The Sad Case of Brownie Terwilliger

By John Paulits

Brownie Terwilliger looks at his opportunity to run for mayor of Philadelphia as a chance to right the wrongs of a city. He hopes to oust Milton Streezo, the incumbent, but Streezo does not take kindly to this challenge and concocts a plan to destroy Brownie, even hiring Lunky Ledbetter, famed perpetrator of dirty political tricks. Can Brownie withstand the onslaught? Will he have the opportunity to do some good in the world? Don't bet on it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093504

Book preview

One

BROWNIE TERWILLIGER sat, book in hand, leaning against a tall, rough-barked tree in Wissinoming Park. He gazed upward, picking out spots of blue sky between the gently moving leaves. The month of June always pleased Brownie. School ended in June, and every year for the past twenty-two years, ever since he turned five and trotted off to kindergarten, Brownie had been going to school, always anticipating the blessed month of June. He’d spent the last six of those twenty-two years picking up master’s degrees in English Literature and Political Science from Temple University on Broad Street in Philadelphia. Spending so much time achieving such a lofty level of education, as well as deciding two masters were better than one, left Brownie with no regrets. He liked school; he liked learning; he liked the world of academe and would have continued on indefinitely if he’d been able to, always with the blessed goal of June as an incentive.

Baptized Branson Clinton Terwilliger, Brownie had lost his parents two days after he graduated from college. Penn. Ivy League. His parents saw him graduate, and four days later he saw them buried after a car crash too gruesome to recount. Brownie inherited their house, a small, two-story row home on Sylvester Street, a one-block-long thoroughfare in Northeast Philadelphia. Brownie had been an only child whose parents were obsessively devoted, both to each other and to him, as evidenced by their scrimping and saving to get him through Penn. A small pot of money remained after their funeral, but what had sustained Brownie for the past six years was his parents’ life insurance. Two policies. Accidental deaths. As for his nickname, Brownie knew how to get along with people. Beginning in grade school, teachers loved him. He unerringly detected the teacher’s sweet spot and wangled his way to the center of it. An eighty-six on a test became a ninety for Brownie. A ninety-three on a test turned into a ninety-five. Once, just once, he’d flopped and gotten a sixty-five. That magically righted itself into an eighty after Brownie let drop the terrible news of the sickness at home and how he was kept awake at night caring for his mother while his father took on an extra shift at work to pay for her medicine. He didn’t report this to the teacher but told it to another kid carefully situated within earshot of the teacher who’d given him the sixty-five. Brownie knew his audience. He didn’t exactly lie, but he didn’t exactly tell the truth either. He merely knew how to get what he wanted.

But back to his nickname. As soon as his elementary school classmates were old enough to be aware of things, Branson turned into Branson-the-brownnoser and from there into Brownie. Brownie’d never met grandfather Branson, his namesake, and as he aged, he developed a growing disaffection for such an affected name. He welcomed the change to Brownie. Once out of elementary school, the nickname lost its pejorative cast, and he simply became Brownie to everyone. He used the name on his tests and registrations; signed checks with Brownie; introduced himself to people as Brownie; Branson pretty much faded away, and Brownie came into being.

Brownie stood a shade above five feet ten inches tall but gave the appearance of being taller. Though handsome and well-proportioned, his hair was his crowning (literally) glory. It did not lie flat, as most hair was wont to do, ready to be blown to the four winds depending on the mood and direction of the dominant gusts of the moment. No, Brownie’s handsome, brown dome rejected all attempts at misalignment. A quick run-through with his fingers in the morning set him up, well-groomed, for the day. As his hair dried after shampooing, it reassembled into its original shape with no outside guidance needed. Dashingly but not untidily long, his hair evoked desire in women and envy from men. Brownie’s ego had no consciousness of the effect he created, and this constituted a key component of his charm. To Brownie, his hair was merely his hair.

Quite studious but never ambitious, Brownie indulged himself with his inheritance and spent six glorious, unencumbered years in graduate school. He didn’t work a single day during that time. In fact, he hadn’t worked a single day in his entire life. Pretty good for a man of twenty-seven years, he often congratulated himself. But all good things must come to an end and so must inheritances and pots of insurance money. Taking proper economies, Brown had enough money left to get him through to Christmas, but then what? Thinking things over and looking back over his life, school, naturally, loomed ever so large. Lots of days off. Short hours. The blessed month of June to anticipate and then the summer.

