|
THE DAY'S LAST
PEACE BEAR Even before the first block of inbounds today, there was a buzz. As I pushed my way through the predawn testosterone circle of some noisy rampers, I heard typical rowdy sports-talk: who was retiring, who was traded, who did they get for him, how much was he worth? But then I heard unfamiliar words-"my first Garcia," "Valentino bear," "Shamrock teenie beanie." Then: "Don't give us that look, Babygirl. It's all about the money." But as I walked out of the room I distinctly heard: "oooh, cocker spaniel. That's a really cute one." A break room credo: if you have to ask you won't understand. I asked anyway. In a secret room in Terminal F, for employees only, the O'Hare gift shop megapoly was selling off their extra stock of retired-- not discontinued, but retired-- Beanie Babies. Once I almost bought a Beanie Baby, a cute little snowman marketed for the Christmas season. I had a fantasy that I would run into at least one kid that month, who would think a gift appropriate to the season. I didn't ever run into kids, but thought this year might be different, might make all the difference. Five dollars-- I made that in an hour! Then I saw the tag: Ty, Inc., handmade in China. I put it back. I couldn't allow a child, even an imagined one, to find cheer in a product made by exploiting other children, the elderly, an entire population of impoverished workers, all in the service of the global market of consumer Christmas. I put it back. I thought about it, twice, but I put it back, cursing my inescapable conscience. But still I wanted to understand, so today I took a walk to Terminal F with Tim Nolan and Johnny Colon. "Where you off to, Manning? You got a plane in range," shouted my crew chief. But I was already gone. When the doors finally opened, a guard inspected employee IDs and admitted the first twenty, but stopped after Tim, leaving Johnny and me outside looking in. On a folding table were spread rainbow tie-dyed Peace Bears, which men snatched up by the handful. "Limit four!" shouted an Andy Frain, which only fueled the melee. Tim Nolan stood facing us holding several Peace Bears in each hand, arms waving above his head, as if he were parking a plane. In the silent communication of we who live among the din of jet engines, he was asking: "Should I hold a few for you?" or, "Mommy, can I please?" or, "Ha Ha, I got mine!" Actually, I couldn't tell what he was saying, but I shook my head no anyway. Quietly macho Johnny Colon whispered passionately, unselfconsciously: "That's a really cute bear." The line was silent, breathless. Tim wandered away, confused by my ambivalence and Johnny's new effusiveness. Ten seconds more and the table was empty and the mob behind me sighed and groaned. Male groans, the type they emit when someone misses a pass or the opportunity to score. As new people joined the line, a riotous cry-- "they had Peace Bears but they're all gone!" Inexplicably, Tim returned to the table and put back one of his Peace Bears. I was first in line, so the crowd cheered for me. I inched back a little, hoping against logic that Johnny'd forget his manners and steal a doll from the only girl in line. A loud roar of empathetic protest arose when a pilot ran to the table and grabbed the bear. Ignoring the taunts he moved to another corner of the room and laid out a bunch of bears side by side. He examined every forced-labored stitch meticulously, held them up at different angles under the fluorescent light, until finally, using some unknown criteria, he selected his favorites. To my sudden and unexplainable delight, he returned to the table and put his unchosen two back. At that instant, the guard let us in and, close on Johnny's heels, I grabbed the last unchosen Peace Bear. Everyone howled joyfully for me and, caught in the energy of the moment, I too filled with joy. I held him in both hands, thumbs in belly, staring into his shiny black eyes the way one might a pet or a lover, searching for something that will be forever unspoken. I didn't connect. His eyes were cold and uncommunicative, and his fur was pretentious. The peace sign on his chest was a cruel mockery. I felt blind with rage at my own self-betrayal in this quest for understanding, as his stitched W-shaped smile taunted me. But how could I put him back with everyone watching, waiting? How could I leave without buying something? I have this nightmarish anxiety whenever I leave stores, resenting the guards whose suspicious eyes say: "She just stole something. No one goes into a store and buys nothing!" But this was worse. I knew these people, and they thought they knew me. For five years I'd been doing undercover fieldwork studying the effects of mass consumer culture on the working lower classes. Any explanation I could give for not buying the Peace Bear would blow my carefully crafted cover. Be strong, I thought, I've been through worse tests than this-- feigning interest in discussions about the new Air Jordans, riding the employee bus out to the parking lot and sneaking back to take public transportation, hiding my books behind Circuit City circulars from the Sunday Sun-Times. My crew chief showed up, gave me the "get back to work sign." I had to think fast. I thought of my best friend's baby in range, to be named Owen William Gomez, or if I had my way, Gomez William Gomez. I scanned the loot and spotted a plain brown monkey named Bongo. Bongo reminded me of my father's childhood monkey Jocko, who was handmade with love (or maybe, sixty years ago, with domestic child labor) with stitches for eyes. I can only imagine what atrocities Jocko suffered in my father's young hands. In his older hands, he gave a tattered Jocko a pirate eye patch. After Dad broke his neck at 56, he put the bolts that had screwed the halo into his skull into Jocko's neck-- like a voodoo doll absorbing life's mishaps through triumphant silliness. Now Jocko sits on my shelf, pirate eye patch, blood and bone-encrusted Frankenstein bolts, reassuring me and making me laugh in my father's absence. The Bongo box was full so I reached down deep and buried my Peace Bear. As I hurried out, men I didn't know laughed and mussed my hair. I smiled at them and at my new friend Bongo in my brown paper bag and at the unexpected reward that would come to anyone who ventured deep enough into the box of Bongos. Or maybe instead the discovery would lead to fisticuffs, like I heard erupted the day before over the day's last Peace Bear. Either way, I smiled, because that's the nature of inescapable conscience. Like ancient ogres or oppressive Truth, it will only release you if you can make it laugh. |
|
|
|
Last updated: Saturday, May 16, 1998 |