The Burkemans: A Profile
We are a unique group. What more can be said? Plenty.
At the top of the notch, there is the matriarch, Rose Marie Burkeman. A big personality in miniature form. Paired as equally as one could be with her partner - in life and a life of fighting crime (the stupidity of the masses) - the Patriarch, Steven Daniel Burkeman. Cultural legacies accounted for, this coupling of an overly gesticulating, cogent Italian, with a big-hearted, leader-by-permanent-example, Eastern-European Jew, have come together, across religion and a few streets in Northern New Jersey, to be the ultimate united front. Mom and Dad, as we call them, are our role models, meant to be observed, revered and continually harassed.
From their union, (quite literally) was birthed Rachel Elizabeth Burkeman- the pure mixture of both personalities, resulting in a woman as doubly unique and impressive as her forbears. Whatever culture or question Steve and Rose failed to take note of during their own growth, Rachel made it her duty to adopt and answer, at least for a few months. Children are typically lost and beg to find their way, and in that sense, the road less taken, is taken many times over. Although, for Rachel, it was not enough to travel the road less taken, she took on the world less discovered. Spending years abroad at every opportunity, but first spending time abroad from popular convention. Coolness was not achieved, it was owned by a complete challenge of popular faiths and traditions and possessing, or at least projecting, a beautiful lack of shame. Rachel masterfully painted her life in hundreds of different shades and hues, resulting in a most admirable piece of art. Something that she never has to sell but will forever receive payment.
Three and a half years later, baby Tempest came calling. Tempest Ann Burkeman was in many ways the sophisticated answer to Rachel’s raw approach. A miniature version of the already minute Rose, Tempest took on the family by storm. Like a hurricane that had the suspicious inability to harm anyone, Tempest blew passed her peers at every turn, including both her of siblings. While Rachel was no slouch academically, Tempest would bring home the blue ribbon in this category. A bilingual world traveler in her own right, Tempest was the socialite to Rachel’s heady flower child. Though, being blessed with a determination that catalyzed her intellect (and a disgustingly organized planner), Tempest entered the world Rachel sought to tear down. Never gaudy and always classic, Tempest employed a more traditional mindset, aligning herself with the proper fashions and interests of her adolescence, while still maintaining her identity and continually succeeding where others would not.
Three and one half years later, I was born. Mitchell Leonard Burkeman. The baby boy. While Rachel was a mixture of both parents and Tempest a copy of Mom, I was designed to be my father’s clone, in looks, temperament and humor. In many ways, I see myself unable to stack up next to these four. In my war-like brain, I am the least academically inclined, cool's mortal enemy and stubborn as stubborn could hope to be. Though, without these four and the admiration I have for each one, different and equal, I would be far worse of a terror. But, luckily, I do have them and for that, being eternally grateful, does not begin to cut it.
As I put down my pen and picked up the W.M.D., I wondered, would they know any of this?
We are a unique group. What more can be said? Plenty.
At the top of the notch, there is the matriarch, Rose Marie Burkeman. A big personality in miniature form. Paired as equally as one could be with her partner - in life and a life of fighting crime (the stupidity of the masses) - the Patriarch, Steven Daniel Burkeman. Cultural legacies accounted for, this coupling of an overly gesticulating, cogent Italian, with a big-hearted, leader-by-permanent-example, Eastern-European Jew, have come together, across religion and a few streets in Northern New Jersey, to be the ultimate united front. Mom and Dad, as we call them, are our role models, meant to be observed, revered and continually harassed.
From their union, (quite literally) was birthed Rachel Elizabeth Burkeman- the pure mixture of both personalities, resulting in a woman as doubly unique and impressive as her forbears. Whatever culture or question Steve and Rose failed to take note of during their own growth, Rachel made it her duty to adopt and answer, at least for a few months. Children are typically lost and beg to find their way, and in that sense, the road less taken, is taken many times over. Although, for Rachel, it was not enough to travel the road less taken, she took on the world less discovered. Spending years abroad at every opportunity, but first spending time abroad from popular convention. Coolness was not achieved, it was owned by a complete challenge of popular faiths and traditions and possessing, or at least projecting, a beautiful lack of shame. Rachel masterfully painted her life in hundreds of different shades and hues, resulting in a most admirable piece of art. Something that she never has to sell but will forever receive payment.
