Bryson Bryce was his real name. And by that I mean that this pseudonym is not his actual name, but that his actual name was equally alliterative, so much so that you’d have to clarify that it really was his actual name. Everyone always referred to him by both first and last name, even/especially when addressing him directly.*
And this made it amusing when he showed me the Bible he’d been issued after his confirmation classes, which had been accidentally embossed on the cover in gold letters, “Bryson Bryson,” as if his name should be made just slightly stupider.
We all had these Bibles because we were all dragged through some level of church indoctrination as defenseless children. In the Southern, suburban Seventies, atheism did not appear to be an option for the working class. Maybe for those ivory tower culture queens up North, but not here among the scrapyards and Big Lots. The tots were all dragged to church on Sunday, shown filmstrips about the Apostles, given a gold star on their Sampson and Delilah quiz, and sent home in a state of peer-approved salvation. South Carolina educational standards in play, I was passed through the confirmation turnstile myself, despite having misspelled “Christ” on all my paperwork.
Not only was this ritual never taken seriously by we tykes, but the more outlandish forms of evangelicalism were the subject of ridicule. And how could they not be? There was Ernest Angley, healing the sick and lame on television, smacking the Lord’s power into their foreheads with Chuck Norris precision.** We mimicked these tent revival antics on the playground with glee, bellowing Angley’s hillbilly incantations and slapping some Jesus into our fellow fourth graders. My Angley riff was clearly the best, still complimented today by those who felt its magic. Back at home, my friend Gnat and I would carry on entire phone conversations in dueling Pat Robertson impressions. Religion was high comedy.
So I wasn’t too surprised when Bryson Bryce, misprinted Bible in hand, went into a goofball missionary routine that day. He had his hair plastered into a Charlie McCarthy slick, his necktie still secured from his confirmation ceremony. He fixed his face into a wide-eyed, Fred Rogers perma-smile and started handing me the little church pamphlets he’d been given that day. He spoke softly and cheerfully like a fresh convert to the True Way.
“Take these and learn the truth, my friend. Feel the power of the Lord filling your senses with love and the promise of a better tomorrow.”
I was used to Bryson Bryce exhibiting odd behavior. He’d once attempted to beat the pogo stick record in the Guinness Book, hopping the length of the street again and again, dressed in a tuxedo for the occasion. (The freshly-paved street had to be reconditioned because he’d riddled the asphalt with little pogo punctures.) He’d constructed a “Christmas coffin” for the holidays one year, featuring a miniature Santa displayed in an open casket. He’d invented a pop star alter ego, a glitter rocker named David Boo, whose loyal fans would shout his last name at his sold-out concerts. (Boo’s biggest hit was called Cranberry Sauce, which consisted of the song’s title sung in quick repetition, followed by the crowd shouting “Boooooooo!”)
I worshipped Bryson Bryce. He, not the God of Angley, was my salvation. Bryson Bryce, four years older than me, opened a dimension of cultural irreverence and avant-garde invention to my know-nothing, Cub Scout existence. He introduced me to Devo and The Dickies, National Lampoon, Cruel Shoes, and Mr. Bill. He showed me how to play records backward and how to draw with the wrong hand. Bryson Bryce drew his own comics, wrote his own skits, and made up his own songs, all designed to ridicule the pious and fraudulent culture he found so endlessly hilarious. It was my destiny to follow his teachings.
So I was always happy to pop across the street and sit at the feet of my crackpot messiah. And I was laughing along with his missionary routine that day until I wasn’t. Eventually, it was clear that Bryson Bryce, starry-eyed and spooky in his ministerial zeal, wasn’t going to drop the act. He kept right on insisting that I heed the Good Word and fill my spirit with eternal light until I, fully disturbed by his commitment to the gag, took his pamphlets and went home.
I felt a bit like crying. I wondered for a minute if he’d really gone over, and looking at the pamphlets, wondered if I was actually expected to absorb this new influence as I had the punk records and underground comics. It didn’t seem likely. But why had he screwed with my head to that degree? I thought I was supposed to be in on the jokes. He’d seemed determined to genuinely frighten me.
I found myself reluctant to visit after that, and maybe that had been his intent. In the meantime, I carried on with my studies in the comedy arts and related peculiarities. There was a wealth of pop culture enticements you had to hide from your church-going parents in those days: Alice Cooper’s horror show Burlesque, Pryor and Carlin’s street lingo, R. Crumb’s illustrated perversions. And it’s fair to say that in that Mary Hartman/Pet Rock/EST era, things were getting slightly unhinged in the mainstream. There was this stand-up comic named Andy Kaufman, for example, who just wouldn’t drop the act.
And to not drop the act seemed to be the ultimate expression of irreverence, creating a level of uncertainty in the audience – Is this a joke? Are they a real band? Are they actually Satanists? Is he really wrestling those women? Is he really healing the sick? – that can qualify as a state of transcendence. There’s no relief in the payoff, the punchline, after which Red Skelton bids us goodnight and God bless. Instead, we go home confused, and maybe we stay that way.
I saw Bryson Bryce several times over the years, but we never connected again like I wished we could. He was always too distant, too pixelated, slightly removed from our mortal plain, a bit too spacey to get near. But he wasn’t passing out pamphlets, and he hadn’t, as far as I could tell, gone churchy. Or had he? Meanwhile, Andy Kaufman underwent psychic surgery for his cancer and died. Or had he?
The last time I saw Bryson Bryce was at my father’s funeral, in that same Methodist church the old man had dearly hoped would slap the Almighty into my soul (and correct my spelling). And there, with my father on display in his Christmas coffin, secure in the sanctity of this holy room he cherished, Bryson Bryce and I talked about old times and doubled over laughing about it all.
-A.H.
*It was around this time that, for some bizarre reason, my friends and I got into the habit of referring to each other by our mothers’ first names, which were all delightful. Jimmy was called Agnes, Travis was called Beatrice, and I, whose mother had been gifted with the most hilarious name of all, was called Dorcas.
**Quick Google: The greasy little huckster lived to be 100, proof of the healing power of the Almighty.
(And let’s not forget Ashley’s website, jam-packed with portraits and other drawings, his highly-affordable prints and books currently available, his eagerness for your portrait commission, and his contact email, thrdgll@gmail.com, where he longs to hear from you.)