The Great Teddy Bear Caper

When Hurricane Miah and I made our plans to move into our own place, we went apartment-hunting. We came back to the dorms on the first day, exhausted but thrilled. We hadn’t found an apartment yet, but we did find one of the essentials to quality living. Namely, the stereo system.

It was perfect. Radio, cassette decks, a 5-CD changer, and even a turntable. (For you younger folks: CDs used to be called “records” or “albums” and came in the form of large, unwieldy disks of shiny black grooved vinyl. They were played on a “turntable” which was an exposed circular platform that spun around at different speeds – records came in 33 1/3, 45, and 78 rotations per minute. These “records” sometimes had distortions such as sound fuzz and feedback, which can’t really be described if you’ve never heard them. Go ask your parents to dig one out for you…) So, without yet having a home in which it would reside, we bought the stereo system and hauled it back to the dorms in her little Ford Tempo. She was living at home at the time, where it would not have been wise to store it just yet. Parents can be so picky about impulse purchases!!! I was living in the dorms in a fairly small, and already full, room. But across the hall, our good friends Spencer and Nelson had a fair amount of free space. With a little gentle persuasion (okay, maybe more like manipulation) we got them to agree to house our stereo. Hmm – they got to USE it for those couple of months, so maybe they were the ones with the good deal…

Anywho. As it got closer to the end of the semester and time to move all of our stuff to Miah’s room at home for the summer, Spencer and Nelson (mostly Spencer, though, that becomes significant in a minute) started hemming and hawing as to whether or not they would give the stereo back. So we took drastic measures.

We kidnapped Spencer’s teddy bear.

With a little assistance, the details of which I am sworn to carry to my grave, we relocated the teddy bear. Now, let me state for the record that he was never in any danger. In fact, I daresay he enjoyed his time with us. Many times as we were checking in on his safety and welfare, we saw a happy smile on his fuzzy face. We even thought we heard him snicker with glee a time or two as he posed for pictures. Yes, pictures to be included with ransom notes. We’d dirty him up a bit, coax a look of terror out of him (he was quite the little ham) and then snap a photo. But the master stroke, the perfect touch, was the second ransom note. Of course we followed Regulation 1.1a.224.c of the Ransom Note Handbook, cutting words and letters out of magazines to spell out our message. But in addition to that, a photo, again clipped from a magazine. A dimly lit operating suite, the only light the harsh glow from an overhead bulb. A team of surgeons huddled so closely over the operating table that the observer cannot see the patient. And our cutout letters spelling out: Give back the stereo or the bear gets it. We even very carefully staged things, with the assistance of a hired gun, so that we were with Spencer and Nelson the entire time they were gone from their room when the ransom note was delivered. Shortly thereafter, they received the photo of the bear, complete with a “bloodied” “bandage” (made with Kleenex and a red marker) over his shiny black nose.

Distraught, they quickly returned the stereo.

Now, I am not like a certain teddy-bear-hater that many of us know and love. During his captivity, the bear was well-cared-for. He was fed, had plenty of time to frolic and play, was well-groomed regularly, and even had a variety of books and music with which to entertain himself. And, as previously mentioned, he played along with the scheme quite willingly. Still, let this be a lesson – when you try to come between women and their music, sleep with one eye open, and don’t let your teddy bear out of your sight.