The Teddy Bear Habit

by James Lincoln Collier

  So I had a long phone conversation about nothing with Stanky. Then I made a cold spaghetti and meatball sandwich, sat around listening to the radio, and jumped into bed at eleven o’clock when I heard Pop come whistling up the stairs.

  I went around to Wiggsy’s at two o’clock the next day for my regular Saturday lesson. It was raining that kind of cold, sad rain you get in New York in October. Pop made me put on rubbers and a raincoat and all that jazz, which bugged me, but I didn’t want to get him asking where I was going so I didn’t make a stink. The rain pattered on the sidewalk, and the cars slooshed along the wet streets. I walked down West Third Street, watching scrunched cigarette packs and stuff float along in the gutters, trying to decide whether I should just confess about the teddy to Wiggsy, or what.

  I hadn’t really decided anything when I reached his shop. I went up the steps. Through the wet glass door I could see him all blurred, sitting on his stool behind the counter fooling around with a guitar. I opened the door and walked in.

  The teddy was sitting on the glass counter, propped up against the cash register so he sat facing Wiggsy. It gave me the creeps to see him there. It was like suddenly finding yourself in a strange place. It was like suddenly not knowing where you are.

  Wiggsy lifted his big head up and gave me a slow look. One single cigarette dangled out of the bottom of his beard. He went on looking at me for a minute, and then he let his head go slowly down. He went on striking slow sad chords on the guitar. He was wearing an orange-and-white striped shirt and a red Egyptian fez. Hanging down his chest on a string around his neck was a real baby’s shoe, a little white one that was scuffed and used. Next to that great, fat belly, the teddy looked small and helpless; and I was scared. I said nothing.

  Wiggsy looked up at the teddy. “You like this song, teddy bear?” he said in a soft, low voice. “I hope so, because I wrote it for you. I call it 'Teddy Bear’s Lament.’”

  I got hot and red. I opened my mouth and shut it, and opened it again, and finally I blurted out, “How did you find it?”

  Wiggsy struck a long, slow minor chord on the guitar and went on looking at the teddy. “You know this kid, Ted? I didn’t know you were acquainted. He shook his head solemnly. “Tsk, tsk. I’m surprised at you, Ted, going around with bad companions. You know what happens to fellas who get mixed up with bad companions? They end up on the gallows.” He nodded seriously. “Yes sir, on the gallows.”

  Slowly he reached toward the teddy with his huge hand. With his thumb and forefinger he encircled the neck of the bear. Then he began to squeeze. The skin on the little head got tight, and its one eye began to pop out of the little depression it was sewed into. “Yes sir, Ted, the gallows,” Wiggsy said.

  I stood silently in the shop, staring at him, too scared to speak or move. He went on slowly tightening the noose until I was afraid the skin would start to split. Then suddenly he laughed and flung the teddy across the shop to me. I’m just putting you on, babe,” he said. “Don’t let me bug you.”

  I stayed in the middle of the shop. “It’s sort of a good luck charm for me.” I didn’t like Wiggsy anymore, and didn’t want to tell him anything about me, but I had to tell him something.

  He took a cigarette out of his beard and lit it. “That a fact, babe?”

  “I took it up to the audition, and I stuck it in the guitar to carry it back,” I lied.

  “Did I say there was anything wrong with it, babe? I was just curious. Do you carry it around with you a lot?”

  “No. Mostly I leave it at home in the bureau.”

  He took a suck on the cigarette. “You must take pretty good care of it, huh, babe?”

  It was a funny thing to ask; and I wondered about it. “Yes, I guess so,” I said.

  Then he changed the subject back to my audition and the television show and Mr. Woodward, and I had to tell him what had happened all over again. He told me, sure, he’d always known I was going to be a big success. He prophesied it. Just the other day he’d told some of the local hippies about me and how good I was getting. And he went on for a while this way, saying things that weren’t exactly true, and telling me how he’d go over the songs with me and help me to get them down just right. Oh, he spent so much time telling me how helpful he was going to be that he wasted most of my guitar lesson. I didn’t care. I didn’t like Wiggsy anymore. I didn’t trust him, and I was just as glad to get away from him as soon as I could.

