1979

1979

When I was a junior at Austin Prep, a kid transferred mid-year from some other school.  He was a little dude, always impeccably dressed (which was not cool at Austin Prep).  There was a dress code at Austin, but it was pretty lax.  I know when you hear "Prep School" you picture the evil, murdering rich-kids from a Law And  Order Episode, dressed in royal blue blazers emblazoned with the  school's crest, all smiles and pats on the back when they get acquitted (spoiler alert!) by a jury who buys their "afluenza" defense, but Austin Prep was nothing like that. Our dress code was simple.  No sneakers. No jeans.  Either a collared shirt with a tie or a turtleneck (a favorite of those who eschewed ties and did not know what the word "eschew" meant).  And hair above the collar.  This was a boundary I always pushed.  Steve Servita, brother of my longtime bff, Judy Blem​ was a hairstylist who has cut the hair of everyone in both our families on many occasions.  My mom asked him to cut my hair and he wanted to leave the length in the back.  When I told him the school didn't allow hair to reach the collar, Steve was outraged.  He explained that my hairline extended below my collar so my hair was meant to grow at least that long.  He wrote me a note, but the dean was not moved.  A note about ties:  Most kids had few ties.  A lot wore clip-ons, while others (like myself) wore one tie for the entire year.  I only tied my tie once, in September.  I'd keep the knot intact and just loosen it enough to pull over my head and hang it on a hook in my locker.  Point is, the bare minimum was the norm and if your mom made you look good before leaving the house, you most definitely tried to fuck your shit up on the bus so you came to school looking like you had slept in those clothes. But we were talking about the new kid.  Edmund. Edmund always looked like a little Lord.  He did wear blazers with a crest on them.  And it was Edmund, Not "Ed," or "Edd," or "Eddy."   But that's not his full name.  If his full name were just "Edmund O'Rourke," I wouldn't be telling the story...

So, a name like "Edmund," while definitely qualifying you for fairly regular taunts and the occasional beating, is not going to draw the kind of negative attention required to raise you from the level of Standard Bully-Fodder up to the level of Victim Number One (a place held by Edmund while he attended Austin Prep).  For that, you need a special name.  Not just a name that none of your classmate's share, but a name that none of your classmates will ever come across no matter how many people they meet even if they all live to be a hundred.

He was G. Edmund O'Rourke III and nearly everyone called him  "Geor" ( His initials, pronounced "Geeyore" - the "G" is hard).  Edmund (I never called him Geor), was so different from us all.  There were kids at AP whose parents were rich.  Some parents owned car dealerships or restaurants or were in real estate.  A couple were mobbed up.  But Edmund clearly came from old money and he was clowned mercilessly for being a rich kid.  I'm not sure who started pelting him with pennies, but that became a thing and teachers did little to stop it.  Edmund thought he would turn the tables on his tormentors by picking up the pennies and stuffing them in his pockets, but this tactic backfired and only drew in more penny-pitchers until it wasn't just bullies in on the act.  At some point, more than half the student body had thrown pennies at Edmund.  Most of my friends did not participate.  We were peaceniks, class clowns who followed one of the cardinal rules of put-down comedy:  Never punch down.  Though Edmund may have been rich, he was not a douchey snob.  He just wanted to make friends and had no idea how.

One day, I was sitting in the cafeteria and Edmund asked if he could sit next to me.  I was perfectly happy to have him join me.  He had just survived a gauntlet of taunting jocks and wanted to eat his lunch in peace.  Even though Edmund had to deal with this literally every day (his safe haven was the chess club, btw), he never seemed to get overly sad or angry.  He never flipped out like that kid Jeremy in that Pearl Jam song.  He would often smile and try to take things in stride.  At worst he would be puzzled.  He and I sat in silence eating our lunch.  As I dug into my Salisbury Steak, Edmund used a knife and fork to cut himself a triangle of cake.  Anyone who has eaten in a school cafeteria knows the cake I mean.  Chocolate cake made on huge cookie sheets, topped with white frosting and cut into tasty rectangles which we all gleefully stuffed into our mouths.  Edmund paused and thought for a moment before asking me, "Hey, Ron, why does everybody always pick on me."  I thought about this for a moment, then responded, "I don't know, Edmund.  Maybe its because you eat your cake with a fork."