His cogitations resulted in a trip to the Philadelphia Board of Education, where they eagerly welcomed a mature male possessed of two post-grad degrees, willing to start at a salary in the $40s. The prospect pleased Brownie as much as it pleased his would-be employer. His housing expenses were minimal, and forty thousand a year would be more than enough to keep him. The Board of Ed offered him two choices: begin work in September at an elementary school in North Philadelphia, not far from Temple. Brownie knew the neighborhood and hesitated. Or, if he were willing to wait, a position in his own neighborhood elementary school, Edmunds by name, would become available in January due to a maternity leave. Brownie inquired about the grade levels. North Philadelphia, first grade; Edmunds, fourth grade. Brownie decided he could not possibly spend the day with children unable to spell their own names or wipe their own noses. The added lagniappe of an additional four months of leisure sealed the deal. Brownie signed on for a January start and looked forward to a quiet six months before beginning an uncertain new year.

The book of John Donne’s poetry he’d been reading lay upside down in his lap. He picked it up to begin again when he heard his name.

Brownie, boy. I thought I’d find you here. Somewhere here. Can’t you pick one tree and stay true to it?

Sit, D. O., Brownie invited. D. O. had been a friend since high school. The sycophantic shadings of the name Brownie were unknown to him. Brownie was merely Brownie. D. O., real name Timothy Alberts, became D. O. one night toward the end of senior year of high school. The guys were out, celebrating in the fanciest restaurant they’d ever sat down in. What they were celebrating neither Brownie nor Tim could remember. Tim ordered spare ribs. When he did, he leaned nearer the waitress and whispered, Make it a double order. When the waitress returned for the dessert order, Tim wanted a slice of chocolate lava cake. He made his wish known to the waitress and when he did, he leaned closer and whispered, Make it a double order. Tim, already an expanding balloon of rotundity, got a reputation for doubling his order whenever something struck his particular fancy, and in a short time his friends gifted him with the title, D. O. He’d been D. O. and constantly expanding ever since.

D. O. steadied himself against the tree trunk and levered himself to his knees.

You’ll help me up again, won’t you? he asked. Don’t make me go all the way down and have to get up by myself.

I’ll help you. I’ll help you. Sit.

D. O. plopped. When he did, Brownie gave a small bounce and smiled at his friend.

You’re freakin’ hilarious. I always said so. Brownie’s freakin’ hilarious.

D. O.’s got a great sense of humor and can take it, Brownie responded. I always said so. What’s up?

Beth’s blabbing your news all over the neighborhood. She’s bubbling. Her eyes are glowing. She’s telling anyone who’ll listen how you’re on the road to being a great success in the world of education, and she couldn’t be happier.

Anyone who’ll listen? Like who?

Like Florence for one. Me.

D. O. and Florence had been cohabiting for nearly two years. Florence also loved to eat but as of yet had limited her intake to single orders, although of multiple menu items. D. O. ordered from the menu in a more focused manner, doubling whatever struck his fancy. Brownie had no idea how they fed themselves at home and had no desire to find out. The few times he and Beth had gone out to dinner with them, the restaurant spectacle proved repellent enough.

I left them together, D. O. went on. Couldn’t take it any longer.

Couldn’t take what?

Listening to Beth talk about you.

Praising me, you mean. She’s something.

I can’t figure, though. What’s to be praised for getting your first job after twenty-seven years of...?

Of preparation? Brownie smiled mischievously.

"Pfffff! Preparation." D. O. had been working in the local Acme since the summer after high school. He began on the register but had long since worked his way up to produce manager. The proximity to fruits and vegetables had very little influence on his dietary habits, however.

You’ll be the most prepared teacher ever to walk through the door of Edmunds Elementary School. And presuming your level of tolerance for nine-year-old brats is anywhere near the range of normal, you’ll be the most prepared teacher ever to walk out the door of Edmunds Elementary School. Little kids are obnoxious. Everyone I know is. I know I was.

I’ll manage. Brownie’s phone rang. He looked at the screen. I expected something like this, he said.

Who is it?

Hedwig Heinebrun.

No, seriously. Who is it? Beth?

I told you who. Hedwig Heinebrun. Brownie accepted the call. Professor Heinebrun. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?

