C

C is for Conversations from Down the Hall

“What were you thinking?”

“What?”

“Sam just spent the last twenty minutes crying his eyes out, Jake! I don’t know what you were thinking!”

“I don’t know what I was thinking! Barb, tell me what the hell’s wrong!”

“This damn thing you got our son!”

“What?”

“This ragged fucking teddy bear! I don’t know where the hell you got it—“

“What teddy bear? What is that?”

“Don’t give me that!”

“Barb, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Look at it! This thing’s arm is barely hanging on. I’m surprised it doesn’t have bed bugs, or STDs or something. It looks like you pulled it out of a swamp. Ugh, it’s disgusting.”

“I want a hug.”

“Well don’t drop it on the rug! It’s going to leave a fucking stain!”

“Well it’s on you. I don’t blame Sam. It’s so creepy! Did you hear it? You couldn’t even put new batteries in the thing? It sounds like the fucking Devil, Jake.”

“Babe, look at me. I didn’t get him that teddy bear.”

“What? But he said you got it for him.”

“I didn’t get him any teddy bear.”

“Then where did it come from?”

“He probably grabbed it out of a dumpster.”

“He says he didn’t. He’s adamant he found it in his room. He said it was a present.”

“Well that’s nice but—Wait.”

“What?”

“Where did it go?”