The Bear

Sits sideways on a table, edge of the first room, going into the second. The mall is in front of him, with its jeans and jewelry and jaded shoppers looking to spend a buck. And behind him, an enormous, hideous, pink plastic tree, filled with goodies to tempt the utmost of Scrooges. Below, furry purses that match his own skin. Large and in charge, he is on sentry duty, a fate destined for the next three months by the the one-hundred-fifty price tag dangling in the back. Customers and associates come and go, but he stays, watching.

And then, a change. Slowly his upper body begins to slide towards his lower. They meet. Quickly, he is jerked upwards, but the slide resumes. And then, he lands on the floor, all limbs akimbo. Waiting to be rescued from his belly-up position. As he is. But success does not come to the bear. Again he is no longer sitting; instead his head is located somewhere between his knees. Perhaps he is feeling sick. Or defeated from his seemingly simple mission- to sit in his designated station in the store and protect it from all things mythical and real. He exists to do this job, yet he cannot. Still he remains, hoping, until the moment-

"Nettie, didn't I tell you to quit touching stuff already?!"