Goofing on the superhero bear, his cardboard head - a likeness in size though not geometry - rests against the back of his carbon head, his greasy hair. The eyes are black duffle coat buttons spinning in clear plastic discs, like those found on a child’s stuffed toy circa 1950. The mouth is perpetually open as if just after a run so the human inside can parse his surroundings and act accordingly towards excited children and not the wall. Suspenders hold his oversize superhero pants around his waist. Toilet paper balls are stuffed and taped around his arms to provide convincing mass. The man inside the bear holds great esteem for the hero he replaces during cosmic emergencies.
Door to door insurance pays bills and creates space in an otherwise empty shell. When the red phone rings the bear must answer, even as the old woman across the table is ready to sign.
“Just listen. Go outside and hold onto your hat." Click.
“I’ll be right back. Consider the benefits of the twenty year plan, if only for your children’s sake.”
A silent, black mass drops casually from the sky onto the public road, blades spinning summer dust into blinding whirlwinds.
“There’s trouble with our visitors. Ben will take over here.”
The bear eats sky as Ben stumbles into the prospects living room, his body language matching exactly the uncomfortable gait worn by the bear at work. Delicately he lifts the teacup with his thumb and forefinger.
“Now. Where were we?”