Furby
So, there I was at Starbucks, grading papers and trying to ward off an Overused Comma coma with a Cranberry Bliss bar, when Tiny Bladder at the next table asked me to watch his stuff for the millionth time. I rolled my eyes, stuffed a chunk of Cranberry Bliss into my mouth and said, “Dude, I don’t care how cold it is outside, no one wants your dollar-store notebook and the ratty goddamn trench coat your mama obviously dressed you in.” Somehow, through the crumbly brown sugary goodness that fell from my mouth he heard, “Sure! No problem!” Then he dashed off.
While Tiny Bladder ran to the bathroom, a fetid odor snuck into the coffee shop, curdling the last of the lemon frosting sticking to my fingers. I held my nose in the nick of time because, given a few more seconds, it would have jumped off my face and scurried out the door. For there in the doorway stood Furby. I groaned. I had thirty-three more papers to grade with sentences like:
Homosexuality didn’t have a name in the 12th Century. It was called gay in the 20th Century being that men what lived together were happy.
And
During the American Civil War in the late 1960s feminism was dying. It was in its death throws.
I did not have time to deal with Furby’s brand of crazy. My stomach tried to dissolve itself with its own acid as Furby’s pungent, dank, mop soaked in urine, moldy cabbage scent settled over the store. I turned back to my papers hoping Furby would not sense the crazy magnet implanted behind my left ear during a secret government experiment in the 1980s. He had thirty or so mangy stuffed animal torsos from the Island of Plague Infected Toys pinned to his moldy jacket and 70s era running shorts. As he made his way toward me (natch!) eyeless heads with mouths disfigured by rats and dry rot taunted me, “We’re coming to get you, Dingo! We’re coming to get YOUooouuuuUUU!”
It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, I told myself, closing my eyes and wishing it all away. It worked. Sort of. When I opened my eyes, Furby was seated at Tiny Bladder’s table drinking Tiny Bladder’s coffee and writing in Tiny Bladder’s notebook.
“Excuse me, “ I said. “Someone’s sitting there; he’ll be right back.”
Furby continued to scribble in Tiny Bladder’s notebook. Although Furby ignored me, his Typhoid Toys did not. Bouncing and bobbing with every elaborate flourish of Furby’s Tiny Bladder’s pen, their empty eye sockets stared at me accusingly, spewing reproach (not to mention hantavirus) in my direction. I was supposed to be watching Tiny Bladder’s things! What kind of derelict sentinel am I? I had to do something.
Before I could interrupt him again, Furby paused from his frantic writing. Apparently, all that creative activity, together with the large coffee, were making him warm. So he removed the head-studded coat with some fanfare, and the smell of sick room sweat and body odor became even more overpowering.
But at that moment, thoughts of compassion, understanding, and kindness rose above the wormwood stench of Furby’s presence. Furby, after all, seemed to have fallen on hard times. I was warmed by the holiday music playing over the speakers. The beautifully lit professionally photographed pictures of pumpkin pie latte evoked Normal Rockwell images of friends and family. Furby’s furry contingent of contagion was his family. And I, I am a friend to man, a comrade of all mankind. My mind floated on thoughts of “we are the world” and “we are the children,” and, miraculously, my body went with it, all the way up to the manager where I, with compassion, understanding, and kindness said, “He’s using someone else’s stuff.” Because nothing overcomes a spiritual bond with your fellow man like good ol’ property rights. It’s the American Way!
I stayed at the counter thinking of Peace on Earth and ordering another Cranberry Bliss as the manager gently, and with compassion, understanding, and kindness, gave Furby the boot. Furby gathered his things and flounced out of the Starbucks with a primetime pageant-worthy flounce to end all flounces. If trumpets had heralded his departure, it would have been no more dramatic. Still, if he had turned at the door and said, “Good day, sir! I said, GOOD DAY!” I would have applauded.
Instead, I hummed Fa la la la la! La la la la! all the way back to my seat and launched into another poorly written paper. Tiny Bladder returned. Dear god! What took him so fucking long!
