… family men, Claude.””Then why aren’t they home with their families?””You haven’t been listening to me, Claude. It takes lots of honey to raise a family these days…” No, it isn’t even that, these teddy bears don’t like honey as much as they think they do. They think they’re supposed to like it, the way they’re supposed to like women and children. They think they’re supposed to act like real grizzlies, but they don’t feel it. You can’t blame them, they just don’t have it inside them. What they have, what they love most, is their memories: how the Coach used to shout niceworkpal whenever they caught the big ball or somehow hit the little one, how Dad used to wink when they caught one of his jokes, how when they repeated them he almost died laughing, so they told them and told them – if they told one really well he might do it. They memorized all the conversations verbatim, that about the pussies and the coons, the homers and the balls, the cams and the bearings. They’re still memorizing. You can see them almost anytime you’re out driving, there in the slow car just ahead, the young man at the wheel, the old man talking, the young man leaning a little to the right in order to hear better, the old man pointing out the properties, the young man looking and listening earnestly, straining to catch the old man’s last word, the last joke verbatim, the last bit of know-how about the deals and the properties and the honey. When he thinks he’s learned all he can from the old man, he’ll shove him out of the car. You watch, next time you’re out driving. “…these are the cream, Claude.” These are the all-American fairies.
… family men, Claude.””Then why aren’t they home with their families?””You haven’t been listening to me, Claude. It takes lots of honey to raise a family these days…” No, it isn’t even that, these teddy bears don’t like honey as much as they think they do. They think they’re supposed to like it, the way they’re supposed to like women and children. They think they’re supposed to act like real grizzlies, but they don’t feel it. You can’t blame them, they just don’t have it inside them. What they have, what they love most, is their memories: how the Coach used to shout niceworkpal whenever they caught the big ball or somehow hit the little one, how Dad used to wink when they caught one of his jokes, how when they repeated them he almost died laughing, so they told them and told them – if they told one really well he might do it. They memorized all the conversations verbatim, that about the pussies and the coons, the homers and the balls, the cams and the bearings. They’re still memorizing. You can see them almost anytime you’re out driving, there in the slow car just ahead, the young man at the wheel, the old man talking, the young man leaning a little to the right in order to hear better, the old man pointing out the properties, the young man looking and listening earnestly, straining to catch the old man’s last word, the last joke verbatim, the last bit of know-how about the deals and the properties and the honey. When he thinks he’s learned all he can from the old man, he’ll shove him out of the car. You watch, next time you’re out driving. “…these are the cream, Claude.” These are the all-American fairies.
