Bert and Ernie: A Conversation

Sometimes, old friends help us make sense of things

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Bert stood at the kitchen counter, methodically arranging his bottle cap collection by color while eating a bowl of oatmeal. Plain with no sugar. Ernie sat at the long table behind him, working on his new rubber duckie jigsaw puzzle. An ambitious five-thousand piece thing-a-ma-jig.

“Mmph.” Bert held up a brown 1987 root beer cap. He lowered his eyebrows at it, then set it down with an annoyed grunt.

“What’s eating you, Bert?” Ernie didn’t look up, turning a yellow puzzle piece this way and that.

“Why does something always have to be eating at me? I’m just thinking, Ernie.”

“Pardon me, Bert. What are you thinking about?”

“Online relationships.” Bert turned around, leaning against the counter with his oatmeal. “People seem perplexed by them these days. There are many kinds. Friendships, romances, you name it. People don’t seem to know if those connections really mean anything. And if they do, how much do they mean, if they mean anything at all?”

Ernie looked up now, grinning. “Oh boy, here we go.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bert spooned oatmeal into his mouth irritably.

“Nothing, nothing.” Ernie waved a hand. “Continue with your fascinating observation about the internet.”

Bert glared at him. “Anyway. I feel lucky to have no such confusion.”

“Lucky you,” Ernie said cheerfully.

“My dog is my best friend…”

“Hey!” Ernie’s head shot up.

Bert didn’t even pause. “My, ahem, husband is the love of my life, and I am his. My neighbors stop and chat when they feel the urge.” He shifted a bottle cap. “I don’t have a big group of friends, but I have friends I like to spend time with individually to catch up.”

“You mean me,” Ernie said, pointing at himself with a puzzle piece.

“Sigh. Yes, Ernie. You.”

“Aww, Bert, you say such nice things.”

“I’m fun at a party or the local pub if the night is just right.”

Ernie snorted. “Fun. That’s one word for it. Remember when you explained the history of paperclips to the whole bar in…”

“They were interested, Ernie.”

“They were trapped. Between you and the bathroom!” Ernie slapped his chest and laughed.

Bert’s mouth twitched. “I also have a few pen pals.”

“Pen pals!” Ernie looked delighted. “Bert, you’re seventy, not one-hundred and seventy.”

“I know how old I am, thank you.” But Bert was softening “I’m trying to say something here. I’ve chosen this life I have, one small thing at a time. I am sure of where I stand and confident in my meaning to the people I am close to.” He turned to Ernie, arms crossed. “I don’t let the news or internet tell me how my life is going.”

“Okay, okay.” Ernie held up his hands. “So what’s got your feathers all ruffled?”

Bert shot him a look. “Siiiiiigh. I have a confession to make.”

Ernie raised an eyebrow.

“I am writing on a platform. It’s called Substack.”

“Ha! You? On a platform? That’s rich, Bert.” Ernie tilted his head, already grinning. “Wait a minute, what’s Substack?”

“It’s for readers and writers. And as you know…”

Ernie interrupted, “That’s you all right!”

“Yes, it is,” Bert said flatly. “So what you do is send out newsletters.”

“Newsletters?” Ernie’s face scrunched up in exaggerated confusion. “Like the homeowners association? ‘Please pick up after your dog’? ‘The trash pick-up date has been changed to Friday’. That’s fascinating stuff, Bert.”

“Yes, Ernie, like that, but something people want to read. You send out your writing.”

“Who wants it?” Ernie leaned forward, curious now.

“People want it.” Bert looked up, met his eyes. “Trust me. For every kind of writer, there are the same kinds of readers. The whole world is on Substack. If you put it there, people will read it.”

Ernie studied him for a moment. “Is that the point? People reading it? Is that what you want, Bert? An audience?”

Bert stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the street. Ernie waited.

“I dunno,” Bert said finally. “I have a big imagination. But an audience? Gosh. I love to read and I love to write. Ars Gratia Artis. You know.”

