Some Friends Don't Judge

Many people thinks it's cute how I carry my little stuffed penguin around wherever I go. They think it's sweet that Ive become so attached to an inanimate stuffed toy. When I tell them his name is Chubsy and he loves snow cones and hot dogs and never really liked the NBA's luxury tax rule, some coo quietly about the sweetness of youth and the innocence some people manage to hold onto longer than others. My big brother, Ken, isn't one of those people.

Ken tells me to get rid of Chubsy, but Chubsy is my only real friend. I'm 12 years old and maybe a little old for stuffed animals from what I gather from the malicious heckling I get at school, but the other kids don't bother me with their "penguin boy" chants and when they call me a baby. It's not like I'm sucking on my thumbs or carrying a blanket around like Linus from the Peanuts comic strip for comfort. Chubsy is really my friend. He stays either in my desk or my backpack most of the school day and only comes out to play at recess or during lunch if I eat alone.

At least Andy isn't afraid to be heckled either. He sits and eats with me some days when he can, but he has a fragile immune system due to complications when he was born and can't always come to school. Those days I hang out with Chubsy and we play twenty questions. He never guesses what I'm thinking of, but I can usually guess what Chubsy was thinking of on any given day. He's mostly transparent about his interests, but it's the days when I can't guess what he was thinking and he won't tell me that scare me a little.

I suppose Chubsy gets tired of how the other children all tease me and I won't return fire in their verbal assaults. Chubsy is a bit libertarian and believe people should take care of themselves whenever possible. Libertarian isn't my word, but that's how Chubsy describes himself. The tiny black beads of his eyes stare straight through you at times and only the smile sewn into his faded orange beak lets me know his judgements are in my best interest.

The days when Chubsy and I eat lunch together have been increasing recently as Andy hasn't been feeling up to school for about a week now. We would go see him at home, but his parents won't ever let me in the door. They say they appreciate my concern, but that I might be bringing in additional germs. They seem to be saying it directly at Chubsy who has seen better days.

He's been with me daily for 10 years now ever since my parents died and Ken and I went to grow up with our Aunt Jackie and Uncle Sam. They're nice people and Uncle Sam likes to wear a stars and stripes top hat and white beard on the 4th of July to play on his name being Uncle Sam or so I'm told. I don't really get it. Chubsy tells me it's an old characterization of the United States from armed forces draft posters. That still doesn't explain much to me, but Chubsy just keeps going with our lunches and moves on to conversations like "if I were a snow cone, what flavor would I want to be."

Chubsy was the last gift my parents got me before they passed away and he's been there whenever times are rough and when Ken isn't around to help me out. This also means he's pretty dirty over the years and washes have become fewer and fewer as he's become a little thinner around the seams. He's well loved I always say, but Chubsy demands the occasional cleaning. He likes to feel presentable when we go out to play, but doesn't mind playing in the dirt. That's usually where we are when Chubsy and I are mocked and get dirt kicked on us. I like to pretend we are in a baseball argument like managers and umpires have on TV. Chubsy just gets quiet and starts writing in his journal.