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Legacy

By Wolfie Braxton

They used to call him Slim Jim back when he was in high school. He'd been like a beanpole then, always shoved in the corner of a busy corridor or elevator because he was the least massive person in the room at all times, and he'd been too shy to demand otherwise. They used to think he was sick because he rarely looked more than just skin and bones even after eating a large meal. It had been his metabolism, or so any normal person blamed anyways, or it had been an eating disorder like anorexia or possibly even bulimia. Slim Jim wasn't the kind of guy who enjoyed many foods back then, and he certainly didn't enjoy the company of others. By all accounts, Slim Jim was dead now.

A fat, old bear had taken his place at some point. I never knew him as Slim Jim myself, but the pictures he'd shown me once were enough to make me do a double-take; how had he suddenly changed his life and exploded outwards in all directions, both mentally and of course physically? I was old enough to be his son, and he was the same age as my mother, so I figured it wouldn't have been that big of a stretch. I was the Slim Jim at my school; my junior year in high school I weighed only one-twenty and it was pretty demanding having to keep up any sort of appearance beyond the skin-and-bones look that I had. Most people assumed I was depressed because I rarely ever ate anything in front of them; to be honest, I was depressed but it wasn't what kept me from eating. I had a high metabolism, or so people would say (I personally didn't care), and the energy the food gave me typically was gone within a few hours leaving me hungry again, but never really nourished me enough to look any healthier than I did.

Jim Remy was my neighbor. He had lived alone in that house for as long as I could remember, keeping his own counsel as my father would tell me before he died at age forty from a heart attack. My mother was closer to forty-three now, but he'd died when she was thirty, and the little inheritance he had left us was long-since used up keeping the same roof over our heads. Mom was always autistic like that; she'd suffered with it for most of her life, and any major changes always upset her on a level I thought was immature even though rationally I knew I'd never understand what she really went through. I guess it was a good thing that Jim Remy did understand though; he was always over here helping my mother after Dad died, either helping do yard work (for free, he insisted on that), or sometimes cooking for us when Mom felt sick. I loved his meals more than anything, but those were few and far between as I got older and Jim stopped coming around as much.

I had barely spoken three words to him until he started coming over, and even when he was here we rarely talked. I was too shy, too intimidated by the huge bear to work myself out of my protective mind-bubble to ask him anything. He had helped me once or twice with my homework, or had been there after a hard day and seen me crying from the bullying that went on at school (Mom never knew about it beyond elementary school; her autism sent her into a raging fit if I said a word). He had always had the air about him that he wanted to protect me, love me like his own kid, and truthfully I felt safe in his presence. But he wasn't my father, even though part of my mind always told me that was his goal. All the nice things he did were purely to get into my mom's bed and make me his new son. I didn't want that; I always felt like I was strong enough to handle my own. I could never show it, though.

Honestly, it wasn't my hesitancy around Jim that made me watch him from my upstairs bedroom window whenever he was out mowing his lawn, or give him a friendly wave every day before the bus picked me up, or even go over to his house to deliver some of Mom's fresh-baked cookies (as a result of her autism, she was an amazing baker albeit an uninspired one; Martha Stewart's cookies only get you so far before you have to innovate) to him, which would always end in him making a joke of some kind that made me feel bad for even bringing them over.

"I'm trying to lose weight and you want me to eat this whole plate of cookies by myself?" He'd usually say with a hearty laugh and a heavy hand on his thick gut trying to steady its jiggling mass. Or he'd say, "Tell your Mom I'm not Santa Claus. I'm not that old yet." But despite his laugh and his overall incredibly nice demeanor, I always felt like he was insulting my mom's baking or saying that he didn't like the gifts I brought. He would also ruffle my nicely combed hair and tell me, "Scoot on off now, kid. I got work to do," and usually would end the sentence with a huge bite of a cookie (the gingerbread ones Mom made at Christmas usually added a sickening punctuation that smelled of irony whenever he'd say this). He never really bothered to learn my name, Edwin, or that I liked being called Eddie by my friends, but he found out those things from my Mom, or at least I hoped he did. To him, I was always kid or squirt or Mr. Davies, which I vehemently protested. Mr. Davies was my father, and I would never be like him. I say that in both a positive and a negative sense; my father was a saint until it came to his health; he was obese when he died and I promised myself I'd never get fat like that.

