I sat bolt upright in the bed as a crash of thunder shook the whole house. White light flooded the room and I could see thirty-five sets of glass eyeballs looking back at me. “Whooahhhyadadayayda!” I said after regaining my senses.
I was house-sitting for a friend, and sleeping in their daughter’s room. Stuffed animals are snugly and cute when their yours; but when the belong to other people, those cutie creatures are scary, ugly, and frightening–like Satan or Linda Tripp.
My childhood stuffed animal was named Ted E. Bear.
He was made by my Great Aunt Helen. And because Aunt Helen has a slight vision problem (if she squints she can identify large objects like the Hoover Dam), Ted E. Bear has unique physical features not found on any old ordinary bear. Ted E.’s tongue comes out of his ear. His ear, while we’re on the subject, is attached to his foot. Ted also gives a literal meaning to “eyes on the back of his head.”
But I loved that bear. We went everywhere together. Some less charitable toddlers sometimes yelled “Hey Morgan, where’d you get the fuzzy octopus?” but I payed them little heed by consoling myself that Ted might pay them a visit later to collect their kidneys.
Everyone should, however, outgrow their stuffed animals. Most men know the sickening feeling you get when you see that the girl you’ve been dating for three weeks has the world’s largest collection of Precious Moments and Troll dolls.
And there’s nothing worse than a 37 year-old executive clutching a ratty, disease-fettered, bug-eyed remnant of an animal with a stupid name like “Bobo” or “Rumpus.” Especially if that person happens to be your lawyer.
I remember the day I outgrew Ted. I was seven years old and had piloted my Radio-Flyer wagon into my grandmother’s shrubbery. The high-speed chase was subsequently blamed on my three sisters who had a blood/Kool-Aid content of 1.37–eight times over the legal spastic limit. They weren’t fit to be driving, and unfortunately they managed to escape without serious injury. I however, was rushed to the hospital.
Uncle Bubba, who in reality was Dr. James Morgan, was there to put my chin back on. It took nine stitches and I remember it smarting a lot. Luckily, I had brought Ted, whom I placed directly over my eyes so as not to see the carnage and mayhem that was my face. Uncle Bubba’s nurses cooed over me and my “cute little . . . er . . . stuffed squid” and told me how brave I was.
When I told the young, attractive, blue-eyed, blonde-headed nurse that, “I got these wounds riding a motorcycle. These might be my last few moments here,” Uncle Bubba must have figured I was getting a bit too old for stuffed animals. He said, “Morgan, son, do you know what to do when it hurts?”
“Take drugs?,” I said.
“Count to ten, boy. And if it really hurts, swear.” With that, Uncle Bubba sent the nurses out of the room (he was a gentleman) and then said, “Okay boy, go at it.”
“DANG! DARN! SHOOT!” I hollered as Uncle Bubba stitched a few more sutures.
“Is that the best you can do, Morgan? Why don’t you try #*%$ flim-flam son-of-a-no-good fire-starting %*#@ heap of $#@*!”
I gasped. I’d never heard language like that from anyone other than maybe my mother when she occasionally tripped over my Evil Kinevil toy. But the good doctor let me repeat everything and afterwards I noticed that my chin didn’t hurt so bad anymore. That day, my kindly uncle taught me a very valuable lesson about life that I have been ever mindful of since–profanity is good.
When he called the nurses back into the O.R., he told them I was a real man and that I had the battle scars to prove it. I think those nurses swooned to humor my good-looking uncle, but at the time I was convinced it was my daring-do. Or maybe it was Ted. So I’ve kept him around just in case.
—Morgan Murphy