TheBearJew
09-25-2011, 04:36 AM
Hastening time was a futile endeavor, but, as it seemed to Calvin, so was work. His failed attempts to will time forward also failed to deter his impending attempts. Instead, he glared longingly at his clock, praying for just the smallest skip; even a few minutes would be a welcome riddance. Alas, in their daily staring contest, time never once blinked. Not even for those few minutes.
Peeking stealthily over the cubicle walls, he saw no supervisor. So, crossing his arms on his desk, he placed his head down and let his mind wander.
As a child, Calvin spent most of his time alone. School was both a bore and torture; teachers often deplored his short attention span and bullies offered him no respite. His grades were poor: mostly C’s and D’s, but with no shortage of F’s. And this in elementary school. “It’s not that he’s stupid per se” teachers would explain to his parents, “it’s that he doesn’t apply himself.”
And apply himself he did not. Per se. In fact, he spent most of his time during class daydreaming, a habit he seemingly couldn’t break even in adulthood. It's a challenge to pinpoint the source of his grade-school incompetence. Obviously the subject matter wasn’t exactly thrilling. What kid’s interested in history books when there are comic books to be read? Still, other children managed to grasp bits and pieces; certainly more than he.
His parents could never quite understand the problem, either. “His vocabulary is so rich,” they would respond to the teachers. But the teachers would continue to tell them what they’d already heard in years past: Calvin had a clear case of ADD. On the car ride home, his mother would anxiously delve up dozens of examples attesting to Calvin’s cleverness. “And he always has those clever retorts,” she’d say. Or “look at all of the creative games he invents.” And his father would nod agreeably, but his tightened lips betrayed his desire to conceal his true feelings.
“What, you agree with them,” she’d asked, extravagantly enunciating agree so as to clearly show her feelings; to her, agreeing with Calvin’s teacher is equivalent to abandoning their son.
“Well,” he’d reply, trying to calm his wife. “I mean, it’s been a few years now. And nothing’s changed really. He’s still struggling in school, and it’s not as if he’s even working harder. He doesn’t even have any friends, really. All he seems interested in doing is playing with that damn tiger.”
In that damn tiger, Calvin found a shelter from the rest of the world. The tiger was no more than a way to escape reality. Or so his parents were told when they met with a child psychologist later that year. They had told Calvin that they were going out for dinner and a movie, which was believable enough. They did treat themselves to the occasional night out. But really, they were set to meet with Dr. Offenbacher. His father had succeeding in convincing his mother that there was something odd about Calvin’s behavior. “I know that you feel as if we’re betraying him,” he’d say, “but in reality, we need to do this to help him.” And in the end, she gave in. “Fine, we’ll meet with the psychologist and then decide.”
When they first arrived, their embarrassment was plainly seen: nobody they knew saw a psychologist, only outcasts. But having brought them there, Calvin’s father felt the duty to stay composed, and he dutifully calmed his wife down. Welcomed into Dr. Offenbacher’s office, they sat down uncomfortably. They made small talk, introducing themselves, until Dr. Offenbacher asked what brought them there.
And then, like a suddenly unclogged drain, it all spilled out. They started with the mundane; his failing grades, lack of friends, obsession with comics. And then they continued sharing dilemma after dilemma, like a clown pulling colorful handkerchiefs from his mouth. The horrified babysitters he’d scared away with his crazy antics (“One time he even locked the babysitter out of the house. Can you believe it? He was seven years old, for godsakes!”), the eating disorders (“And he literally acts as if the casserole was going to attack him”), the strange artwork (“What seven year-old makes cannibalistic snowmen? It’s grotesque!”), and of course, the imaginary friend; that damn tiger.
And so Calvin was sent to this child psychologist once a week.
For Calvin, school was just an obstacle, albeit a daily one that took up quite a lot of time. He just wanted to enjoy himself. He wanted to read comics, play outside, and watch TV. School merely got in the way. The way Calvin saw it, he was only truly free when exploring his backyard. There, he would never get called to the blackboard in order to hopelessly attempt to solve a math problem. And then subsequently be heckled by his classmates for his apparent ignorance. He would never get thrown into deep middle-right field where he would do the least damage until the one ball hit his way would fall cartoonishly on his head and drop to the ground. So, trapped at his desk, he escaped through his mind. Or, as his teachers dubbed it; daydreaming.
