After creating a dark sugary whirlpool in my coffee cup, I shook my head slightly, looked up and answered Hate Bear’s question.

“Well actually, I really wouldn’t consider my self an artist, I’m more of a father, and in order to be an adequate father I work hard  at interpreting and hammering together these constructions that people like your self seem to dream up.” Hate Bear paused for a moment, taking time to create an adequate response to my statement.

“Yeah I’m not really an artist either, I’m more of a mistress . . . pushing 50, who could in fact live comfortably along one of the many tentacles of suburbia, yet chooses to sleep outside a bank, occasionally waking to arch her back and urinate over the rubber welcome mat. And every once in a while, lending my time to the local S&M club, where I am sanded in one room, and in the other charge top dollar to various CEOs of oil and telecommunications who wish to lick my wounds.”

Having had Hate Bear as a client many times, I was no longer affected by his morose soliloquies. I was ready to order, so I quickly glanced around the room hoping to locate our waitress.  Out of the corner of my eye I watched the family sitting next to us snap their heads back into place, the mother and daughter’s faces were bright red, as they exhaled silent laughter out of their nostrils.  The father countered my awareness by drumming up the beginnings of a false conversation “So Daisy, . . . how is your . . . crocheting class going?” and then erupted into a nostril snicker.  Of course she didn’t answer, my guess is that Dad is “the funny one in the family.”  Though I really couldn’t blame them for laughing at us, we were an odd pair Hate Bear and I, since we were so incredibly opposite.  I was just glad that Hate Bear had not seen our gawking neighbors.  I being the “normal” looking person at the table was a slightly rotund 28 year-old. I wore glasses remnant of “nerd” characters of the 1970’s sitcom, and I was sweatered by the impeccable taste of my lovely wife, and her vast number of catalogs. 

Hate Bear on the other hand was quite unavoidable. He currently had his hair died a reddish plaid, and it was long enough to reach the middle of his frail back.  His face was made up with lipstick, eyeliner, and circles of rouge.  However, all of this make-up was applied a diagonal inch below the average placement, thus he seemed to have another face lower and to the left of his own. He was wearing a grossly oversized canary yellow jump suit, with the words “HATE BEAR” printed on it, along with an arrow pointing up to his face, letting everyone know, that he in fact was Hate Bear.  On the back, the jumpsuit had an airbrushed picture of Chairman Mao wearing a pink birthday hat.

At last the inevitable took place, and Hate Bear became aware of the family mocking his appearance.  As his tiny 5’4 frame walked toward their table, they all became quite engrossed with the nuances of their menus, and did not look up until Hate Bear placed two one-hundred dollar bills at their table, and began to speak in a voice that mirrored his delicate frame. 

“I would greatly appreciate if your family would join us at our table for no more than five minutes” at first the father looked puzzled and suspicious, then he noticed the folded stack of one hundred dollar bills in Hate Bears left hand and feigned an indifference, “Sure why not” and with that the family slid themselves into our large circular booth, where Hate Bear wasted no time in setting down five one-hundred dollar bills.

“Alright, I need each of you to write your first names on a separate napkin, and then turn it towards me so that I can learn who you are.” They followed his orders and waited for new instructions.  The Daughter who seemed to be about 17 or 18, kept her eyes darting around at the restaurants decorum, while the father kept a steady poker-facish look towards Hate Bear,  I could tell that he thought of himself as a gambler, and unable to be rattled by such a tiny human being.  Hate Bear continued and allowed his voice to take more of a stern tone as he explained what would happen next.

“Very nice to meet you . . . Daisy, June, and Michael, My name is Hate Bear.  In about 45 seconds I am going to set my watch for five minutes, during that time I want you to continually grant me complements until time is up.  When you reach five minutes, you will then collect an additional two thousand dollars” and with that he quickly counted off 20 one-hundred dollar bills.

“There is however one catch” his voice lowered to the point of a dark annoyance “You must direct your compliments toward either my torso, or my boyish smile.”  At this point he unzipped the back of his jumpsuit, and continued his look of annoyance while sliding his arms out of the sleeves and rolling the jumpsuit down to his lap. His chest had thick patches of hair that were broken up by long thin lines that cris-crossed across his chest.  I forced myself not to think of what kind of tool he used in order to mar his body in such a horrible fashion.  The family sporadically looked, then looked away, grew sickening expressions, and then swallowed them waiting for the clock to start.   

“You may begin”

At once they all began babbling off remarks about his “shapely shoulders” and how healthy his skin was, and how he appeared to have “strong ribs.” The daughter Daisy broke an odd pause by telling Hate Bear that he was “very not obese” to which her mother added “you look fit, you look very fit.”  Michael the father began to name other sections of Hate Bear’s body that were strong, “very strong abs, VERY strong abs and the color . . . of your . . . hair, it’s a good, . . .good brown, . . . has a nice shade to it.”  Every once in a while one of them would try and compliment his smile, but the fact that he was scowling at them seemed to stifle their sentence immediately.

After about two minutes, Hate Bear quieted their cacophonous yammering, and aimed his large eyes at both the mother and the father.  While he clicked his pupils back and forth between the two, I was able to see white both on top and below his eyes, which added another level of overall creepiness.  While holding this stare, he began to address Daisy the teenage daughter of the couple.

“Daisy” said Hate Bear with a focused intensity “I want you to look at your father and mother”

“uh, uh, ok, . . .  actually he’s my step dad”

“Then look at your mother and your step dad, ok?” he quickly added

“ok”

“Daisy”

“Yes . . . Mr. Bear”

“Your parents are both whores” mother quietly gasped, and father began debating in his head whether he should speak up or not.  “and their whoring you out as well,  . . . and that makes them pimps also.  Your father is a whore . . . and the only thing missing is his little whore skirt, and your mothe . . .”

“HEY, HEY, HEY, I WAS A MARINE, ALRIGHT? . . . I DON’T NEED TO HEAR ANYTHING LIKE THAT FROM . . .UH . . A LITTLE . . . FREAK FAGGOT LIKE YOU!!!”

“freak faggot”

“THAT’S WHAT I SAID!!”

“freak faggot, . . . that wasn’t designed to make me feel good about either my smile or my torso.  That wasn’t a complement at all, wow! Alright, let me tell you what we are going to do Mr. . . .Marve the Marine.”

“My name isn’t Marve”

“No, No, . . . Its Marve now, I changed it. . . .so Marve, in about 15 seconds you are going to have 2 minutes of complement time left, after that, every 5 seconds that you remain unapologetic, I am going to put a one-hundred dollar bill back in my pocket.” Michael began shaking his head from side to side, then he loudly exhaled, and quietly said “I’m Sorry”

“No that’s not good enough, I want you to say, I Marve, am sorry for insulting Hate Bear”

“ . . . I Marve . . . am sorry for insulting Hate Bear”

“Thank you Marve, now take your money and your family and go.” Hate Bear attached the top half of his jump suit again, and began to dig through his back pack before excavating a red note book.  “Here you go Fabricator” In it was a check for 50,000 dollars as well as Hate Bear’s own personal sketchings for his next art-piece entitled “The Right To Bear Arms” I began building it the very next day.