So it was a surprise to find that as I got older and moved into high school territory, that I found myself watching Jim Remy more and more, admiring him and his lifestyle, and secretly learning all I could about what he did that kept him so happy and healthy (Jim was entering the age I like to call the "danger zone" for health because after forty your health really does seem to take a spill downwards). I'd watch him from my room for hours sometimes, just watching him smoke one of those big cigars on his back porch with a glass of scotch in his had, sometimes coffee if it was the morning, and sometimes iced tea during the weekends or summer. But he'd sit there, enjoying nature I suppose, and smoke his cigars drinking his glass of whatever, and a big content grin would always be framed by that thick reddish-brown beard of his, which had started to collect strands of gray after he passed forty a couple of years ago. Sometimes I'd watch him mowing the lawn, observing how the muscles in his legs didn't jiggle like thunder thighs typically do; he had the legs of tree trunks that made mine look like easily broken toothpicks. His arms were the same, huge biceps that curled into bowling balls whenever he chopped wood down at the shed in his back yard or worked out in his upstairs home-gym (which was directly across from my window, resulting in hours of watching him pump iron). Sometimes I caught a glimpse of him using the grill, rubbing his gut and saying things to it, but I never heard what he said.

The more I watched Jim Remy the less I was afraid of him taking my father's place, and the more I was aware that I wanted to be like him. There were things about his life that made me envious, like how he never seemed to work but always had money to keep that nice colonial-style house looking spit-shined inside and out, or how even though he smoked and drank heavily he never seemed to have any health issues, but mostly it was how happy he seemed. Inner peace is a Zen-like trait most of us are rarely afforded, but he appeared to have it in abundance. He also always seemed to have his life where he wanted it; he didn't work that I was aware of, he was never lonely (or so it appeared), and overall he reminded me of Jay Gatsby from that Fitzgerald book we read in school my freshman year. He had the type of life I wanted; something happy and quietly content. His inner strength must've matched his outer strength because I'd never seen Jim Remy anything but happy.

Perhaps it was something deeper than a desire to be like him that made me go over to his house one day towards the beginning of my junior year in high school. Perhaps it had been me finally standing up to my fears and going over there to see what the big deal was. Whatever the reason, I found myself standing in my driveway separated only by the white picket fence that separated our yards as I watched him tweaking the engine in his '95 Chevy pick-up. The wrench made a clicking as it turned rhythmically to unscrew the bolts, and each bolt made a distinctive ping whenever he set it in the bowl at his feet. I watched him for half an hour, debating with myself on whether I wanted to hop that fence and go over, or whether I wanted to just go back inside and play Soul Calibur like I did on the weekends.

I made my mind up that I was going to go over there.

"Mr. Remy?" I asked, my voice still a bit prepubescent and high-pitched. I hated how I was a late-bloomer, my mother had it stuck in her autistic head I was always going to be a kid, even when I was done growing up. "How are you this afternoon?" I tried to sound polite, and be nonchalant about my reason for being on his lawn. I always felt intimidated being around such a big guy, especially big Jim Remy.

"Mr. Davies, I could use your help for a second," Jim called without moving a single muscle to face me. Another clicking sound, another ping of the bowl. "Can you get my 5/8" out of the red toolbox over on that shelf there, please?" I nodded a bit and cautiously entered his spacious two-car garage, going to the shelf on the far right wall and standing on my tip-toes to reach the box. It almost tumbled down on top of me but I managed to catch it with a gentle exhale of breath, its weight surprising me. There were tons of tools in the toolbox and I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking for, so I asked. Jim chuckled in that deep, scratchy voice of his. "It's the one that says 5/8" on the tip of it. Has a red rubber handle." I found the one he was looking for and as I put my hand around it to grab he grunted, "On second thought, make that 3/4". Also has a red rubber handle." I put the wrench back in the box, grabbed the new one, and handed it to him, bringing the whole toolbox with me and setting it at his feet.

"Here you go, Mr. Remy." I said with a bit of a shy politeness in my voice. He took the wrench from me and nodded his appreciation silently. I stood there for what felt like hours, watching the sweat stain the back of his grey sweater a darker grey, admiring how the sleeves to that sweater had long since been ripped off, and I couldn't help but blush looking at that massive ass in his tight black jeans. Or at least they had to be tight, his ass filled them out well enough. I had been thinking for almost a year now that I was gay; most of the tramps on TV were unattractive and this small town had maybe one good-looking girl who was nothing but a whore. The guys on the football team, especially those stocky linebackers, however...

