A PINK BEAR AT THE PLAZA
Pieter Mayer

A disheveled old bag lady, carrying a scruffy, iridescently pink, stuffed bear, tried to slip past the doorman on her way into New York's Plaza Hotel. The doorman noticed, however, and reached for her arm, which he gently grasped with a gloved hand. Madam, he asked with a tolerant smile, where are we going, with that bright pink bear?

The woman turned to him. She held the bear in the air like a trophy, This one, officer?

Yes madam, that one. At least I think that's a bear you're carrying. Oh, and I'm not an officer, I'm a doorman here at The Plaza Hotel. My name is Harold.

The woman relaxed. She was short and layered in dozens of used garments that made her seem more like a multi-colored pincushion than a bag lady. My name is Bitsy .

Bitsy. Harold savored the word.

Well, first of all, Harold, the bear's not all that bright. He's stupid, in fact. He can't read or write or do numbers and he's nearly seven years old. She leaned in to confide. Seven years old next Tuesday.

They don't seem to develop as quickly these days, do they? Perhaps it's the climate. Harold didn't wish to appear provocative in front of an aging bag lady, in front of The Plaza especially.

And secondly, if I had my way he'd be carrying me. She was very assertive. I'm quite elderly, as you can see, too old to be carrying bears about.

Yes madam, so it would seem. He tried to be sanguine. But, if I may press you slightly, where are going with the bear?

Bitsy held the bear at the end of her arms and stared him straight in the eye. He hasn't offered to carry me once and I've lugged him around for years.

It must be extremely tiring. Harold shook his head.

It is; it's exhausting.

The bear, madam? Harold indicated the entrance.

Bitsy wiped a tear away with the corner of a hanky she'd found amongst the layers of used clothing. There were several hankies about. They'd begun to sprout like seedlings. I was going to bring him to Marvin.

Marvin? Harold asked.

Marvin Scudder, my accompanist. I heard he was in poor health. He was fond of the bear.

Your accompanist?

I was a caf singer on Broadway at one time.

Marvin Scudder? Why madam, I do believe he passed away six months ago. A longtime resident.

Oh, she said, that is troubling. I've been away for a while. Poor Marvin.

Poor? He lived quite well at The Plaza, played occasionally on the piano in The Palm Court, I believe.

Marvin's no longer a guest, then? Bitsy looked up at Harold.

No, I think not. Harold checked his buttons. What is the bear's name, madam?

Willard.

Willard. Harold repeated the name to get a feel for it. Willard. He made a point to remember names.

The two stood in silence at the curb while Harold thought about what he was going to say next.

Harold. Bitsy tugged gently on Harold's sleeve.

Madam.

I've changed my mind.

Changed your mind?

I will not give Willard to Marvin, nor to his heirs. I will give him to you. She offered the bear to Harold.

To me, madam? He took Willard, gingerly, by his left ear, once again with a gloved hand. That's very... generous of you.

I suppose it is at that. Anyway, you're in charge of him now. She smiled broadly, obviously relieved to be rid of the bear. So, she rubbed her hands together, that's done. I'm off to a blues concert in Central Park. Can you believe it, Harold? My first concert in years. I may sing a few of the old songs. Then she headed off toward the park. At the corner of the hotel, she looked back, smiled and waved, then she crossed the street and disappeared into the trees.

Harold called after her. Have a good evening, madam... Bitsy. He wondered if she really had been a singer.

A gray, humorless-looking man, who'd only that moment emerged from a limousine, smiled thinly at Harold.

Good evening, Mr. Stern. Harold closed the limousine's door.

Good evening, Harold, then, having noticed the bear cradled in the doorman's left arm, he asked, What is that?

A bear, sir, a stuffed bear. Harold placed the bear on the sidewalk next to him.

Ah, indeed, a bear, a pink one, I see. He needs a thorough dry cleaning, Harold. He gave Harold a dollar and seventy-five cents and patted him on the shoulder. Harold wasn't sure if the money was meant as a tip or a down payment on the dry cleaning.

Thank you sir. Mr. Stern nodded and entered the lobby. Willard toppled onto his left side and lay there quietly on the sidewalk.

Harold stepped over the bear and hailed a taxi for Mrs. Birnbaum who'd just exited the lobby, having finished her high tea and a bridge game in The Palm Court.

She glanced at the bear. My goodness, Harold, she said softly, then climbed into her cab and rode away.

Once she was gone, Harold picked Willard up from the sidewalk and brushed him off, set him upright at the lobby entrance. He is filthy, he thought, but I suppose he could be dry-cleaned... He ll probably look quite splendid with his fur all fluffy again.

~

Willard, he whispered into the bear's ear, you're going to be dry-cleaned.

Harold smiled as he thought of Bitsy. Thank you, Bitsy, he said to himself in a soft voice.

Then he stepped to the curb and summoned a cab for the Bowdens, who had just checked in that morning, Good evening, folks, off to dinner and a show, eh? Have a wonderful time.

Mr. Bowden gave Harold five dollars.

Harold glanced over at Willard and grinned. The bear seemed to have leaned slightly in Harold's direction but was otherwise just as he'd left him.

© Pieter Mayer

Pieter Mayer, who lives in Quebec, Canada, north of Montreal, is a retired procrastinator who's abandoned the field to those even less committed. He splits his time between writing, snow removal and hibernation. He's usually up by late spring.

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