“Who hit you over the head with a dictionary? Ya big show off!” Ernie said affectionately. “Come on, Bert. Don’t you want people to read your work?” He paused, then added gently, “Didn’t you used to perform?”

Bert turned from the window. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. A long time ago. I played in a symphony. I also used to do some stage stuff… for fun.”

Ernie got up from the table and moved closer to Bert. “You played the tuba, but I never really hear you talk much about it. What was that like?”

Bert moved back to his bottle caps, picked one up, set it down. His oatmeal was cold. “Siiiiiigh. Gosh, I started when I was just three years old. I guess you could say the music was born in me.” He took his oatmeal bowl out to the sink. “I was disciplined as a kid. At first, I had to climb onto a stepping stool just to blow into the mouthpiece. The tuba is a big instrument. As I grew up, I began spending hours and hours of practice to make a song sound easy and fun for others.”

“That’s very sweet, Bert…”

“Don’t. Interrupt.” Bert shot him a look. “I had an idea when I was very young. I thought I could take people’s minds off their worries. Fill them up with music instead. Take them away from their troubles.”

Ernie leaned against the counter while Bert rinsed his dish, listening now, the teasing gone from his face.

“It seemed like giving away a little mini-vacation. One that people had time for and could afford.” Bert’s voice softened slightly. “I used to think about it when I watched The Price is Right. I’d hear Johnny Olson’s voice in my head.” He deepened his voice. “Come on down! You’ve been selected for a cozy hideaway vacation from those pesky bad thoughts…”

Ernie laughed, warm and genuine. “Nice way to imagine a kid’s band concert.”

“Ha!” Bert was animated now. “As a grown-up, when I played my tuba in the symphony, the feeling I had when everything was synchronized…When we all knew our parts and played as one…Ernie, it was a little mini-vacation for me, too. My mind was filled with music.”

Bert stopped, stood still. “I used to get choked up in my own seat.”

Ernie didn’t say anything, his expression soft.

“There was this one time when a famous composer came from Germany to conduct us on his own music. We made a recording for him.” Bert’s voice had gone thick. “I could barely make it through the piece without tearing up. Luckily, I could play that way. I was swept up. I couldn’t help it.”

“Bert,” Ernie said gently. “If you felt all that, why aren’t you still playing?”

“Siiiiiiigh.” Bert looked up at the ceiling. “I started hating the sound of the tuba.”

“What?” Ernie blinked.

“I know it sounds crazy.” Bert dried his oatmeal bowl, staring down into it. “I loved the feelings and the sound of the orchestra, but at a certain point… and I’d been at it for about twelve years or so at said certain point… the thought of spending my life alone in a practice room listening to the sound of my own tuba felt…unbearable.” He set the bowl down with finality. “I felt pulled to something else. Suddenly I was in a hurry.”

“Gee, Bert. So, what did you do?”

“Ornithology.” Bert put his hand on Ernie’s shoulder. “Pigeons, Ernie. You know that.”

“Oh, yeah, right!” Ernie nodded and laughed. “The pigeons.”

“For a long time. And now I write about it. Nice long boring stories about pigeons for people who enjoy nice long boring stories about…”

“Pigeons! I get it, Bert! I know why you’re on a platform!” Ernie was excited. “There are people out there just like you. Boring people who like oatmeal and bottle caps and might even have a paperclip collection. You’re not sad or looking for a new best friend or a big adoring audience. You just want to help the old boring people have a mini-vacation from their worries. Huh? Ya know what, Bert? You’re just the guy to do it!”

Bert looked at his old friend. “Mmph.” But his expression gave him away. He felt understood.

“Come on,” Ernie said, gesturing to the table. “Help me with this puzzle. I’ve been stuck on this section for twenty minutes.”

“It’s all the same shade of yellow, Ernie. What did you expect?”

“There he is.” Ernie grinned, pulling out a chair.

“Sigh.” But Bert sat down and began sorting the pieces.

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