"Thank you, Mr. Davies. So what brings you to my side of the fence today? More cookies from your mom?" He asked casually and then corrected himself, "No today's Saturday isn't it? She'd be over at Mrs. Harper's catching up on her gossip I suppose. That would mean you're home by yourself today."

"Yes, sir."

"I take it you got a bit lonely then?"

"Yes sir," I said, a bit of a lonely tone creeping into my voice. Jim always knew how to get the words out of me, and he knew the emotions that I hid would come with them if he asked the right questions. I didn't think or know how it was possible, but Jim must have had a secret or two up his sleeve.

"So you thought to come check on ol' Big Jim huh?" His voice was stern and serious, but that was normal. He always sounded gruff and tough, a side effect of smoking and drinking like he did for most of his life, I assumed. To be honest, though, it was a bit of a turn-on; every time he spoke I wished I could sound like.

"No, I just-" But it was the truth. I had come over just to have noise in my life; the deafening quiet of my bedroom was obvious whenever I wasn't playing video games. "I mean, yeah I guess. But you seem to be busy, so I'll just come back later on."

"Nonsense, kid. You can help me with the truck for a little while. After all, it's a beautiful day, you shouldn't spend it cooped up in that room of yours tricking your eyes into tunnel vision playing those violent games." There he went again, sounding like Dad would have. Always a nature enthusiast too, he had that ring in his voice whenever he spoke that seemed to imply that being inside was a terrible thing to do for hours on end. In truth, I had to agree with him.

"But I don't know the first thing about car, Mr. Remy." I protested, hearing an annoying whine in the words. Just like a little kid who's never grown up, I scolded myself. You're seventeen, act like it. "I guess I could learn something though."

Jim set the wrench down and turned to face me. His face was underlined by that thick beard of his, little specks of grease on his cheeks and forehead from where he'd wiped sweat away, and topped with a slightly receding hairline. But his mouth pulled into a toothy grin and he chuckled a bit at me, "Or maybe you'd like to come inside and just talk for a little while like you used to when you were a little kid?"

I couldn't help but blush at this. He still remembered our talks too. Those long, questioning talks about life and love and the pursuit of happiness; those philosophical talks that he always got lost in and I never had the patience to try to comprehend. I suddenly felt like I had a craving for one, and so I nodded once slightly. He waved for me to follow, wiping his hands clean on a blue rag and dabbing it across his face before opening the door that led into the main part of the house. I followed him closely, saying nothing and trying to keep my mind off the big bear ass in front of me.

We entered his kitchen and I reminded myself of how much bigger it used to be as a little kid. When I was eight, the room had been a castle on its own; the cabinets were a panoramic semi-circle that hung over the cabinets and countertop space in one corner of the room. The island in the middle contained some empty cabinets he never used, and as a kid I'd love to hide in there and pretend it was a fortress with the rest of the kitchen being besieged by barbarians. Sometimes Jim would be the barbarian.

Jim crossed to the big fridge and opened it up getting out the pitcher of tea and offering me some. I nodded a bit and he got down a glass from one of the cupboards and filled it with ice before pouring the tea and sliding it across the island's counter where I sat on one of the two bar stools. I took a sip. Jim was a Southern man, he liked it sweeter than most people in this town, including me. But it wasn't bad.

"So tell me, what would you like to discuss today?" Jim asked as he rummaged in the fridge for something else. I didn't know what it was at first, but when he filled a shorter glass with ice and began to pour some Kentucky bourbon, I realized he was going for his afternoon shot. Or maybe he was going for a full glass instead of a simple shot; I'd noticed Jim drank heavier on Saturdays.

"Well, I don't know." I could tell Jim knew I was lying by the way he stared me down with those dark green eyes of his. He wasn't buying it; I had some reason to be here and we both knew it. "I thought we could talk about you a bit."

He raised a brow rather curiously and simultaneously lowered the other one so that he reminded me of my quizzical-looking math teacher. "Me?" He chuckled heartily, sipped on his drink, and put the bottle of bourbon on the counter. He wasn't going to have just one drink today, I realized, "What about this old bear?"