He would concoct complex plots right out of a Raymond Chandler novel, taking the role of Tracer Bullet, a hard-boiled PI in the vein of Philip Marlowe. He’d battle behemothic space monsters and explore the vast universe as Spaceman Spiff. Alternatively, he’d insert himself in prehistoric times, as a T-Rex on the hunt. And, bored of all that, he’d simply gaze up at the minute hands ticking slowly away. So very slowly.
He eagerly watched the clocks then the same way he does today, eagerly awaiting his release from school. And arriving home, he’d pause before entering his front door. Fear would grab a quick hold of him as he quietly trembled towards the door, hoping that this time, he’d been silent enough. But as always, he’d be hit by the speeding bullet that was that damn tiger. Hobbes.
He and Hobbes would have endless fun in the backyard and in Calvin’s room. They’d travel through time, trek through the Yukon, and fly to Mars. Every winter, they’d pull out the sled and head to the highest spot they could find, and slide down, always ending in a comical heap on the ground, in external pain, but internal bliss. Once, Calvin and Hobbes had even discovered a way to transmogrify Calvin into a little tiger, which in retrospect, was a clear sign of Calvin's devotion to his furry friend.
Hobbes, as Calvin would eventually grow to see it, was his companion against the ridiculousness of the world. He and Hobbes would go exploring their backyard tirelessly, discussing life and it’s difficulties. Today, he knows that Hobbes isn’t real, but he viewed him as a key element of himself, a consistent friend he could always turn to when in trouble. He looks at a picture hung up on his cubicle; his daughter, holding a teddy bear. And he smiles. He looks down at the clock, and his smile grows wider as he sees the workday is ever. Quickly saying his goodbyes to his co-worker’s, he grabs his coat and heads home.
Back at his house, his wife is preparing dinner. His daughter sits at the kitchen table coloring. Hearing the door slam, they exchange grins, and his daughter sprints towards her father, her pigtails shaking as she runs.
“Daddy!”
Pulling out of his grip, she excitedly recounts her day. “And then, in dance we learned two new moves. Look, dad, this one’s called the moonwalk,” she said, and Calvin just laughed, urging her to share more. She went on about her dance class for a few minutes, before becoming bored with the conversation and going back to her coloring.
“Hey Suz,” he said, kissing his wife on the cheek. She forced a smile. “What’s wrong?”
“Well,” she said, “school’s still not going great. Miss Dunham says Haley’s way behind on math. She thinks that she may have some learning disabilities.”
Calvin frowned. This conversation had become all to common for he and his wife. He always said the same thing; “she’ll be fine- she’s a great girl.” But that only upset his wife more and increased her exaggeration of the issue at hand.
Still, it’s the way he felt. “Don’t worry,” he said, “she’ll be fine- she’s a great girl.”
“That’s what you always say, but I’m worried.”
“You don’t need to- she’s going to be just fine.” She smiled and went back to preparing dinner. He walked upstairs and went into the living room and lay down on her couch, again remembering days that had long passed.
“So, do you and Hobbes talk often?”
“All the time,” he’d responded. “He is my best friend.”
“I see.” Dr. Offenbacher’s favorite words. I see. He’d then scribble something down into his notepad, and slowly run his hand through his beard before opening his mouth to speak again.
“Can anyone else talk to Hobbes?” He’d asked.
Calvin had never really thought about it before. I guess I’ve never seen him actually speak to anyone else, he thought to himself, but he knew better than to tell this to Dr. Offenbacher.
“Well, some people.”
“I see.” And Calvin frowned, knowing that the doctor had seen right through his attempted deception.
After a few meetings, Dr. Offenbacher called his parents in. He suggested that Calvin be placed on a mild psychostimulant to help him focus.
“And,” he added, “the stuffed tiger needs to go.”
His parents were skeptical at first, saying that medication may be a bit more than they’re comfortable with. After all, maybe this is part of his unique path to adulthood. The doctor’s condescending smile was all they needed to be convinced. And so it was.
Calvin started taking Ritalin, and his tiger was only allowed on weekends. With time, Calvin’s grades did improve. D’s and C’s became A’s and B’s, and teachers were amazed at Calvin’s newfound self-control. The cannibalistic snowmen were replaced by the more conventional and Calvin ate dinner with no complaints. His mother was worried that he had been playing outside less, but his parents were more or less satisfied with the results.
Calvin, however, missed Hobbes. At first, he would still go out and play, exploring the woods, but this quickly bored him, as the backyard seemed tinier without Hobbes. What once resembled vast rivers and mountains were now revealed as no more than small brooks on a hill, and his time machine more clearly construed as the mere cardboard box it was. Needless to say, exploring the backyard and travelling through time were no longer an option for Calvin.