D. O. watched Brownie’s face. A certain smugness he’d seen many times arose.

Sure, I’d be happy to. You’re very kind. Where and when? I see. Sure, I know where it is. I’ll be there. He ended the call.

Heinebrun? D. O. asked. Seriously? You wanna let me know what you’re up to.

She’s one of my political science professors from last semester. I had her twice, actually, once the year before, too.

Go on.

She’d like to meet me.

She’s already met you.

Outside the confines of the classroom.

She wants to discuss politics?

I guess.

You guess, D. O. scoffed. He knew how strongly people were drawn to Brownie. This appeared to be another case in point. In earlier days, D. O. and the other fellows in the crowd would send Brownie on a scouting mission when girls hovered nearby. Brownie would charm them; the boys would saunter over, and the pairing off would commence.

Come on, what’d she want?

She wants to have a drink at Gallo’s—on the Boulevard.

I know where it is.

I know you do, Brownie said with a smile. Gallo’s initiated the double-ordering of D. O. that long ago high school night.

You going?

You heard me say yes. Her treat, she says.

When?

Tonight.

And Beth?

Brownie shrugged. Meeting with a professor is a waystation on my road to success, don’t you think? Mention it to Beth in that way if you see her before I do.

Yeah, right. Help me up. If I see her, I’ll mention it. When I do, she’ll probably take another tour of the neighborhood to give everyone an update on your climb up the ladder of success. Fill me in tomorrow.

Of course. I’m going home.

Brownie went one way, and D. O. went another.

Two

BETH LADISH’S HIGH regard for Brownie Terwilliger resulted in her never-stinted praise for him at any opportunity which presented itself. She’d admired him in high school but never managed to get close—too much competition from others; too little self-assurance on her end. She went away to Boston for college and blossomed. She knew she’d blossomed because boys—young men now—from all over the country who’d migrated to Boston for their education would not leave her alone. She’d grown from a dwarfish, pudgy five-foot-one in high school, to a Sports Illustrated swim-suit-model-shaped height of five-foot-seven, with long, golden hair swirling about her baby-angel face. Hoping something in the Boston air was particularly conducive to her attractiveness, she stayed in Boston for three years after graduating and found work in a doctor’s office. She liked seeing people; she liked the idea of helping people. Most of all, she liked the idea of rarely paying for an evening out. She sometimes wondered what would occur first—her running out of dates or Boston running out of new restaurants to try. But then, one day, by the slightest twist of fate, a patient named Wayne Terwilliger came into the office. Seeing the word Terwilliger, hearing the patient say the word, saying the word herself, sent Beth into a spiral of retrospective fantasy. It seemed as if a mist from the Charles River had risen and swept over her, limiting her vision to thoughts of high school and Brownie Terwilliger. Brownie began to haunt her dreams; he popped up whack-a-mole style into her thoughts as she made her way through the workday. Beth lost interest in Boston men and Boston restaurants. She resigned from the doctor’s office and returned home to Philadelphia.

She found a small, cozy apartment in the old neighborhood and set out to locate Brownie Terwilliger. At that, she had no problem. He still resided in the Sylvester Street house where he’d always lived. Brownie’s proximity re-poked so many holes in Beth’s self-confidence, though, she felt as if she were back in high school again, and it took nearly six months for her to amass the gumption to do something, anything, to bring them together. It happened only because of the intense research Beth undertook regarding Brownie’s lifestyle; research culminating in her registering to take one class with him at Temple grad school—Victorian female writers. She hated the class—she’d liked to have seen the Bronte sisters drowned in a wash tub and buried with stakes of holly through their hearts before they’d ever taken pen to paper—but she loved Brownie. She made certain to sit next to him in class, always careful to dress as if she’d come from being the featured model on a fashion runway. Brownie had no choice but to notice. Over the course of the three-month class, how-are-you became can-I-buy-you-dinner, which eventually became what was now a long-term, though loosely bound, relationship. It was Beth who checked over Brownie’s term papers for typos. It was Beth who often stayed overnight in his house. It was Beth who’d steered Brownie into education and pointed him toward the Board of Education. And it was Beth who had every confidence in Brownie’s becoming an exceptionally successful human being who would one day achieve great things, a confidence she shared not only with Brownie but, as pointed out, with whomever she could get to listen.

Florence, I know he’s going to take Edmunds Elementary School by storm, maybe even the whole school system, Beth bubbled.

Florence had sat through many