publishing genius #17

THE LAST DAYS

Claire Readig and P. J. Druecke OF JOHN BUDGEN JR.

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The Last Days of John Budgen Jr.

Claire Readig and P. J. Druecke

Chapter One

May 27th, 2006

I’VE NEVER BEEN HERE BEFORE

I lie between my great uncle and aunt on ground neither

wet nor dry, comfortable nor uncomfortable. Six feet

and 50-odd-years separates me from them. Even without

another person around, this feels more embarrassing

than macabre. And odd. And though I didn’t notice any-

one, someone could’ve been watching me. Uncertain,

without resolve (even when unpredictable I’m never

spontaneous) until I finally got down on my knees,

shifted to my backside and reclined, looking toward the

sky as if ready for sleep. This would pique a young

mother’s interest as she looks out from behind her

cream-colored drapes. Drapes that match the faded sid-

ing of the bungalow adjacent to and toward the back of

the cemetery. Home. A toddler’s dirty-white play-set sits

in the yard with a short slide, rounded steps, and cubby-

holes the realm of make-believe. Other toys are scat-

tered around, all as far from the graveyard’s fence as

possible. “The poor man is in mourning . . .” she (my

imagined audience) could have been thinking. She

wouldn’t suspect that my earlier hesitation was only a


4

habit, my habit of deliberating on things perfectly incon-

sequential, reasoning that which has no wrong or right.

She thought, perhaps, that in my action there’s an an-

swer, an answer to the big question, or at least a search-

ing. But I’m not looking for anything—who thinks

there’s an answer to life nowadays? I don’t . . . or

maybe I am . . .

This cemetery is a ridiculous place to rest-in-peace, sur-

rounded by a Sears Automotive shop to the south, a mini

strip-mall to the north, and the din of twelve lanes of

traffic to the west. The cemetery appears anonymous

unless you continue down the dirt path where a cheap

sign, printed by the looks of it at the Kinko’s just up the

street, indicates this is the Town of Milwaukee Union

Cemetery. Rust, icing for the sign’s paltriness, seeps

down from where two bolts secure it to a weathered

post. The burnt-orange stains look like gravity-inspired


5

Rorschach tests—nature’s commentary on the “final

state” . . . or at least its upkeep? The cemetery’s name,

on the other hand, alludes to larger-than-life connec-

tions—between the departed and their loved ones, be-

tween spirit and matter and, back in the day, between a

nation divided North and South. Plots are still avail-

able, if one is to believe the sign—even though the

Town of Milwaukee ceased to exist in 1955 when the

last of its acreage was taken over by the City. It’s

unlikely that anyone currently in the market for a burial

plot would choose to await eternity here, unless one

fancied death as a modest sort of limbo without proper,

or rather, with outdated jurisdiction. The grass is with-

ering; the ground thin and porous underfoot as if dead

bodies came and went like vaporous vampires. Who

were all these people? There’s no mausoleum, no

stately vaults. Nobody of any importance is buried

here. “To be Remembered is to be Important,” that’s

what grand pa pa Brullier used to say.

We glean the beginnings of John Budgen’s blog-

ging in his To-Do Lists. The Lists are a wholesale

compendium of life’s repetitious chores—

spanning nearly fifteen years! The Lists are banal,

the act of collecting them, we’ll just say . . . odd.

We know from looking at the lists that sometime


6

around the fourth anniversary of his mother’s

death, John began compiling his memorial to her.

Amidst the stacks of scribbled reminders we find a

page with the words toothpaste, d. floss, cleanser

(or possibly cleaner), and photo album. In paren-

thesis next to ‘photo album,’ Mum. The latter ap-

pears to have been highlighted, though all that re-

mains of the bright-yellow emphasis is a dusty

smudge. We can picture John Jr., list-in-hand,

holed up in the Stationery aisle of the neighbor-

hood Walgreen’s. His indecisiveness churning by

the time he selects the over-sized maroon photo al-

bum for his project. The receipt, which should have

been—but was not—tucked in the back of the al-

bum (as he did with all of his books), could have

been misplaced as John rummaged through his

collection of memorabilia and began pushing the

family photos onto the bright white pages. John ar-

ranged the photos in chronological order. This dis-

play of linear thinking was at odds with his usual,

more meandering ways. That was five years ago.

