Bumnick's Fork by Constantine Gochis

Bumnick's Fork by Constantine Gochis

I watch in fascination as the gentleman at the next table examines the ivory handle of his fork.  It is not a casual act. It is more as if he is looking for some mark, some imperfection. Can it be possible? Has he found himself in that position of unbearable ignominy, of universal opprobrium sparked by being found in the random possession of Bumnick's fork?

Impossible.  It is not in the realms of time and space as we know them, that the item could be in the man's hands. Bumnick's fork is a thing of my childhood years. It cannot be, unless there are truly other dimensions--parallel universes perhaps--or coincidence, nothing more.  I scoff--mentally that is.  One does not scoff carelessly in posh restaurants with headwaiters in white tie and tails elegance.

Then again.  Is there not in fact an element of overweening pride in the casual way the man drops the fork as if he has weighed its quality and found it wanting.  Is this not a kind of "hubris", some common trait in our species that proliferation makes so common we fail to notice its existence?

But why do I try to make something philosophic out of what was nothing more than childhood fantasy, of early play, sometimes a maliciousness, that should alert parents to the inherent deviousness of the children they are nurturing.

And why do I insist on cloaking a simple tale in words that weigh heavily but have no meaning? Well, perhaps that's not true.  Finding oneself in possession of Bumnick's fork was, to any of us children, myself, with six siblings, as close to secular mortal sin as is possible How often did I hear the chorus of my six junior siblings shouting, "He's got Bumnick's fork!"  Of course, when the evil lot fell to some other of the septet, how joyful was my clarion voice of condemnation for the victim.

Well, dear reader, you have been patient and tolerant, and have the right to ask:  What is this strange ritual at which you hint and do not explain?"

Family historians date it accurately.  It was the day of the big dinner to honor the arrival to this country of a paterfamilias of our family line--on my other's side--Uncle Dominick by name but refereed to slyly, by the relatives, in contemptuous terms, as a "cafone", a farmer in the souther Italian dialect. In terms of status or accomplishment, he ranked somewhat lower than street laborer or indigent. 

Truly, he personified the description if you add the terminology of coarse, portly and verbose in the patois of his village, which was in Calabria, a region additionally known as the country of the testa dura, or hard heads.  I record this here for future generations--this being a a life history exercise I write.  A remark about his dialect was made in my hearing by another relative, sotto voce, to wit, "Che diavolo di lingua parla quest'imbecile."

My brother Tony, who was gifted in the ability to characterize a person in one all encompassing word, dubbed him "Bumnick", a name never expressed in the presence of elders, since disrespect was a province allowed exclusively to grown ups.

Bumnick, and his eating habits of that day, became legend, but this only to us children. He also became a dinner time game, a time of perpetual hazard for all of us, anxiety, world class ignominy for a victim--always for one of seven. Parents were excluded.

The hazard was finding you had eaten with Bumnick's fork.  Well, you might ask, "How was this ivory handled utensil different from its fellows?" All were a pristine white except for the one Bumnick ussed in that historic dinner.  A slight purple-blue stain infected the fork at the joint where the metal began.  It was usually invisible until the spot caught the light when the fork was manipulated.

It made its appearance many times over our growing years.  From a statistical point of view it favored no one of us with immoderate frequency.  I watch the gentleman at the next table who seems about to order. He does not.  Instead, he holds up the fork he had discarded, says a few words to the waitress and hands it to her in a manner that suggests immediate disposal.  Clearly his position in this story is simply a stimulus to my precious memory, nothing more. Nevertheless.

I could almost swear that I caught a glint of bluish light as the fork changed hands in his seeminglly disagreeable interaction with the waitress.