He would still go out in the sled sometimes, but somehow, the hills seemed milder and the excitement had all but vanished.
Sleeping without him was difficult at first, and his parents endured a few sleepless nights, kept awake by Calvin's wailing. For Calvin, it took months. He would silently sob into his pillow, missing his furry friend who was always there to grip tightly whenever he’d hear creaks under his bed or groans from the closet. All he wanted was someone to share his grief with; but Hobbes was gone, stuffed into a box until the weekend.
And on weekends, when he’d get to play with Hobbes, things just weren’t the same. At first, it was as if Hobbes had gone on a short vacation, and each weekend they’d reunite joyously and resume their fun. But, in time, they grew apart. Hobbes responded less and less to Calvin’s doubts and worries, and Calvin felt that he no longer had a cache for all of his ideas and thoughts.
He achingly remembered the time they’d found the injured baby raccoon. It was dying, and Calvin had rushed back to the house to find his dad. They took care of it; fed it, kept it warm. He remembered struggling to sleep that night, and worrying about the raccoon with Hobbes until the early hours. And he remembers waking up the next morning, rushing to his dad to see if he’d checked on the raccoon. He had. And though his dad attempted to ease Calvin through his first encounter with death, his anger and grief lingered until comforted by Hobbes.
Lying on his couch, now 31, he let out a sigh. Where had it all gone? One day, he was a little kid, exploring the moon with his stuffed tiger, and the next, he was an adult. How things changed, he thought to himself.
As he grew up, his social situation improved, however slightly. He never was one of the popular kids, and certainly never a jock, but he had a small group of close friends. And, of course, he had Susie.
Susie was the only other person who truly appreciated Hobbes. She once went as far as to kidnap him, so that she could have him to herself. Calvin recalled his dismay in having found Susie and Hobbes holding a tea party. She saw the same things in Hobbes that Calvin had, and still did; the infinite possibilities and ideas, the safety and comfort, and the interminable affection. Hobbes was even at the scene of their first kiss; his face expressionless, but his innards grinning wildly.
As kids, he’d tormented her; telling her gross stories, blasting her with snowballs, cheating off of her in class. But, as they grew up, they grew closer, and by high school, they were inseparable. His parents were wary of the weightiness of their relationship despite their being so young, but Susie was such a good girl that they decided against ever voicing those thoughts.
By then, Hobbes had already been placed in the attic for good.
Those days, Calvin's main hobby was drawing comic books. Since middle school, he’d decided he’d write his own when he was older, and he’d already begun creating his own crude comic book, which he’d keep hidden in his desk drawer.
Eventually, when the comic book was a bit more polished, he showed a still rough draft to his delighted parents. They told him how great and talented he was, and he began to dream big. When he graduated high school, he told his parents confidently that he planned to pursue drawing one way or another. Their shared look of disappointment as he shared with them his hopes were enough to deter him despite their constant insistence that he “should study whatever interests you, sweetie.”
So, he studied accounting, and his parents applauded his practicality. “We’re so proud of you, Cal,” they’d tell him, and for some reason, this roused memories of the camping trips they’d take when he was younger. And how he would miserably sit in the rain, fishing with his thrilled father, who’d tell him, “it’s great, this is building character.”
And in college, busy with schoolwork and Susie, he stopped writing comic books altogether. He promised himself that he’d continue one day, but he never did.
¬¬¬--------------------------------------
“Daddy? Is everything okay?”
He turned his head and saw his wife and daughter staring at him. He forced a smile. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
Susie frowned, detecting the distress in Calvin’s voice. She always noticed the part of him lost when he had to put Hobbes away for good. Until Haley. With Haley, Calvin was his six-year-old, spiky haired self again, inventing magical worlds and saving them as Stupendous Man or Spaceman Spiff. They’d run off ecstatically into the backyard, returning hours later, panting exhaustedly.
Their daughter climbed onto the couch, crawling under Calvin’s arm.
“Can you tell me a story?”
“Of course, honey. Which one?”
“Um, I know. Tell the one about how the incredible Stupendous Man prevailed over the evil Babysitter Girl.”
