The Size of It

And regardless of the accompanying tone, there’s only one way the noise is delivered-in an unendingly slow string of "words."

Bok says he thinks they communicate just like us, but I don’t know. I actually make an attempt to decipher my big person’s seemingly meaningless banter.

"Issabiguralgalochavusaymadatuppanthurallbega," is how his current speech registers to my ears and brain.

"Bega" is my name, or at least that’s how it feels as often as he uses it when looking at me.

"Begawinstasculurgamesdaca…bega?"

A question. I can always tell by the undertone if he’s asking or telling. Call it a bond, if you want, but a lot of others of my kind cannot do that. Bok says he can understand them though, but that’s just because he’s Bok. He can do anything, according to his rules of the world. Like half the claims that come from his mouth, I’m not certain its truth.

Whenever my "big person" asks me a question, I answer to the best of my ability.

"I’M TIRED!" I scream.

My big person half-frowns and blinks.

I blink and frown. Sometimes, it's necessary to repeat myself. "I’m TI-RED!"

He says, "Begabegarabaramo."

Don’t ask me. I do know he understands my speech, though. The big people always understand, as long as they can hear you. Yep, you guessed it. That information’s also courtesy of Bok.

His head-which is all I can ever see of him-begins to shift away from me, slow as molasses.

"WAIT! WAIT!"

His head stops and reverses back to me. I distinctly attempt to avoid his eyes, but make certain he knows I’m looking at him. "WAIT!" I call again for good measure.

Sometimes, I think he believes that’s the name I’ve given him. Hey, whatever works. Loud as my lungs will allow, I scream, "I WANT TO SEE MY FRIEND! I WANT TO SEE BOK!"

Because I’ve been shooting baskets for him for the past hour, he’ll most likely oblige. As I discern comprehension from his smooth, bulbous snow-white head, my gut tingles with the anticipation of seeing Bok again.

My big person gurgles something unintelligible to my ears, then turns away once again and disappears to God-knows-where.

Bok’s been acting strange lately. But then again, that’s Bok. Anytime he’s not acting weird, he’s acting weird.

Anyway, I’ll see Bok and if there’s something to say, he’ll spit it out. If Bok can’t talk to me, he can’t talk to anybody-and that’s asking too much of the guy.

With the big person gone and his imposing overhead eyes MIA, I found myself breathing a little easier. My eyes drift about the gymnasium. The red ball was at rest in the far corner. Like the ball, I feel like retreating to my own personal spot.

Feet squeaking all the way, I clip-clop to the exit doorway. The foyer outside grants me two choices. I choose the left choice.

As it always is, the space above isn’t impeded by a ceiling or roof. Occasionally, my big person chooses to close me in, but not often. The open overhead space doesn’t bother me. Compared to the others, I have more privacy than I need.

My life isn’t that bad.

The next room I enter is my bedroom, my private space-at least more so than others. The walls are plain, with the exception of a few portraits of my likeness that I never put up. Overhead, half the room is sheltered by a smooth, black, tarp-like material. The result of its placement is a shadowed space below where I can sit on a comfy recliner in relative solitude, without worrying about my big person’s eyes above me.

I yawn. It’s exactly what the doctor ordered. From what Bok tells me, my half-opened room is a commodity.