The Beaver

It’s Pittsburgh in the 80s and I’m The World’s Biggest Masters of the Universe Fan. Official title. My mother’s at work, and her doughy Boy Scout husband, Chuck, a man whose physical appearance clumsily lands somewhere between Jon Favreau and Teddy Ruxpin, is click-clacking at a typewriter in the dining room. Chuck is jobless. A freelance photographer for NASA, he’d recently witnessed the Challenger explosion while on assignment and, understandably shaken, has decided to find other work. But for now, he’s a deadbeat stepdad. A deadbeat dad can happen to anyone, but when a deadbeat stepdad creeps along, it’s hard not to question Mom’s decision-making skills. I don’t much like Chuck, and Chuck shows little fondness for me. We stay out of each other’s hair. He types. I play. He casually makes sure that I don’t get impaled or crushed or kidnapped. I chew the soft rubber head of He-Man while watching Three Stooges reruns too loud on our new-at-the-time television, a beast of wood and knobs and convex glass that sits on the floor with me and my toys.

This is one of many stories collected from my time with Chuck.

Chuck’s job search would take him out of town for two or three days at a time, which was fine by me. The neighbor I stayed with while my mother worked was a bit of a pothead and would let me watch The Twilight Zone, which I loved but would scare the shit out of me. I was six. When my mother came to pick me up that day, I was eager to get He-Man back to Castle Greyskull, a hard plastic grayish-green skull-shaped castle that mustn’t have been difficult to name. Silverhawks were invading. He-Man was needed.

My mother was happy because Chuck was going to be home after traveling out of state for an interview and she needed the help looking after me. I was happy because Chuck had told me over the phone during one of our weird, forced “let’s both pretend you’re not fucking my mom” conversations that he had gotten me a “surprise”. A surprise is to a six year old what oral sex or a low utilities bill is to an adult. My mother and I pulled into the parking lot of our apartment complex in our shitty red Chevette (which, incidentally, was the name of the first draft of Prince’s now-classic Little Red Corvette), I hopped out and ran inside, my mother trailing behind, hands full of whatever it is parents carry that gives them that burdened, clumsy walk.

Upon entering the apartment, I was met by Chuck. He threw a poorly wrapped package my way and gave me a polite nod while walking past me and embracing my mom. I ran to the living room, cranked the giant knob that turned the television on and it rattled to life as if it were steam-powered. Might’ve been. I patiently waited while Chuck sat on the couch and my mother came out of the kitchen with three small cups of homemade chocolate pudding she had prepared for this very occasion. I was given the go ahead to open my gift. I ripped the wrapping paper away to reveal a round, furry, stuffed…

…beaver.

Polite to a fault (as a kid, at least), I graciously thanked Chuck for the kind present while I thought of ways that this stupid stuffed animal could terrify the population of Eternia (He-Man’s home planet) before He-Man could come in and slay him with the magical Sword of Power (He-Man’s magical sword. It has powers). But in the meantime, I figured I’d throw the damn thing in the air a bunch of times. Given, this was a two bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Pittsburgh; it may as well have been a Haitian box-house, so the words Chuck spoke to me that day make sense from a safety standpoint. That doesn’t mean the fact that this string of words was spoken in English at all isn’t of great importance to the idea and power of language itself. It certainly does. Upon the third attempt at swinging the beast into the air by its quilted felt tail, Chuck, my deadbeat stepfather who resembles Teddy Ruxpin and the director of Iron Man 2, in theaters now, bellowed to me sternly:

“Brandon, do not throw your beaver in your mother’s pudding.”

For a long moment there was silence. It was as if an elderly holocaust survivor farted loudly at the most dramatic swell of his own tragic recounting. It was as if everything was drained from the room and all that remained was that ridiculous sentence, hanging in the air like a hobo-fart. And suddenly, we laughed, all of us together. The beaver lay alone on the floor, ready to wreak havoc on Eternia. Pudding safe.

Since that day in 1986 in a grey Pittsburgh suburb, I have heard many more ridiculous sentences spoken, but that one would definitely make the starting lineup. Thanks Chuck.