I filled in the void of thought by gulping down half the glass of tea in one go. I was nervous and felt cornered. I didn't really have anything to ask him, I was just here for his company and just to fill empty time on a Saturday. I didn't know what to say except for one thing, and I tried not to say it. It was on the tip of my tongue, however, "Why are you so big, Mr. Remy?"

Jim considered the question thoughtfully for a moment, and he sipped a bit more at the bourbon in his icy glass before letting out a carefully placed, "Hmm." He didn't know how to answer that question, it seemed. I knew the stories about Slim Jim, but I never heard how he went from Slim Jim to Big Jim or why he had decided to change in the first place.

"I'm sorry... it's a stupid question," I said and lowered my gaze to the glass in my left hand, staring at the tea and making the mental note that the bourbon was almost identical in color to my drink. For all I knew they could be the same thing; I hadn't actually considered that he could have poured bourbon into a pitcher before, but the more that I thought about it-

"Nonsense, the only stupid questions are the ones never asked, kid."

He had a point there, I had to agree. Stupid questions usually get stupid answers. This one got a well thought out answer, so it must have been deeply meaningful to Jim. Perhaps nobody had ever asked him before?

"Then let me ask you this, Mr. Remy-"

"Please, son. Call me Jim. You've called me Mr. Remy all your life, and you're almost a man now." Jim's smile was warm and comforting, almost like the belly he sported as he took a seat next to me at the bar.

"All right, Jim. What made you want to get so big? Is that a better question to ask?" I felt shy and a bit insecure sitting so close to him. He had this smell of oil and grease but it only masked the sweat and musk that he contained just barely beneath it, and still further down was a hidden scent of those cigars he always smoked, and a growing whiff of bourbon as he took another drink.

"It's an easier question, that's for sure." Jim nodded with a bit of a relaxed grin crossing his face. "I got tired of being so small. I told myself I would never be anyone in this world if I wasn't big enough to hold my own, so I put on all the weight to make sure I could hold my own if I ever had to."

"And have you ever had to?" I asked after absolutely no pause. I was starting to warm up to him; even as close as we were it took time to cast off of shyness.

"Many times. Back in my thirties I was a real brawler. You never noticed how sometimes I had a cut on my nose or a bruised cheek did you?" I shook my head; I couldn't remember any such things, "I worked out at the gym during the mornings, helped out at the grocery store downtown during the afternoons, and I was a part-time bouncer at Night Owl's for about four or five years a day. I got into a few nasty scrapes, but it helped me toughen up just like I wanted."

"So you wanted to toughen up by beating drunks' brains in?" I asked a bit pointedly, a little disgusted by the idea that somebody would go around looking for trouble. I personally preferred to stay out of it as much as I could.

"Not at all. I never started any fights," He said with a bit of a frown creeping across his face. "I don't believe in starting fights. I believe in finishing them." He sipped the last of his bourbon, considered the level of ice, and then poured himself another glass. He sipped it once again before smirking at me, "I quit after about five years. I didn't like the patrons always failing to learn the rules of the club. That's when I started spending time around your place, helping you and your mother with whatever you needed. Especially since your father died, I figured you two could use a little help."

"So you like helping people then?" I asked with a bit of a furrowed brow. It made sense, I didn't know any reason why it wouldn't. He was a caring old bear, that much I could say. Jim was a kind man, and even though he could easily beat you up, he chose not to. It was a reserved strength sort of thing that I had to admire.

"You don't?"

"Of course I do! I believe there are too many unfortunate people in this world who need the help of a guardian angel or at least a nice passer-by," I said in a bit of a defensive tone. What kind of question was that? Of course I liked helping people, that was why I stayed out of their way; to help them get places faster without me slowing them down.

"Sort of like you after your father died?" Jim asked as he sat up straight in the chair and then decided to get out of it, heading into the living room and taking his bottle with him. I didn't get asked to follow, but I did anyways. We passed through the formal dining room with its ironically large center table and twelve chairs positioned in the middle. Jim never had company and never a reason to use this room that I was aware of.

