BJ Schaffer is Dead (essay) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bernard J. Schaffer

BJ SCHAFFER IS DEAD

Cornfield Indiana by Vincent Natale © 2009

wenty years ago I was famous. Not so famous that my torrid affairs with young starlets were covered by national magazines, and being thirteen at the time, that wasn ’t really much of a problem. I was famous enough that strangers followed me around the Montgomery Mall when I went shopping. Famous enough that even now, a lifetime away, I can still Google “BJ Schaffer ” and find web pages ranging from IMDB to Wikipedia that relate to acting jobs I did before I was old enough to drive. It is a surreal thought that, a hundred years from now, all of this information will exist in some massive computerized database, and there will be no mention of anything I’ ve accomplished since. I could cure cancer, win a Pulitzer, run for President, and someone, somewhere, would shrug and say, “Yeah, but didn ’t he used to be on TV?”

I have no one to blame but myself. When I was nine, I suddenly decided that I wanted to be an actor, and my parents were crazy enough to listen to me. We were directed for advice to the only person in my hometown with any professional acting experience. Bill Hickey had appeared in “Star Trek: The Motion Picture ” as an extra for about half a second, and was therefore qualified in our eyes. He told me to learn to sing, dance and act. If I got good enough at any of those three, the rest would fall into place.

Strangely enough, Bill was right.

I haven ’t thought much about this stuff for nearly twenty years, but by my recollection I won two major dance competitions, which secured me a meeting with Cathy Parker Management. She began getting me auditions, and in short order, I’d appeared in over twenty national television commercials, performed in two major productions at the Walnut Street Theater, done a skit on Saturday Night Live, and worked as a regular cast member on the Nickelodeon series “Don ’t Just Sit There. ”

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My mom recently visited the Walnut Street Theater, and was shocked to see my photograph still hanging in the lobby. I guess the cleaning person never got the memo advising them to take it down.

By the time I was twelve, my name appeared in the Horsham Township “Who ’ s Who ” Directory. It was a red booklet with the names of all of the important people in that small Pennsylvania town where I grew up. It was the same town where my dad had been born and raised, and where he served as a police officer. My grandfather and uncle lived there, too. Small towns have a strange way of reacting to celebrity. It’ s slightly infectious. At ten years old, I was given carte blanche to cease attending school with any kind of regularity. The superintendant and I were on a first name basis. It didn ’t matter what tests I missed, what school programs I did not get involved in, what educational foundation I lacked. They wanted me to perform at the talent show, which I did, dancing in a green and silver “ space man ” outfit designed by my mother. They wanted me to be in the school play. To this day, I can recite the lines of Prince Chulalongkorn, from “The King and I. ” When you are an ascending star, just beginning to acquire the smell of that alluring narcotic “fame ” , it’ s impossible for people to not want to attach themselves to you.

It was routine for me to go to school for a few short hours, then leave to be driven to New York City. I’d spend an hour in Manhattan auditioning, then return home. I did this several times a week, for about three years, until I finally began living in Manhattan. I remember my father looking at my first paycheck

for

“Don ’t Just Sit There ” in wonder. My weekly pay was roughly $1,800. My old man looked at me and said, “Jesus, B., you make more money than I do as a cop. ”

I spent every night learning lines, or practicing scenes for auditions. We constantly plotted which career move needed to be made next. The beat did not slow down on weekends. These were devoted to dance, voice and acting classes. To this day, I sometimes dream of riding in an empty car for endless stretches of the New Jersey Turnpike. The road goes on and on and I never arrive where I am going.

By 1988, at fourteen, I was burned out. You can only spend so many hours on the Turnpike, eating rest-stop cuisine. You can only spend so many nights in motel rooms. You can only go for so long before the reality of adolescence sets in. When your laurels rest on being the Boy Next Door, it’ s all downhill once your skin starts breaking out, your voice squeaks when you talk, and your body begins to change. Plus, there ’ s always another, cuter wannabe waiting in the wings. After four years of semi-celebrity,

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Dear Friends,

As usual, things rarely slow down for us at Philadelphia Stories, and this spring was no exception. With the introduction of our successful fiction writing workshops, taught by Aimee LaBrie and Marc Schuster, we ’ ve branched out into another area of professional development—one that Christine and I hope will continue to thrive.

This spring also saw the launch of our second title from PS Books, Marc Schuster ’ s The Singular Exploits of Wonder Mom and Party Girl at our Spring Fling on May 9th at the Swedish Historical Society. The event was another fun day of live music, Chinese Auction Items, and good food and company. The Spring Fling was also the culminating event in our spring fundraising campaign, which began with our online auction. This year we raised over $4,000 at the auction and another $2,000 at the Fling. This will help us to continue to publish a few more issues of Philadelphia Stories, but we still need your help. If you are not already a member, please consider becoming one today. As little as $20 gets you home delivery of Philadelphia Stories—and know that you are doing your part to help support the Delaware Valley ’ s vibrant writing community (see our member form on the inside back cover).

This summer will be just as busy. In June, Philadelphia Stories will co-host the second annual Rosemont Writer ’ s Retreat at Rosemont College and the free Philadelphia Stories Writer ’ s and Readers Series (sponsored in part by the Pennsylvania Humanities Council). In July, Philadelphia Stories will also host a variety of workshops and readings as part of the Chestnut Hill Book Festival.

And finally, we are pleased to announce our first serious prize for fiction. The Marguerite McGlinn Prize will be awarded to any American author for a work of short fiction up to 8,000 words. Submissions will be read between June 15-October 15, 2009 and the winning piece will be published in the Winter 2009/10 Issue. There is a $10 reading fee for each work submitted and the prize is $1,000. Elise Juska, author of Getting Over Jack Wagoner, The Hazards of Sleeping Alone, and One for Sorrow, Two for Joy will judge. Complete details are available on the website.

We hope that you have a happy and productive summer.

All the best, Carla & Christine

www.philadelphiastories.org

I just wanted to be a normal kid. That’ s the sign they hang on you when you are a child-actor. “He ’ s such a normal kid, ” they say. Bullshit. Normal kids play baseball. Normal kids get used to turning in homework assignments. Normal kids have friends. Real friends. Not phony show business friends.

Of course, when you remove someone from their natural habitat during the most fundamental years of their life, you can imagine it’ s not the easiest thing for them to simply get back into the swing of things. When I returned to my hometown in the middle of 9th Grade, I found myself a complete outcast. People had developed deep friendships, forming groups based on shared interests, which I could not hope to penetrate. Students took tests that they ’d had years to prepare for, even if it was by simply learning the discipline of doing their homework. I had none of those things. At that point,

Springtime Swirls by Allison Levin © 2009