Three and a half years later, baby Tempest came calling. Tempest Ann Burkeman was in many ways the sophisticated answer to Rachel’s raw approach. A miniature version of the already minute Rose, Tempest took on the family by storm. Like a hurricane that had the suspicious inability to harm anyone, Tempest blew passed her peers at every turn, including both her of siblings. While Rachel was no slouch academically, Tempest would bring home the blue ribbon in this category. A bilingual world traveler in her own right, Tempest was the socialite to Rachel’s heady flower child. Though, being blessed with a determination that catalyzed her intellect (and a disgustingly organized planner), Tempest entered the world Rachel sought to tear down. Never gaudy and always classic, Tempest employed a more traditional mindset, aligning herself with the proper fashions and interests of her adolescence, while still maintaining her identity and continually succeeding where others would not.
Three and one half years later, I was born. Mitchell Leonard Burkeman. The baby boy. While Rachel was a mixture of both parents and Tempest a copy of Mom, I was designed to be my father’s clone, in looks, temperament and humor. In many ways, I see myself unable to stack up next to these four. In my war-like brain, I am the least academically inclined, cool's mortal enemy and stubborn as stubborn could hope to be. Though, without these four and the admiration I have for each one, different and equal, I would be far worse of a terror. But, luckily, I do have them and for that, being eternally grateful, does not begin to cut it.
As I put down my pen and picked up the W.M.D., I wondered, would they know any of this?
Chapter 2
Brian Wells hurried down a polished hallway towards his goal. A stiff set of papers under his right arm, an analog, chromed watch that he received from his parents adorning his left. The watch clicked 9 am and Brian knocked on the door.
“Good morning sir, I have a package here for you” He said enthusiastically.
“Good morning, Brian. Leave it there” his boss answered, pointing strongly, but politely to a basket on the lacquered wooden desk.
Brian scuttled over to the desk and placed the package gently in the basket labeled, “In” and turned to leave. Just before he closed the door he looked over his shoulder and offered his apologies to his employer. “Thank you, Brian, but never you mind. I’ll let you know if I need you again”. Brian exited the room and walked briskly back to his tiny cubicle at the other end of the office.
Brian Jackson Wells was an obsequious young man of twenty-three. A recent college graduate from Harvard University, he spent most of his time dreaming of his own office with a brawny desk and his own boy to bark orders at. Though he was never barked at, Mr. Burkeman seldom raised his voice or appeared impolite. Brian thought he was weak, extravagantly successful yes, but weak. He would be a better leader, a stronger man, someone people respected and if not respected, than certainly feared. As Brian sat as his desk, patiently awaiting his next assignment, like a puppy freshly trained and anxious not to spoil the floor, he began to go over the details of the rest of his day, what he would do, where he would go, who he would see. First and foremost he had to speak to his father and endure his weekly instructions. Adam Wells was large man, he towered over his fellows, perhaps the only thing larger was his ego, Brian thought. Brian had received none of his father’s height, they did have similar features, though Brian’s were shrunk down, as if he was left in the dryer for too long. He had his father’s light brown hair and green eyes, his nose, his chin. But Brian had none of his father’s presence, where Mr. Wells’s voice was a low, commanding cadence, Brian’s was light and intrusive, something to fit his overly interested personality. Along with a short stature and high pitched voice, Brian was not the man his father had expected and he told Brian often. Mr. Wells was a Yale graduate and quarterback of the football team. To his father’s dismay, Brian was not accepted into Yale and was relegated to the rivaled Harvard. Brian was accepted into other top prestigious schools, but he wanted to stay close to home. After much convincing by his mother, Mr. Wells consented, but demanded Brian would pay his own way, as he did. Brian loved Harvard, only to come home to snide comments rattled off by his father at holiday dinners. In a few months, Brian would be out from under his thumb and he would be giving the weekly instructions.
As Brian commuted home to his apartment in Hoboken, New Jersey, switching trains two times, he ignored three phone calls from his father, preferring to take the abuse in the privacy of his living room. Brian reached his building, climbed the two flights of stairs and slid the key into his apartment’s door. The door was not locked, it gently swung open and to Brian’s surprise, his father was standing on the other side.
“Brian, get in here”, Mr. Wells barked.
“Yes, sir”
“Did you see him today?”
“Yes, of course, he is my boss.”
“I know that, how did he seem?” his father snapped.
“He seemed fine, the usual, maybe a little more tired, but it was Monday morning.”
“Typical”, Adam spat. “I have got to go, I will call you with what you are to accomplish this week after I get home and tend to your mother, she has not been feeling well, call her and tell her about your job, she likes that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have much to thank that woman for.” Mr. Wells said as he opened the door.
“Goodbye, Dad.”