The living room was mahogany paneled with cherry wood flooring and matching furniture with beige leather-cushions. The couch was super-sized but when Jim sat down it seemed to shrink. His large figure took up enough space to create the illusion, I suppose. I sat down in one of the love-seats that was perpendicular to the main couch, setting my empty glass politely on a coaster on the coffee table as Jim did the same.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" He asked casually, his hand already over the humidor that sat in the usual place on the coffee table. I shook my head, explained that it was his house and his rules, but he just laughed at that, "Kid, if you're allergic to smoke I don't mind. Honestly."

"I'm not allergic. I just... I've never smoked before. I'm never around it." I said with a gentle shrug, feeling myself sink into the comfortable leather love-seat as I got more relaxed.

"Well, all right." He said. He opened the box, took out one of his brown cigars, thick and long, and put it to his lips, grabbing what looked like a razor blade until I saw that it was more like a hand-held guillotine that he could hold between two fingers, and he clipped the tip of the cigar off, leaving behind a perfect, straight cut that squared off that end. He brought the lighter to the tip and took a series of short draws, the cigar's tip flaming and burning bright red as smoke began to emit from his mouth. After a short pause, he exhaled a thick, steady cloud out through his nose into the air. It didn't take long before I started to smell the aroma and coughed, unused to the smell or taste of the smoke that hung in the air. "Sorry about that. Are you sure you aren't allergic, Eddie?"

He'd never called me Eddie before and it made my head spin (or was that the cigar smoke?). I didn't consider the idea he would actually put his cigar out until I watched him lean over to grab the ashtray. Something about the smoke seemed settling though; it smelled good and warm. Inviting almost, enticing for sure, and I couldn't help but lick my lips as if I wanted one myself. Did I want one? I asked myself before I shook my head.

"No, don't put it out." I said meekly. Jim had grabbed the ashtray, but when I spoke he simply placed it beside him and looked at me quizzically.

"Why did you think I would do that?" He chuckled, taking another draw, watching the blush creep across my cheeks as I licked my lips. "Would you like to try one, Eddie?" He held out the lit cigar, offering it to me. The smoke seemed to grow stronger as it got closer, and I couldn't help but blush harder.

"Mr. Remy I've never smoked before, I doubt I would-"

I stopped myself, realizing I had taken the cigar in my hand. It had a bit of hefty weight to it for what it was, surprising me, and I brought the cigar to my mouth and set it there as the tip slowly burned. But Jim had a big grin on his face, and a little hint of a blush creeping out from under those hairy cheeks.

"It looks good on you, kid! It defines your face perfectly." I didn't know what he meant by that, but he continued quickly, "Now if you want to smoke, you have to drag on that cigar. And you do that by sucking on the tip. Don't breathe it in, just suck a bit. Get the smoke in your mouth, taste it, savor it. Then slowly breathe out."

I did what he told me to, following his instructions to the letter and breathing the smoke into my mouth. Some of it got into my lungs, as Jim probably expected since he started to laugh when I coughed heavily and nearly spit the cigar right out. My hand passed the cigar back to Jim and he quickly put it back into the corner of his mouth where he usually kept it. I thought I was going to throw up for a minute, coughing so hard I nearly retched. My mom would kill me if she knew I was smoking one of Jim's cigars, and I knew I'd have to get rid of that smell before she came home tonight. Jim seemed to know this all too well.

"Don't worry about your Mom, kid. I'll tell her that it was all my fault if she asks."

I took a moment to collect myself, drinking the melting ice in my glass to calm my sore throat and then sighing heavily as I shook my head a bit. I imagined in my head that my voice was different when I spoke, sounding scratchy and deeper, but it was probably just from all the coughing I'd done, "I... that was intense Mr. Remy."

"I said call me Jim. And I know it was intense. It always is the first time. But you get used to it eventually, and find yourself wanting more." Jim said, speaking mostly from experiences past but I thought that it was applying to me as well. Part of my mind did want to try again, this time with my own cigar to enjoy thoroughly. I passed it off for now, however, thinking that I'd done my throat and lungs enough damage for one day.

"Was there a time when you didn't smoke?" I asked after catching my breath again and I saw him shake his head. I lowered my gaze. It was probably a stupid question, despite what Jim had said about stupid questions.

"I started when I was about your age. I needed a stress relief and the kids at school all told me smoking helped. I thought they were crazy at first, explained how smoking kills people. But when I got started doing it, it was like the facts didn't matter anymore." Jim explained thoughtfully as a trail of smoke jetted from his mouth in a sort of O-shape.

