worked in the Dean’s Office for international post-doc candidates. It was a torrid love affair. Appleton was literally conceived in the library stacks at Harvard. My visa was ending, and I would not be granted an extension despite the impending birth of my child. His mother decided to raise Appleton on her own without any assistance from me. She labored to get him through secondary school. Fortunately, Appleton was so gifted in his academics he was granted total financial assistance from Harvard University for undergraduate and graduate studies. Regrettably, she died just before his graduation at grad school.”

“About three years ago I received a letter from his mother that was predated prior to her death. She asked me to accept Appleton here at Cambridge for post-doctoral considerations. Appleton was not a willing participant to this arrangement even though his mother wanted it. He realized though it would help his future aspirations. It has been a struggle for the last three years. Appleton remains aloof and belligerent at my help. His antisocial behavior has lessened somewhat; consequently, by his choice he lives in the library archival stacks. Over time I have been able to connect with him having a few pints at the Pub and partaking of a Sunday Roast here at the Pub. Hence, I bid you welcome to our quaint, but delicious Sunday Roast.”

Our conversation was interrupted by Appleton sticking his head out from the entrance saying, “Are you two done reminiscing or, do you plan on eating? If not, there will just be more for me. Leftovers for me back at the stacks.”

We entered the backroom. The air was full of the aromas of roasted meats. Several chairs were arranged around a midsized table set with fine dinnerware and linen. A floral centerpiece arranged with white roses and gardenias highlighted the table. The wait staff carried in the platters of meats, vegetables, and potatoes. The Professor motioned for the staff to join us at the table. At the far end of the table, a framed photograph of a well-dressed woman was displayed.

Then in the most respectful of toasts, Appleton asked all of us to stand and raise our glasses as he said, “To the honorable memory of my dearly departed Mum, who now rests securely with our Lord and Savior Jesus. I have come home to my Father who graciously has accepted me despite my impulsive resentment of my situation. Over the last three years of my life please forgive me for the barriers I have erected against you. Your prodigal son is attempting to come home to his Father’s love.”

I developed a huge lump in my throat as I sipped the toast. I looked over at the Professor who had tears trickling down his cheek. That night I came to know Appleton like a son respecting his oddish character for his true self. I learned that traditions should never obscure or replace the love and warmth of a family. The Professor, Appleton, and I often meet to share the experience of the rituals and traditions found in British life as though were really like a family!

-END-

And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee: for thou, Lord, hast not forsaken them that seek thee. (Psalm 9: 10, King James Version)

Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee. (Deuteronomy 31: 6, King James Version)

Author: Pete Gautchier

Acknowledgement: Reedsy. Com prompts