  I decided not to tell anyone at school about the television show. I didn’t want to be a laughingstock in case the whole thing collapsed. They could decide to use bigger kids or cut the act altogether. Since I was a loser, there was a good chance that the government would ban television on the day before the show went on.

  I told Stanky, though.

  “What are you going to do about your old man?” he asked.

  “Aw, he hates television. He wouldn’t watch it if you paid him. He’ll never know.”

  “Suppose some friend of his sees it and calls him up?”

  “His friends don’t watch television, either. They can’t stand being brainwashed by the National Association of Manufacturers. If Pop found out that any of his friends were sneaking television programs he’d have them arrested.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Stanky said.

  I didn’t, either, but I was willing to take the chance. As long as he didn’t find out until it was all over, I wouldn’t mind being tortured so much. Of course if he found out, he’d sign me up to be drawn and quartered on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and burnt at the stake on the other days, and have my allowance cut off for a hundred years besides. But being a hero at school would take some of the pain out of it.

  There was still the problem of getting his signature on the release form. For a while I figured I’d just forget it. It was the simplest and safest thing to do. I could get Stanky or somebody who had good writing to do it. I mean after all, Mr. Woodward didn’t know what Pop’s signature looked like, and besides, he wasn’t likely to be suspicious. Most parents would fall over dead if their kids had a chance to go on television. Why should Mr. Woodward think Pop was any different?

  The trouble was that I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t mind lying to Pop a little when it was the only safe thing, and I only felt a little bit bad about using my lunch money for guitar lessons. Forging his signature was another thing, though. I didn’t want to do it. I knew especially that if he ever found out he’d feel sorrowful about it. That would make me feel so bad I’d try to be good, and then where was the fun in life?

  I had a better plan. It was risky, but it was a way to get Pop’s real signature; and later on if he got sore I could always say that it was his own fault.

  In school on Monday I gobbled my lunch as fast as I could and went down to the supply room, eating my cupcake and splashing crumbs all over the place. There was an old guy named Glover in charge. He was supposed to keep the place clean and check out supplies, but it seemed to me he spent most of his time reading the Daily News. Either he was a very slow reader, or he read the paper over and over again, for you could go down there just before school let out and he’d still be on page four or five.

  He had the paper spread out on the supply counter and was leaning over it, working his way through the story headlined:

  WHEREABOUTS OF HERMES SAPPHIRE BAFFLES POLICE

  About a week before some thieves had got into the Natural History Museum and swiped a quarter of a million dollars in rare jewels, including the Hermes Sapphire, which was supposed to be the world’s biggest sapphire, or roundest, or something. It was a pretty juicy mystery, and I knew I was going to have a hard time prying Glover away from it.

  “Glover,” I said. “Miss Hornet wants a trip-permission form.”

  He didn’t look up, but went on reading about the Hermes Sapphire. “Got a slip, sonny?”

  “No, she only wants one to check something. She said I didn’t need a slip.”

  He went on reading. “You gotta have
a slip, sonny. “

  “She said she’d give you one. Come on, Glover, I’m missing my lunch hour.”

  Finally he looked up at me, then back down to the paper. He hated to leave the Hermes Sapphire. That was clear. "I’m on my lunch hour, too, sonny,” he said grumpily. “Go get it yourself.”

  I went through the gate, took a slip, carried it back to my home room, and folded it into my math book. It was just a mimeographed form that said:

  _______________________

  (Name of student) has my permission

  to take a trip to ____________________

  (destination)

  on ____________

  (day)

  _______________________

  (Signature of parent or guardian)

  That’s all it was; but I hoped it would get me a trip to the studios of the United Broadcasting Company.