"Have you ever had any health problems like you told them about?" I asked, not sure why. I thought I saw him blush a big when he nodded.

"My voice is a bit damaged from the years of it catching up with me. I used to be a tenor like you were back in chorus. But I'm more of a bass now." He said trying to relate my singing years (both of them) back to me in a way I'd understand. Jim was a nice man, he wasn't going to intentionally try to lose me in explaining things. He never had before when we had philosophical conversations; I had just been too lazy and young to understand them from his side. "And I have other health issues, but they're not as bad as they could be. I'd say I'm pretty lucky."

I nodded considering this as well and then I looked down at my lap, seeing the khaki colored cargo pants a little faded from too much detergent once or twice when they were washed. "I wonder if I would have the same issues if I started smoking."

"Keep your chin up, kid. Things are never as bad as they seem." Jim said sternly. It was a paternal tone, though, and it did its job; I looked back up at him, and our eyes met. "You haven't been the same since you lost your dad. I know how that is, I lost both of my parents and lived with my aunt for most of my childhood. I've always had to be a man, and you shouldn't have to feel that way when you're a scared little kid. I've done my best over the years to look after you and your Mom, but I can only do so much if you don't come talk to me."

He had a point, again. I couldn't find any flaws in his logic and usually I never did. I felt like I was wanting to though. I felt like as much as his words had meaning that they were still hiding an ulterior motive of some kind. I just couldn't think of it though. I pushed my oval-shaped glasses up my nose a bit and then brushed my strands of light blonde hair out of my eyes, wondering how my nicely combed hair had come undone (reminding myself I probably did it coughing) and he flashed a big smile at me, exhaling on a thick cloud of cigar smoke before chasing it with a shot of the bourbon.

"You've got a lot of growing up to do, kid. You've got the heart and soul of a big bear inside of you, but you also don't realize you have the key to setting it free. If you want to be like me, I can teach you everything I know," he said with a soft tone in his voice. I felt a cold chill shiver up my spine then and I couldn't help but wonder what he meant by that last statement.

"Be like you?" I asked with a hard frown on my face that was mocked with a growing blush. The idea of me being a bear like Jim Remy suddenly excited me, jumping across the wires in my mind and painting every mental picture all at once like a wall of TVs in an electronics store. Images of having a big gut, a nice beard, smoking, drinking, and of course the biggest of them all: being content with life itself. All these things clicked on and blared at full volume in my head, all screaming with sounds and images that made my blush grow harder and hotter on my face, and I thought I felt lightheaded for a moment. Jim said something to me, but I didn't hear it. The images were talking too loudly, saying everything I wanted to hear.

"Eddie?" Jim asked as he finished his cigar, the last cloud of smoke lazily drifting and dispersing into the air as he extinguished it in the ashtray. He shook me from my mind this time with the louder way he spoke my name. "I can tell that's what you want. You want to be a big bear like Jim Remy here." He folded his arms across his thick meaty chest and patted his gut. "I'm here to tell you that it isn't hard. It just takes years of practice and working on it. You don't get big overnight, you don't find inner peace by the end of dinner, and you don't learn without making mistakes. Even I am not the perfect person I must look like I am. But if you want me to teach you what I know, you are more than welcome to come here as often as you want."

I could only nod in eager agreement. It was truly what I wanted; a way of life that I was happy with, something that made me feel like I was in charge of the things that often seemed out of control or conversely complacent and boring. I was looking to radically change my life, and Jim had been there for me in the past when things had changed, always being that constant. I figured he could do the same now while helping me turn my life around. I wanted to hug him but I was afraid it would look gay. I didn't know why that mattered to me, but it did right now. I looked back at the pants I was wearing, my hair dropping back into place from where I'd pushed it back, and he started to speak again.

"Eddie, you sure you want this?"

I simply stood up and went over to the couch where he sat, timidly crawling up onto the couch next to him. He instinctively put his big arm around my shoulders and tugged me closer. I didn't mind, though; I loved how warm he felt and was amazed at how soft his fat made his body. It surprised me how strong he always looked and I was sure that he'd be built like a brick house, but instead his body felt like warm bread dough, soft and malleable. I couldn't help but smile at this, laying my head to his chest, feeling how the strong pectoral muscles underneath the fat felt like a solid foundation for the soft blubber that sat atop it. I sat there cuddled with him for what felt like hours, even though it was probably only a few minutes.