Susie smiled, as Calvin began to retell the story for what must’ve been the hundredth time. Still even if it was, one would be hard-pressed to tell the difference. He still spoke with the same animated excitement as if it was happening that instant. He’d stand up and jump around, re-enacting key moments of the story. Haley would lose herself in his storytelling, and this time, Susie sat down to join her. It was a story one didn’t want to miss.
Peeking stealthily over the cubicle walls, he saw no supervisor. So, crossing his arms on his desk, he placed his head down and let his mind wander.
As a child, Calvin spent most of his time alone. School was both a bore and torture; teachers often deplored his short attention span and bullies offered him no respite. His grades were poor: mostly C’s and D’s, but with no shortage of F’s. And this in elementary school. “It’s not that he’s stupid per se” teachers would explain to his parents, “it’s that he doesn’t apply himself.”
And apply himself he did not. Per se. In fact, he spent most of his time during class daydreaming, a habit he seemingly couldn’t break even in adulthood. It's a challenge to pinpoint the source of his grade-school incompetence. Obviously the subject matter wasn’t exactly thrilling. What kid’s interested in history books when there are comic books to be read? Still, other children managed to grasp bits and pieces; certainly more than he.
His parents could never quite understand the problem, either. “His vocabulary is so rich,” they would respond to the teachers. But the teachers would continue to tell them what they’d already heard in years past: Calvin had a clear case of ADD. On the car ride home, his mother would anxiously delve up dozens of examples attesting to Calvin’s cleverness. “And he always has those clever retorts,” she’d say. Or “look at all of the creative games he invents.” And his father would nod agreeably, but his tightened lips betrayed his desire to conceal his true feelings.
“What, you agree with them,” she’d asked, extravagantly enunciating agree so as to clearly show her feelings; to her, agreeing with Calvin’s teacher is equivalent to abandoning their son.
“Well,” he’d reply, trying to calm his wife. “I mean, it’s been a few years now. And nothing’s changed really. He’s still struggling in school, and it’s not as if he’s even working harder. He doesn’t even have any friends, really. All he seems interested in doing is playing with that damn tiger.”
In that damn tiger, Calvin found a shelter from the rest of the world. The tiger was no more than a way to escape reality. Or so his parents were told when they met with a child psychologist later that year. They had told Calvin that they were going out for dinner and a movie, which was believable enough. They did treat themselves to the occasional night out. But really, they were set to meet with Dr. Offenbacher. His father had succeeding in convincing his mother that there was something odd about Calvin’s behavior. “I know that you feel as if we’re betraying him,” he’d say, “but in reality, we need to do this to help him.” And in the end, she gave in. “Fine, we’ll meet with the psychologist and then decide.”
When they first arrived, their embarrassment was plainly seen: nobody they knew saw a psychologist, only outcasts. But having brought them there, Calvin’s father felt the duty to stay composed, and he dutifully calmed his wife down. Welcomed into Dr. Offenbacher’s office, they sat down uncomfortably. They made small talk, introducing themselves, until Dr. Offenbacher asked what brought them there.
And then, like a suddenly unclogged drain, it all spilled out. They started with the mundane; his failing grades, lack of friends, obsession with comics. And then they continued sharing dilemma after dilemma, like a clown pulling colorful handkerchiefs from his mouth. The horrified babysitters he’d scared away with his crazy antics (“One time he even locked the babysitter out of the house. Can you believe it? He was seven years old, for godsakes!”), the eating disorders (“And he literally acts as if the casserole was going to attack him”), the strange artwork (“What seven year-old makes cannibalistic snowmen? It’s grotesque!”), and of course, the imaginary friend; that damn tiger.
And so Calvin was sent to this child psychologist once a week.
For Calvin, school was just an obstacle, albeit a daily one that took up quite a lot of time. He just wanted to enjoy himself. He wanted to read comics, play outside, and watch TV. School merely got in the way. The way Calvin saw it, he was only truly free when exploring his backyard. There, he would never get called to the blackboard in order to hopelessly attempt to solve a math problem. And then subsequently be heckled by his classmates for his apparent ignorance. He would never get thrown into deep middle-right field where he would do the least damage until the one ball hit his way would fall cartoonishly on his head and drop to the ground. So, trapped at his desk, he escaped through his mind. Or, as his teachers dubbed it; daydreaming.
He would concoct complex plots right out of a Raymond Chandler novel, taking the role of Tracer Bullet, a hard-boiled PI in the vein of Philip Marlowe. He’d battle behemothic space monsters and explore the vast universe as Spaceman Spiff. Alternatively, he’d insert himself in prehistoric times, as a T-Rex on the hunt. And, bored of all that, he’d simply gaze up at the minute hands ticking slowly away. So very slowly.