“Hey!” he exclaimed. “What happened to my coffee?” He eyed me suspiciously.
“Well,” I began to explain but was cut short.
“And where’s my coat?”
Oh shit. Still sitting on the chair was Furby’s coat of heads, all of them staring at me critically with their vacant eyeholes. Tiny Bladder’s trench had departed.
“That’s not your coat?” I asked.
Yes, there are eight million stories in this naked city. And tonight, one of those stories is a little less naked.
Posted on Monday, November 23, 2009 at 12:23 PM.
Tags: It's off to work we go, In The Neighborhood, La Vida Loca, Little Red Schoolhouse
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Comments & Trackbacks
I’m not sure if I’m jealous you had this story, or not. Hmmmm.
I cry when things like this happen to me. You know this, right? That’s why I can never live in NYC.
I have found that when someone asks you to watch their stuff, and it’s someone you do not know (nor care to know), the proper and best response is to jump quickly out of the table, fumbling frantically for your cell phone, and to announce in your loudest possible voice, “No!! I will not complete your nefarious plans Mister Al Kayda!!!!” Some additional rantings and calls for Homeland Security usually make the asker think better of his/her request and move on.
Once the commotion dies down, dab at your eyes and sniffle, “I’m sorry .... I just love my country that much...”
“It was called gay in the 20th Century being that men what lived together were happy.” - I am (sadly) pretty much at a loss to contradict this statement.
Was that in the same paper as the “death throws”? Now, would a “death throw” be some sort of blanket? Like the smallpox infested blankets given to Native Americans, perhaps? Or are “death throws” somewhat akin to dwarf tossing?
And, wow! Did they mess up at my school. I was completely unaware that there was an American Civil War in the 1960s. Ok, so… we know from your brilliant student that one side was the feminists and their death throws… who were they fighting? Male chauvinist pigs and their glass ceilings? Perhaps bra manufacturers? (I mean, the feminists burned their bras so… my undereducated brain is making assumptions here)…
And I’m glad I am not the only one who got tagged in the “Crazy Magnet” experiments. The incision site still itches a bit when it’s humid....
Awww, dude. I so want to go everywhere with you and take pictures. So. Badly.
I’m almost starting to feel good about not really having coffee shops over here.. 
Asking a stranger to watch your stuff is like taking an IQ test and getting a zero.
As of this post, I officially think that camping in the woods with bears is LESS scary than NYC…
Oh, we’re definitely meeting at your Starbucks when I’m in NY!
This would never happen in Seattle, which is why I’ve always wanted to live in NYC.
That’s just creepy. I’ve never seen a stuffed animal head covered Furby in person. I totally thought you were going to say that Tiny Bladder started drinking his coffee again after Furby had his share, but the missing trench with the scary, animal head coat left behind is far better.
I have a death throw on my couch. But I usually call it a blanket. Unless Hubby gives me a furby. Then I death throw it at him. Thank God feminism never did die out....
I’d like to see what Furby wrote in that notebook. I wonder if it’s as good as what your students wrote.....
AND is that Carrot Top????
I laughed over your post today. And then I saw the comment from Jules. Is that Carrot Top. I had to go back and look at the picture. It does look like Carrot Top’s face. No offense to Carrot Top lovers, but he is the ugliest man on the planet. Furbys and heads and whatnot was a big improvement!
That just made me roar. Now I know how folks really feel running into some of my less engaged clients out in the world! I’m kind of used to their eau d’or! And I appreciate your compassion!
This is what I miss living in a small town.
Oh, I don’t even know where to start. First, the sentences? Are you even kidding me with those? Wow.
And the rest, well the rest is a good example of things that make me doubt I could live in New York. I fear my jaw on the ground would get really dirty.
Kristina P — Admit it, you’re jealous that I had a Cranberry Bliss bar, aren’t you?
k8 — Oh, Kate, you would wow them here. Come, take the town by storm!
Mr. POSSLQ — I’m going to keep a hankie embroidered with a bald eagle in the corner in my backpack for the next time someone asks me to watch his things. I can’t wait!