  After school I took the slip over to Stanky’s. Stanky has pretty good handwriting, and I got him to fill in the blanks so that it said:

  GEORGE STABLE

  (Name of student) has my permission

  to take a trip to WHITNEY MUSEUM

  (destination)

  on OCT. 30

  (day)

  ____________________________

  (Signature of parent or guardian)

  I stood by Stanky’s desk while he filled in the blanks, trying to imitate Miss Hornet’s handwriting as much as possible. “Boy, am I going to get into trouble if they find out about this,” he said.

  “Sorry about that,” I said.

  He rabbit-punched me in the arm. “Sorry about that you can’t hit me I’m wearing glasses,” he said.

  “I won’t if you get me a piece of your old man’s carbon paper.”

  So he got the carbon paper. I put it in my math book along with the mimeographed form. After that we had nothing to do so we lay around Stanky’s room listening to the radio and messing up his bed with some liverwurst we found in the icebox. The Stankys have a maid, but she lets us swipe.

  To make my plan work I had to catch Pop sometime when his brain wasn’t working too well. The best time for that was some morning when he was being a lousy mother, lying about in bed groaning instead of getting up, and telling me to clean my fingernails.

  I had a streak of bad luck, though. The next three mornings in a row he whipped out of bed first thing and began flailing around the place, shouting out orders and making delicious breakfasts of burnt toast and greasy fried eggs. He says, “George, I’ve got to make sure you get your vitamins,” but the truth is that he likes to eat a big breakfast himself. Besides, he always makes a huge mess in the kitchen, and that gives him an excuse to fool around washing the dishes and so forth instead of getting to work on Garbage Man.

  I got all into a sweat that I might be too late turning the permission form in to Mr. Woodward; or, worse, that he’d wonder what had happened and call up. Finally, Thursday night, Pop went over to Florio’s to have a beer. He stayed out late, and when morning came he just shouted out from his bed for me to get up and fix myself a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. So I got dressed and ate, moving as quietly as possible so that he wouldn’t start waking up and clearing his brain. When I was all ready I went into my bedroom and killed a little time until I was a couple of minutes late. Then I took out of my bureau drawer from underneath my shirts, where I’d hidden it, the special setup I’d prepared.

  The setup was a few pieces of paper clipped together. On top was the trip permission form I’d gotten from Glover. Just under that there were two or three sheets of old math homework, which I’d put there just in case he started to thumb through the stack. Next came the carbon paper, which I’d trimmed down a little so it wouldn’t stick out around the edges. Then came the form Mr. Woodward had given me. Finally, on the bottom, were two or three more sheets of old homework, for disguise. It had taken a little doing to work the thing up, for the signature line on the trip permission slip wasn’t in the same place as the line on the television form. But putting a fold in the television form and twisting it off center a little, I had got them lined up pretty well. I knew it didn’t have to be exact; nobody follows those signature lines perfectly anyway.

  The stack was clipped together tightly, but I was scared that if Pop started fumbling through the pages the whole thing might come apart. Then I might as well just jump out of the window to save him the trouble of heaving me out.

  I waited until I was about three minutes late. I got my coat on, grabbed my books and a ballpoint pen, and went out into the living room. Pop was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were open, but the rest of his face looked like it was still asleep. The blankets were all messed up, and his clothes were draped over a chair, not put away in the closet where they belonged.

  “I gotta go. I’m late,” I said.

  He said something that sounded like “Umph.”

  “You gotta sign this. I’m late.”

  He made the same noise. I decided it was more unk than umph. I shoved the papers and the pen at him.

  He rolled up on one elbow and started to read the note. “Unph,” he said.

  “Hurry,” I said. I’m late.” I was beginning to get shaky.

  “Hold your horses,” he said. He was beginning to wake up. He read through the note, and then he flipped it up and looked at the piece of homework underneath.

  I almost fainted from the agony. "I’m late, Pop,” I said.

  “Just hold your horses. How many am I supposed to sign?” He flipped up the next piece of paper.

  “Just the top.”

  “Relax,” he said, but he flipped the pages down again and signed on the line. “Be home for supper,” he said, handing me the stack of papers and flopping down again.