He eagerly watched the clocks then the same way he does today, eagerly awaiting his release from school. And arriving home, he’d pause before entering his front door. Fear would grab a quick hold of him as he quietly trembled towards the door, hoping that this time, he’d been silent enough. But as always, he’d be hit by the speeding bullet that was that damn tiger. Hobbes.
He and Hobbes would have endless fun in the backyard and in Calvin’s room. They’d travel through time, trek through the Yukon, and fly to Mars. Every winter, they’d pull out the sled and head to the highest spot they could find, and slide down, always ending in a comical heap on the ground, in external pain, but internal bliss. Once, Calvin and Hobbes had even discovered a way to transmogrify Calvin into a little tiger, which in retrospect, was a clear sign of Calvin's devotion to his furry friend.
Hobbes, as Calvin would eventually grow to see it, was his companion against the ridiculousness of the world. He and Hobbes would go exploring their backyard tirelessly, discussing life and it’s difficulties. Today, he knows that Hobbes isn’t real, but he viewed him as a key element of himself, a consistent friend he could always turn to when in trouble. He looks at a picture hung up on his cubicle; his daughter, holding a teddy bear. And he smiles. He looks down at the clock, and his smile grows wider as he sees the workday is ever. Quickly saying his goodbyes to his co-worker’s, he grabs his coat and heads home.
Back at his house, his wife is preparing dinner. His daughter sits at the kitchen table coloring. Hearing the door slam, they exchange grins, and his daughter sprints towards her father, her pigtails shaking as she runs.
“Daddy!”
Pulling out of his grip, she excitedly recounts her day. “And then, in dance we learned two new moves. Look, dad, this one’s called the moonwalk,” she said, and Calvin just laughed, urging her to share more. She went on about her dance class for a few minutes, before becoming bored with the conversation and going back to her coloring.
“Hey Suz,” he said, kissing his wife on the cheek. She forced a smile. “What’s wrong?”
“Well,” she said, “school’s still not going great. Miss Dunham says Haley’s way behind on math. She thinks that she may have some learning disabilities.”
Calvin frowned. This conversation had become all to common for he and his wife. He always said the same thing; “she’ll be fine- she’s a great girl.” But that only upset his wife more and increased her exaggeration of the issue at hand.
Still, it’s the way he felt. “Don’t worry,” he said, “she’ll be fine- she’s a great girl.”
“That’s what you always say, but I’m worried.”
“You don’t need to- she’s going to be just fine.” She smiled and went back to preparing dinner. He walked upstairs and went into the living room and lay down on her couch, again remembering days that had long passed.
“So, do you and Hobbes talk often?”
“All the time,” he’d responded. “He is my best friend.”
“I see.” Dr. Offenbacher’s favorite words. I see. He’d then scribble something down into his notepad, and slowly run his hand through his beard before opening his mouth to speak again.
“Can anyone else talk to Hobbes?” He’d asked.
Calvin had never really thought about it before. I guess I’ve never seen him actually speak to anyone else, he thought to himself, but he knew better than to tell this to Dr. Offenbacher.
“Well, some people.”
“I see.” And Calvin frowned, knowing that the doctor had seen right through his attempted deception.
After a few meetings, Dr. Offenbacher called his parents in. He suggested that Calvin be placed on a mild psychostimulant to help him focus.
“And,” he added, “the stuffed tiger needs to go.”
His parents were skeptical at first, saying that medication may be a bit more than they’re comfortable with. After all, maybe this is part of his unique path to adulthood. The doctor’s condescending smile was all they needed to be convinced. And so it was.
Calvin started taking Ritalin, and his tiger was only allowed on weekends. With time, Calvin’s grades did improve. D’s and C’s became A’s and B’s, and teachers were amazed at Calvin’s newfound self-control. The cannibalistic snowmen were replaced by the more conventional and Calvin ate dinner with no complaints. His mother was worried that he had been playing outside less, but his parents were more or less satisfied with the results.
Calvin, however, missed Hobbes. At first, he would still go out and play, exploring the woods, but this quickly bored him, as the backyard seemed tinier without Hobbes. What once resembled vast rivers and mountains were now revealed as no more than small brooks on a hill, and his time machine more clearly construed as the mere cardboard box it was. Needless to say, exploring the backyard and travelling through time were no longer an option for Calvin.