MsDarkstar — I think a “death throw” is a bra that has been lit on fire like a molotov cocktail. Women throw them at misogynists. And yeah, your school sucked. Duh! Everyone knows that the American Civil was in the last 1960s.
Crissy — I’m glad we’ve reached the age of digital photography. There wouldn’t be enough film for the crazy things I see around here.
Marjolein — Girl, where have you been?! Maybe you should open a coffee shop in your town.
flurrious — Seriously. That’s why when I need to use the restroom, I take all my stuff with me but leave snotty tissues all over the table. My table is always free when I get back.
GeekHiker — Unless the bears want to wear a GeekHiker coat.
April — You are NOT going to come to NYC and spend time in a Starbucks. You live in L.A. I’m sure you have your own set of Starbucks stories to tell.
Megkathleen — I can’t imagine that anyone from Seattle would ever set foot in a Big Bad Corporate coffee shop. If I lived in Seattle, I do my work in the micro-breweries. Yum!
Harna — I would like to think that I would’ve stopped Tiny Bladder from drinking his used coffee. I’d like to think that.
Jules — I’m pretty sure that next semester I will find that Furby is indeed one of my students.
Nikki — Nope, it wasn’t Carrot Top. “No offense to Carrot Top lovers” Hahahahha! As if there is such a person.
starrlife — Your less engaged clients apparently like over-priced coffee. And me. They always find me. Is that one of the life skills you teach them?
Tara R. — Do you mean that you can’t find enough severed stuffed animals heads to sew onto your coat?
justrun — Unfortunately, those sentences are a vast improvement over what I was getting at the beginning of the semester.
Wow, so how many times can we say we both used “typhoid” in a blog post (mine will be up in the morning, btw.)
Did Tiny Bladder take Furby’s coat?
Is it bad that this only increases my desire to come to NYC? My God, the people watching potential!
Also, this reminded me of the time I had to peer-grade my classmates’ papers. Holy Lord Bless the Baby Jesus, college students should be so far beyond run-on sentences and capitalization errors! I loved my English prof even more after that exercise. I couldn’t do her job. Ever.
I wrote a short story last year about a man who was annoyed that a woman left her shopping in the café and asked him to watch it and he refused but she laid a guilt trip on him and while she was in the toilets, he hid her bags behind the counter and ran away.
It’s outright rude to ask some stranger to be responsible for your things! Rude I say!! tiny bladder got his comeuppance.
Now seriously - The American Civil War was fought in the 1960’s while feminism was in its death throws?? My head would be exploded all over the toy strewn coat. Tell me you red inked that paper until it looked like you’d had a nose bleed over it.
Are you SURE you don’t live in Montréal? This Furby fella sounds reeeeal familiar.
And to think I was so proud that when I was in New York last a cute boy on his way
to rehearsal sang Fly Me To The Moon all silky smooth.
I beat myself up all the way back to my hotel room.
Don’t need to get dressed? It’s only Starbucks? Nobody will notice your leopard pajamas? At least if Furby was there I would have looked casual cool instead of… well instead of Furby-esque.
am i the only one that feels bad for tiny bladder? it’s because i have a tiny bladder and i’m always figuring out where the next bathroom is. and having to ask people to watch my stuff, occassionally. i am in a constant state of dehydration because i don’t want to be stuck in traffic or in the subway and have to pee my pants. if anyone has info about bladder enlargement surgery, please let me know.
ps - dingo baby, i missed you
Oh wow! I can’t believe he took the coat! Wow!
Also, great story and so well told!
Hey! Did you get MY students’ papers? Thems sounds awfully familiar....
Quit fibbing...you KNOW you took that man’s coat and came up with this creative little roose (sp?) to throw us off your trail. I watch CSI (never), I know how it goes!!
Ree — Tiny Bladder did not take Furby’s coat. If I’d thought about it (and had a bio-hazard suit), I could’ve taken it and used it in a blog giveaway!
inkpuddle — You would think that having a fellow student read their paper would guarantee quality work. You would be wrong.