  I grabbed the stuff from his hands and peeled out of there. I didn’t slow down until I reached Tenth Street for fear that he’d suddenly leap out of bed and come charging up Sixth Avenue after me in his pajamas. But finally I stopped and peeked at the form. The signature was there all right. It was a little smudged, but unless you took a good look at it you wouldn’t notice that it was done with carbon paper. I counted on nobody taking a good look. So I threw away the school slip and the old homework, put the television form in my back pocket, and raced all the way to school, because by this time I really was late.

  I took the form up to Woodward and Hayes the next day. The secretary took it into Mr. Woodward while I stood around in all that carpeting and new furniture, thinking that when I got rich and famous I would have an office like it. Famous singers have offices where they sit around with their feet up making deals for records and television shows and getting waited on by a lot of managers and press agents and pretty girls and so forth. My office would have a small private soda fountain in one corner so I could have an egg cream anytime I wanted one. I sat there daydreaming about being rich and famous, and my future office; and I was just getting around to the part where they were giving me my own television show called the George Stable Hour, when the secretary came back and said, “Mr. Hayes is busy, but he says to tell you we start rehearsing next Monday. He wants you to come on up right after school.”

  I told her I’d be up at three-thirty, and left feeling sorry that I hadn’t got to see Mr. Woodward flip his cigarette lighter around. I couldn’t say I was too disappointed, though. The idea that I, me, George Stable was going to start rehearsing was so exciting that I skipped all the way up to Fifty-third Street to the subway, which was pretty silly for a big kid like me.

  On Monday I got the guitar, loosened the strings, and stuffed the teddy inside. Wiggsy was nice about letting me take the guitar. In fact it surprised me how nice he was. I had figured that he’d give me an argument or want some money for a deposit in case I broke something on it, but he didn’t. He said, “Take it, babe. Keep it until after the show. Save you running over here for it all the time.” As I say, I was surprised.

  I made a deal with Stanky to keep it in his closet on the shelf behind the box of sweaters. S
tanky said I could practice there if I wanted. Nobody was around Stanky’s place much during the day except the maid, and she didn’t care what we did.

  Rehearsals were great. I wasn’t especially nervous, just nervous enough to feel the excitement. Partly that was because I had the teddy where I could take a quick look at him when I needed to, and partly it was because I was saving the nervousness up for the show itself. It’s funny how it works: if you know you’re going to get a chance to be really nervous later on, you don’t get so nervous beforehand.

  There were six of us altogether. Four of us were supposed to dress up like the Beatles or something and sing a couple of songs. The other two would be understudies, in case somebody got sick. They wouldn’t decide who would be the understudies until later, Mr. Woodward told us, when they had a chance to find out more about us.

  Mr. Woodward was cool. He told us to call him Woody, and, man, did he have clothes. He had about a hundred sports jackets, with a special tie and a special pair of loafers to match each one. The only thing that stayed the same about him was his little mustache and his fake suntan.

  But Mr. Woodward was around to watch us rehearse only part of the time. Our real boss was a man named Damon Damon, which I figured to be a fake name. He was musical director for the show. To go with the fake name, he had a fake suntan like Mr. Woodward; and about half the time he talked like a girl. He wore crazy suits with four buttons on the jacket and buttons on the cuffs and buttons on the cuffs of his trousers, too. He always wore some crazy kind of a vest—pink or green or orange—with fancy glass or metal buttons all over it. He called us “dear” and “sweetheart” all the time. Pretty nearly every day he would start off by unbuttoning his jacket to show us his vest. “How do you like my waistcoat this afternoon, sweeties?” he would say. Then he’d tell us where he got it, and how much it cost, or about how some big celebrity gave it to him. The kids called him Damon Damon, the Button King, but we liked him, because he really knew what he was doing. Maybe he acted silly, but he knew all there was to know about music. The kids realized that Damon Damon, the Button King, could teach them a heck of a lot, and they respected him. He was always telling us stories about funny things that had happened to him, or about some famous singers who couldn’t read music. I learned more from him in two weeks than I had from Wiggsy and Mr. Smythe-Jones in a year.