John Budgen Jr. was forty-seven years old.


7

John’s Lists offer additional nuggets of insight.

The pocket-worn paper dating from 1999, for ex-

ample, has the reminder to sort found shopping

lists. The lists do not tell us that for most of his life

John Budgen ignored the Jr. at the end of his

name. Or that even as a child no one called him Jr.

Or why when it could be no accident, nearing

fifty-years old, John included the Jr. in the title to

his blog, JohnBudgenJr.blogspot. But we’re getting

ahead of ourselves. . . .

John will tell us himself that he was a bastard,

the Jr. being a misnomer. He was named after his

grandfather (John Brullier) and his grandmother’s

father (Frank Budgen Jr.), and ultimately, Frank’s

father Frank Budgen. John Budgen Jr.’s name was

pieced together at a time of intense trauma. His

mother, Rachel, was not in control at this time of

her life, but her heart was in the right place. She

attempted to bestow a sense of accomplishment,

fame even, upon her unfortunate child. Still, the

irrational bastardization that gave the infant his

name lingered in John’s moods, outlook, and life.


8

May 27th, 2006 (continued)

Mum told me the cemetery was located north of the

Bayshore shopping center and that some Budgens were

buried here but we never made the time to visit. Great

Uncle Charles and Great Aunt Mim are buried here—

Mum, thankfully, is not. Charles and Miriam Budgen, I

never met them; I can’t think of a single thing I know

about them except Charles is my mother’s mother’s

brother. I’m not sure why they’re buried here without

another Budgen in sight.

I try to remember any story I might have heard about

Uncle or Aunt, but mostly I look at the headstones:

Rosencreuz, Gruenwald, Stabelfeldt, Smith, Struck;


9

Milwaukee was a magnet for German immigrants.

Carved deep into granite beneath the name Reinke, the

final words, “Ich bin nicht. Wir sind immer. Unverges-

sen,” are surprisingly legible. Ich bin nicht … Ich bin

nicht … I am not? When I get home I type the epitaph

into Google and the translation reads, “I am not. We are

always. Not forgotten.” “We?” How expansive Herr

Reinke’s thinking circa 1874? It’s hard to know if “we”

means simply husband and wife, parents and children,

or perhaps casts a larger, more humanist net over

neighbors and distant kin—or even you, me, everyone

we know and everyone they know, and on and on, right?

(There’s a new indie movie that Claire was telling me

about, You and Me and Everyone We Know. She said it

was supposed to be good.) In a little over a hundred

years, everyone alive right now will have joined the

growing family of human dead regardless of heritage,

disposition, or desire. That’s both funny and reassuring,

in a leveling sort of way -- the ultimate desegregation

policy. Could this be the “we” Reinke refers to? The

name Budgen still doesn’t fit in. When the low clouds

begin to break for the sun to shine through, this is the

sign I should move on and leave without feeling any

connection to Charles, Mim, Reinke, or any of the

names or words on headstones bathed now in the bright

glare or dark shadow of late-afternoon light. If I return I

will return.


10

Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where John spent most of

his life is “conservative, pragmatic, stubborn, and

myopic,” to quote him from a 2007 entry. Continu-

ing his calculating assessment of hometown per-

sonality, Jr. goes on:

These characteristics serve the region’s inhabitants well.

People from the upper Midwest absorb life’s hard facts,

draw them out, repress them if necessary, and mold

them into experience. Much like the long winter itself.

Generations have cultivated this moral landscape; those

with opposing tastes move on.

Honesty, in this context is not confrontational or in-

your-face. The drama surrounding truth is subdued; dif-

ficult situations play out over time lessening the inten-

sity of day-to-day interaction while creating an ominous

texture to life. Honesty is an imprecise commodity, I

guess that’s my point. It has

different sensibilities, can be

situational. And there are

geographical biases; East

Coast honesty has a different

flavor than Midwest honesty.

The former is brazen, even


11

abrasive, while the latter sneaks at the periphery. Blue

collar, pink collar, white collar, there are myriad shad-

ings as to how one understands, say, “an honest day’s

work.”