Lyvvie — I grade papers with a purple sharpie. His paper looked like Barney exploded.
Jennifer June — You got serenaded? Why don’t I get a serenade? It must have been your leopard pajamas.
blakspring — I think the only solution to tiny bladder is to drink a lot of beer to build up a tolerance for liquids.
Allie — Yep, he took the coat. What can I say, I guess he lost his head. HAHAHAHAH *whew!* I crack myself up.
Mrs. Chili — You know, I think I did get your students’ papers! I’ll send them to you so you can finish grading them.
thecoconutdiaries — CSI, huh? Funny, I pictured you as a Nancy Drew kinda gal.
What I wonder is, when people ask you to watch their stuff, what makes them think that you’re reliable and honest? For all they know you sit in coffee shops waiting for people to ask you to watch their stuff then you steal it and run!
Jules D — I think that in addition to the crazy magnet behind my ear, I also have what they call an “honest face.” Fools! I will use that power for evil! Mwahhahahha! No one’s bags will ever be safe again!
OMG...the quotes from those papers were awesomely bad! 
There’s a little shop around the corner from me that sells bikes. Sounds simple enough except the bike frames are covered in plush animal heads and other fur-based animal parts.
It’s mildly disturbing.
Too funny. Love the guy in the picture painting in the background. LMAO that he took the coat and coffee. HA!
You always have the most interesting stories. Did Tiny Bladder actually wear Frubys coat out with all the dead heads?
STOP. GOING. TO STARBUCKS. Nothing good happens to you there, besides the Cranberry Bliss. I want to know what Furby wrote in that notebook! You didn’t ask?
My goodness, this was entertaining. I love it. I was at a starbucks in NYC recently and my friend was affectionately accosted by a bum named Brother John. He kept telling her how much he liked her shape. I got my chai and when I realized what was goin on, rather than come to her immediate rescue, I had to sit back and watch the show. And snap a couple pictures too. Two dollars later and a few stink-eyes sent in my direction, I got her out of there relatively unharmed other than the mental scars.
AnnQ — I’m getting another round of papers this week. I’m sure they’ll be just as bad interesting.
Miss Spoken — Does anyone buy those bikes? I can’t imagine that they would be in great demand.
jane — I’m pretty sure that Norman Rockwell is rolling over in his grave because I’ve placed him in a Starbucks.
Toe — Tiny Bladder wouldn’t touch it. Can you blame him?
Hillary — I know, I know! I should find a nice, quiet library to work in, right? Do you think Starbucks delivers?
bretthead — I have to meet Brother John but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. Your friend is planning her revenge. I just know it. Sleep with one eye open.
So glad you’re back!
I think you could publish a book called “Homeless Poetry.” No one makes the crazy street stinkers sound better than you. But I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you...that coat of critters might crawl into your room one night and get into bed with you.
LOL!!!!
Did you keep the coat?
Reagan — Thanks!
Mel Heth — I knew I should’ve burned that coat. Now, I’ll have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.
Courtlynn — Ew, no! But maybe I can go back and find it and send it to you?
Had a schoolteacher friend whose favorite sentence in a poorly written paper was doomed by lazy spellchecking:
People who didn’t approve of polygamy had righteous indigestion about the Mormons.
And the American Civil War was not in the 1960s! That was a “trick answer” - because many of those liberated women were high on drugs in 1960 and weren’t paying attention. But, come on, they wouldn’t have missed a civil war?
That’s norman rockwell?? Ha ha ha ha ha. I had to zoom in to be able to see him better. Hilarious.
This is one of the funniest things I’ve read this morning. Amazing!
I am once again so very happy the internet is not scratch n sniff.
I read this to everyone who would listen, lol. It’s one of my favorites. Those crazy people are too often dumb like foxes.
Please tell me you made this up:
During the American Civil War in the late 1960s feminism was dying. It was in its death throws.
Please, for the love of Furby!
I have a cousin named Tiny Bladder (and another named Tiny Dancer), but it’s probably just a coincidence.