New York Conversation

I have a friend in New York who is one of those telephone friends. We can talk for hours about the most random things, but it is a disembodied relationship. I haven't seen him for years, even though I sometimes find myself back east. Well, we have our own complicated history and one or the other always threatens to come out for a visit. There have been some near visits: a note scrawled on the porch, a voicemail retrieved a few hours too late, an apology after the fact. Sometimes the absurdity of it hits me. And I just have to laugh. If I were to write a screenplay (and totally fictionalize the conversation) here is what one would read like.

He: Not many people know this about me, but I used to have a collection of stuffed animals-
She: Laughing. Do you realize how funny that sounds? Laughing some more. I mean, didn't we all?
He: Well, I was really into them. I had, like, an army of them. And I was really into being equitable.
She: Equitable?
He: Like, I rotated each night who got to sleep next to me. I didn't want any of them to feel left out. And then when I was in 6th grade I started having friends come over. And they'd throw them around. Kinda make fun of me. But there was nothing I could do. Like, I had to just go along with it. Cuz I needed the friends. And then one time we moved and my stepmom just through them out. All of them.
She: Parents are always doing that. She prolly thought you were too old or didn't think boys should play with stuffed animals.
He: Yeah, but she never said anything like that. I mean, they were just gone. She never liked me. I think it was her way of getting back at me.
She: I had this Snoopy doll. It was all ratty. I used to chew on it's nose so all the stuffing was coming out. And then one day my mom said she was going to give it a bath. And then she came back and said he fell apart in the wash. I got a new Snoopy. After a while, it became my Snoopy. But then months later I found the old Snoopy in the closet. There he was. And he was fine! Years later, I am still trying to piece it together. Why would she do that? There must be so many stories out there like that. There must be so many stuffed-animal mysteries still waiting to be solved.

What is it about parents who think they can make executive decisions like that? Like finding an exact replica of the guppy that died, lying about an embarrassing stuffed animal, or insisting the twelve-year old boy stop playing with his Baby Mary Jane? We all have our shameful secrets. Kids just wear theirs on their sleeve.