Rachel Brullier was the daughter of John and

Suzanne (née Budgen) Brullier, and the grand-

daughter of Edmunton and Eliza (née Patch) Brul-

lier. The Brullier and Patch families can be traced to

Germantown—a near-north village-outpost of Mil-

waukee—dating back to the 1870’s. Of French/

German descent, the family prospered while

blending into the community as modest, hard-

working truck-farmers. John (GrandPa) Brullier left

farm-life for bigger opportunities. This took him no

further than Waukesha—a larger small-town ap-

pendage of Milwaukee. Rachel Brullier, like her

son John Jr., was born in Waukesha (1940 and 1956,

respectively). Rachel was independent, rebellious,

and anxious to leave the small-town repressiveness

that was her birthright. Then came John Jr., an un-

wanted pregnancy. A criminal pregnancy. Her

practical, loving family became an asset. The


12

deeply-ingrained sense of stoic perseverance sewn

generations earlier on the farm became her hope

and compass.

Rachel moved to Milwaukee when John Jr. was

four years old. This move, much tailored from her

earlier plans of escape, had to suffice. For there,

Rachel lived out the rest of her life. In his first blog

entry of substance, John wrote, “My mother’s life

unfolds as a long-endured tragedy punctuated by

moments of surprisingly carefree joy. The hard

things she kept to herself, the happy things she

shared with whomever was at hand.”

Although Jr.’s family could not be called ordi-

nary, they were typical in their thoughtless accu-

mulation of mementos. Theirs was a family-

tradition wary of nostalgia’s meaning for the here

and now. In this regard, his family was more typi-

cal—and more disorganized—than most. While the

idea of compiling a memorial to Mum was not out

of character for John, the busy-work was; his

hobby was reading, or when lazy, watching TV—

his engagement with the world, internal.

Despite all the above, motivated by a middle-aged,


13

melancholic sense of duty John Jr. gathered up a

couple plastic bags, a smallish box, and a handful

of folders and spread their contents out on the ta-

ble to sort through his family’s pictorial history be-

fore him. Sepia toned photos from a hundred years

ago transitioned to the standard B&W format of

the 50’s. Some of the latter have names worked into

the margins; Aunt Gertie and Uncle Harold appear

multiple times. But who were Gert and Harry? Jr.

wasn’t sure.

John makes his first appearance at the age of

four or five.


14

Looking at pictures of himself he felt the for-

eignness of the earlier images replaced by the

vague memory of being there, of having lived the

image in front of him. (This, according to conversa-

tion he’d had with Claire. A conversation on the

topic of contradictions as she remembers it.) John

Jr. saw his mother through child’s eyes, the young

eyes looking back at him from the photos. He sat

up a little straighter in his chair and for a moment

his stance to the world softened. Years of residual

tension faded. Jr. tried to recall the first roll of film

he’d ever shot.

A couple of distinctively faded photos from the

early days of color film depict empty living rooms

and tables with food but no people.

The last photos John sorts are from his personal

archive. Old friends, lovers, and then his current

friends form a silent parade. As the photos become

more familiar, Jr. becomes sadder and more nostal-

gic (paraphrasing the aforementioned conversation

again). Abruptly, in 2003, the photos end when, it

can be assumed, digital technology prevailed. Jr.

tried to recall the last roll of film he’d shot.


15

John’s interest in the

photos led to the purchase

of a digital scanner and

shortly after that the pro-

ject became a blog where

Jr. wrote about Mum,

posted personal artifacts, and chopped and diced

the family history with equal amounts of love, rev-

erence, confusion, and scorn. Without totally losing

track of the original inspiration, the blog took the

form of a long, curious detour—“W. G. Sebald

strolls through cyberspace,” publishinggen-

ius.com remarked on their list of recommended

links. This course was well-suited to John Jr.’s per-

sonality.

August 25th, 2005

WHO IS THIS BUDGEN?

