P-Y-N-K

He's a little bit of a thing, faded and pilled, with red dots from the sheets. And he's lost that new bear softness. He's a pink and white baby Gund. I can't seem to find another, not that I'm looking. I sleep with him every night, nestled in the crook between my chin and chest. I fall asleep on my back but inevitably flip to one side. He either gets tossed and re-gathered when I get up to pee, or he survives the turn and is spooned, cradled, and held tight to me. I am lost without him. I'll turn on every light in the house if I can't find him but he's always under the bed or my girlfriend snags him. She has her own, a replica of a bear she had as a kid, but she is gluttonous and hoards all the bears. He is irresistible, so beyond mild agitation, I can't blame her. I bought him at FAO Schwartz in Boston and he has become a MAJOR player in our relationship.

I slept with a bear early on, Bob, a panda stuffed with little styrofoam balls. I know this because after he disappeared I found his lifeless body near the trash bin in the garage, a place I wouldn't visit for all the candy in the world. But I was distraught. When I picked him up his body felt limp and liquidy, his one eye glimmered with the eternal blue flame of the water heater. I think the trauma of that event might have sworn me off getting close to any other bears. Although there was a coarse, flame red, chicken, embroidered with green and yellow sequins my grandmother brought me from Poland. But he lacked panache, was completely unsnuggleable, and made my skin itch the same way the insulation in the attic did whenever I snooped for early Chrismas presents. It was only later in life that I understood why Mom called him asbestos chicken.

In my late teens there was Monium, another panda, I'll let you figure out why I called him that. But he was way too big to sleep with and brought back flashbacks of when Mom used to prop me up in a pile of stuffed animals with my bottle, safe and sound, so she could go mix a drink and chain smoke. I have to admit even in my late thirties, freakishly large, novelty, stuffed bears freak me out.

At Plymouth State College, where I majored in drug dealing, altered states of consciousness, and drunken makeouts, I had a brown bear, but someone bearnapped him and he was never heard from again.

Which brings me to P-Y-N-K. He is alive, in me, and speaks through me. You could say I channel him. He is his own bear. With his own personality. He loves crunchy fish, fresh kitty if it's sliced thin and is really lean, and has recently had to stop eating squirrels due to their high cholesterol content. The genesis of his voice came from when I used to live with my mother. She kept ducks in a pen under the porch and bunnies in thier own cage further out in the yard. In the morning, following strict written orders to feed them and give them fresh water, I'd often find the ducks loose and lounging under the bunny cage. I was only a month or two into my sobriety so I'd sing to them in a cute, squeaky voice I knew only they'd understand:

Bunnies and Duckies
Bunnies and Duckies
Bunnies and Duckies
Just don't mix.

Because then they'd be

Dunnies and Buckies
Dunnies and Buckies
Dunnies and Buckies
That's a neat trick.

And so now he lives with us. He waits patiently for us to fall asleep on the couch and wake up in the wee hours, trudge up the stairs, and into bed where I'll joke if I can't find him, "Pynk is probably out fighting crime." Either that or Rachel snagged him before I could.