A Short-lived, Tall-Tale Adventure in the Great Outdoors c. 1982

the sun always sets on the lower eastside at exactly 6:47pm and the timing of this magical event is so precise that the great black bear can set his $575.00 rolex by it. he walks into the punk bar on 6th street off avenue a to get a drink. martinti and rossi on the rocks with a twist of lemon is his favorite during the summertime, but they don’t offer such beverages in punk bars, so he has to settle for a corona with lime. it cools him down after a long, hot day in the big city scouting for locations for his next teen slasher film.

all he wants is to be left alone in the cool, dark bar and enjoy his beer in peace. but some people just have an itch for unnecessary confrontation.

fucking bears think they can just waltz in our bar any time they want and order girlie drinks, the skinhead at the other end of the bar sneers. just look at him in his sear-sucker suit…not a wrinkle on him…why don’t you go back to the forest where you came from?

the bear knows that he has to take decisive action or his virility would be called into question, and the consequences of that were simply too horrible to contemplate.

bartender, he says, in a voice that instantly commands attention. would you be so kind as to play this audio tape that I procured in a local emporium not more than one hour ago? I believe it will calm the nerves of my bald-headed friend here.

in an attempt to avoid antagonizing the bear any further, the bartender pops the tape into his stereo. everyone waits nervously, not knowing what to expect. then the music suddenly starts…

‘the summer wind
came strolling in
from across the sea
it lingered there
to touch your hair
and waltz with me.’

jesus, fucking christ, the skinhead shouts out in agony. not frank sinatra! my mother listens to frank sinatra!

he covers his ears and begins to weep. no one could tell what sort of hellish memories have been unearthed by the sounds of sinatra crooning to the velvety accompaniment of nelson riddle’s famed orchestra, but they must have been horrible indeed, for tears are soon cascading down the poor man’s face.

within 15 minutes the bar is emptied of all it’s regulars, and only the bear and the bartender remain.

thank you for ruining my fucking business with your shit music, the bartender says to the bear.

no trouble at all, my dear fellow, the bear replies congenially. paying his tab, he leaves the bar and heads back out into the dark wasteland of the east village.

the bar is still there on the corner of 6th street and avenue a, but no one knows what happened to the bear. some say he tired of city life and bought a little place in central new jersey off the palisades parkway with the earnings he made from his last slasher film; others that he died only a few years later in a horrible accident involving an under-aged tightrope walker and a very large tin of pickled herring.

an account of the incident has been turned into a bestseller by robert ludlum and is awaiting film-treatment by a major hollywood studio. it is said that the part of the bear will be played by brad pitt.