My last name comes from my mother’s side of the fam-

ily. Budgen. I’m a bastard. Mum named me after my

great great grandfather, supposedly because he was a

friend of James Joyce’s. My mother was raped and I was

the child of that crime. No one was ever convicted,

though there were rumors in the family that Mum knew


16

who my father was. These rumors, never admitted to,

were the most disturbing to me. I learned of the story,

parts of it anyway, when I was about 17 years-old at a

time when the pain and uncertainty of supposed adult-

hood was threatening to break me. Why is life cruel like

that? I broke. (But that’s a story for another time, I’m

just not in the mood). Frank Budgen, Great Grandfather

Budgen was, and is, the most famous person in our fam-

ily. Mum wanted to connect me, and herself I imagine,

to something larger than the painful world she lived in

when I was born. Grasping back in time was her hope

for the future, future success. Ironically, the bulk of

critical assessment does not shine favorably on grandfa-

ther Budgen (a painter of minor importance at best, ex-

ploitative of his friendships at worst), but she would not

have known this, nor would she have cared. There are

letters from Joyce to Budgen, and vice versa, that prove

Joyce thought highly of my great great grandfather.

Nearly even worshipped him—no small feat. And

though Mum never met our ancestor-of-note she was

proud of her family’s brush with fame.

Who authors spam? Is there a certain demographic that

types out such weirdly transparent missives in the hopes

of financial gain? It would have been a great medium

for Joyce, broadcasting his forcefully playful language

to a random public angry at the intrusion.


17

Dear Croin’ hal

We need halp more halp ‘n at. A pickle to stick in the

dish of whipped slippery don’t neglect the time do

what’s right. Sip send Sip send. We’re round and round

but need to save wha takes us round needless to say we

need to save with almighty might and money the whole

round dearness or if not then never a’gn seek nor find.

So help the ladish sentry do which is right. Wish to

help? Wish more for right … Arrr’l needs more ‘n at.

The scale o’justice ha lost ‘ts counterpoise. Make the

table. Set to set two and through and through. No night.

Sip send. Sip send?

If there’s a modern-day Joyce plying her craft via email

con-jobs we’ll never know—lost as it in the mountain-

sized digital mire of male-enhancement and black-

market-software notices. There is, really, no hope for the

spam folder.

“Great things are born of tragedy,” was another

saying handed down the family tree, (this one re-

portedly from gam Soochie). But in John Jr.’s case it

was the moderately heroic idea that someone

(more or less) normal could grow up from an ex-

treme, horrific inception. Jr. grew to join the ranks

of the average, and aspired to nothing more. Life


18

taught John that the ability to achieve great things

was wrapped within the suspension of disbelief.

Lacking this skill, he adjusted his ambitions ac-

cordingly. After his death, his friends would toast

Jr.’s dithering, introspective nature without ac-

knowledging (at least out-loud) the sadness it fos-

tered. Like many others, Jr. was not particularly

happy. He struggled with a sense of isolation en-

demic for the time. This, even as technologic trends

entering the 21st century would enable more and

more individuals to reach ever more people. John

Budgen Jr., true to his nature, was part of the

crowd. Jr. shared his personal musings online with

an anonymous public that returned the favor by,

for the most part, not paying any attention.

When Jr. wrote about his visit to the Union

Cemetery he’d been alive for 50 years. Two years

later, he still felt young—at least not old. But his

days were numbered; “the long road” (a cliché

picked up from his mother whose use of the term

was ironically appropriate to her own short, tu-

multuous life) was coming to an abrupt end. When


19

John Jr. posted his entry about an unusually power-

ful rainstorm he had just twenty-two days to live.

There is no indication that he knew this, though

some say that the entry, with its apocalyptic refer-

ences, smacks of foreboding. Prescience, even. One

thing for certain, John’s Great Flood entry, as it has

come to be known, would raise his anonymous lit-

tle blog, for good or bad, into the public spotlight.


A portrait in installments.

[email protected]

Image Credits: Untitled (Family Tree drawing), Unknown, Untitled (Union Ceme-

tery) J.B.JR. c.2006, Untitled (Fence) Unknown, Untitled (Houses drawing),

Unknown, Untitled, (Moose), Unknown, Untitled, (John Jr.) Rachel Brullier c. 1967,

Untitled (Foggy Highway), J.B.JR. c. 2007.

Published online at PublishingGenius.com Editorial Assistance: J

Star & Company Design: Ship of Fools Production

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