He would still go out in the sled sometimes, but somehow, the hills seemed milder and the excitement had all but vanished.
Sleeping without him was difficult at first, and his parents endured a few sleepless nights, kept awake by Calvin's wailing. For Calvin, it took months. He would silently sob into his pillow, missing his furry friend who was always there to grip tightly whenever he’d hear creaks under his bed or groans from the closet. All he wanted was someone to share his grief with; but Hobbes was gone, stuffed into a box until the weekend.
And on weekends, when he’d get to play with Hobbes, things just weren’t the same. At first, it was as if Hobbes had gone on a short vacation, and each weekend they’d reunite joyously and resume their fun. But, in time, they grew apart. Hobbes responded less and less to Calvin’s doubts and worries, and Calvin felt that he no longer had a cache for all of his ideas and thoughts.
He achingly remembered the time they’d found the injured baby raccoon. It was dying, and Calvin had rushed back to the house to find his dad. They took care of it; fed it, kept it warm. He remembered struggling to sleep that night, and worrying about the raccoon with Hobbes until the early hours. And he remembers waking up the next morning, rushing to his dad to see if he’d checked on the raccoon. He had. And though his dad attempted to ease Calvin through his first encounter with death, his anger and grief lingered until comforted by Hobbes.
Lying on his couch, now 31, he let out a sigh. Where had it all gone? One day, he was a little kid, exploring the moon with his stuffed tiger, and the next, he was an adult. How things changed, he thought to himself.
As he grew up, his social situation improved, however slightly. He never was one of the popular kids, and certainly never a jock, but he had a small group of close friends. And, of course, he had Susie.
Susie was the only other person who truly appreciated Hobbes. She once went as far as to kidnap him, so that she could have him to herself. Calvin recalled his dismay in having found Susie and Hobbes holding a tea party. She saw the same things in Hobbes that Calvin had, and still did; the infinite possibilities and ideas, the safety and comfort, and the interminable affection. Hobbes was even at the scene of their first kiss; his face expressionless, but his innards grinning wildly.
As kids, he’d tormented her; telling her gross stories, blasting her with snowballs, cheating off of her in class. But, as they grew up, they grew closer, and by high school, they were inseparable. His parents were wary of the weightiness of their relationship despite their being so young, but Susie was such a good girl that they decided against ever voicing those thoughts.
By then, Hobbes had already been placed in the attic for good.
Those days, Calvin's main hobby was drawing comic books. Since middle school, he’d decided he’d write his own when he was older, and he’d already begun creating his own crude comic book, which he’d keep hidden in his desk drawer.
Eventually, when the comic book was a bit more polished, he showed a still rough draft to his delighted parents. They told him how great and talented he was, and he began to dream big. When he graduated high school, he told his parents confidently that he planned to pursue drawing one way or another. Their shared look of disappointment as he shared with them his hopes were enough to deter him despite their constant insistence that he “should study whatever interests you, sweetie.”
So, he studied accounting, and his parents applauded his practicality. “We’re so proud of you, Cal,” they’d tell him, and for some reason, this roused memories of the camping trips they’d take when he was younger. And how he would miserably sit in the rain, fishing with his thrilled father, who’d tell him, “it’s great, this is building character.”
And in college, busy with schoolwork and Susie, he stopped writing comic books altogether. He promised himself that he’d continue one day, but he never did.
¬¬¬--------------------------------------
“Daddy? Is everything okay?”
He turned his head and saw his wife and daughter staring at him. He forced a smile. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
Susie frowned, detecting the distress in Calvin’s voice. She always noticed the part of him lost when he had to put Hobbes away for good. Until Haley. With Haley, Calvin was his six-year-old, spiky haired self again, inventing magical worlds and saving them as Stupendous Man or Spaceman Spiff. They’d run off ecstatically into the backyard, returning hours later, panting exhaustedly.
Their daughter climbed onto the couch, crawling under Calvin’s arm.
“Can you tell me a story?”
“Of course, honey. Which one?”
“Um, I know. Tell the one about how the incredible Stupendous Man prevailed over the evil Babysitter Girl.”
Susie smiled, as Calvin began to retell the story for what must’ve been the hundredth time. Still even if it was, one would be hard-pressed to tell the difference. He still spoke with the same animated excitement as if it was happening that instant. He’d stand up and jump around, re-enacting key moments of the story. Haley would lose herself in his storytelling, and this time, Susie sat down to join her. It was a story one didn’t want to miss.