I finally pulled back and looked him dead in his eyes, my pale blue ones lassed over with tears. Somehow the feelings in me were still churning, tossing like a rocky sea in a hurricane and I couldn't stop them. The thoughts of having been alone for most of my life, taking care of my mother and being looked after by Jim from arm's length all rushed up to get me at the same time. I didn't know why, but I suddenly began to think about what I wanted in life. And what I wanted to have, Jim could provide. And what Jim could provide was too much to explain to his face, but I knew deep down it was a big bear for a father, a mentor, and a friend. I wanted Jim in my life and as long as he lived next door, I promised myself I would be over there every day from that moment on, never wanting to let the opportunity to become like him pass by. He must've seen this in my eyes, because he had a simple understanding look on his face, one that seemed to know what I was feeling and what I wanted. He held me to him protectively, curling the other arm around me as well, and at this point I just started to cry. It was something I hated doing; crying made me weak in the knees, it hurt my head, and it was often impossible to stop once I got started. I had made it a habit to hold back any and all tears, but in Jim's arms right now it felt like I couldn't say no to them. Jim seemed to understand that too, and I was grateful he did.

After a long time, the tears of sadness and repressed emotions began to slow, but I had not yet exhausted the supply of sad thoughts that went with them, and the more that I tried to stop thinking of them the more that they persisted, and the tears kept coming back in waves that tore at my mind, making me want to stop all over again. Thinking about my life, how I had never been truly happy with it since my father died. The bullying at school had only gotten worse through the years, and the bruises from the jocks had become harder to hide from my mother in recent weeks, who had started to suspect what was really going on. Thinking about how Jim had been here this whole time, and how I'd never taken advantage of that fact because I was too shy and timid, made me mad at myself, and I tore my mind open trying to justify those reasons. I couldn't find one; I concluded there was none. I wanted to tell Jim everything, I really did. I wanted to spill my guts right there on the couch but he didn't hear anything but my sobs as I cried; I couldn't tell him. Even if he had an understanding, in my head it just didn't make sense. Everything was jumbled up in my mind. It would be worse to speak.

Jim poured himself a glass of the bourbon and then pulled his arms away from me and for a brief second I felt cold and exposed again to the world, vulnerable and naked without his warm embrace to comfort me, which was something I didn't even realize was possible until I felt his absence. I suddenly realized why he had pulled back: a glass slipped inside my hand and he looked at me with a hard stare that was both warm and encouraging.

"Drink it. You'll feel a little better, trust me." Jim looked at the bourbon in my hand and I looked at it as well. I had never drank alcohol before either, but I had tried smoking his cigar (the thought of which sent my mind reeling back to wanting another one, and I considered the possibility briefly) so why not compound it with a drink as well? I brought it to my lips and downed a bit, screwing my face up a bit at how bitter and strong the taste was. But Jim was right, as he had been all day, and I instantly felt a bit relieved. The thoughts all stopped screaming in my head, and the rough seas calmed, slowly dying as I took another sip. Anything to stop those tears. Anything to feel happier. "Don't go too fast. I don't want you drunk before you leave here." He said softly as I finished the glass without hearing him.

My mind warmed over and began to grow a bit fuzzy; I knew I was probably on my way to a nice buzz but I didn't care. It was enough for me to feel the quiet in my mind return, and that was all I wanted. I handed him the empty glass and he set it down on the coaster. I shivered a bit.

"Thanks, Jim," I said shyly, sniffling back a bit of the last of the tears. Jim nodded silently to me, "I don't know what came over me."

"I think I do. But it's all right. You'll make a great bear, but first you have to get the cub out, kid," he said metaphorically. I understood what he meant without knowing why or how. I shook my head a bit, and he put his meaty hands firmly on both of my shoulders, my gaze focused on his eyes again. "And with me here at your side, we'll turn that little cub into a big bear together."

I nodded gently and asked him a bit quietly, "Do drinking and smoking make you feel better, Jim?" He gave a gentle shake of his head and I lowered my gaze a bit, "I don't mean like... like you don't rely on them to make you feel better. I just meant did you start them because you were sad?"

"Yeah. I did. I was going through a rough period, kid." Jim admitted freely, but his tone hardened a bit, "But you don't drink or smoke just to feel better. They'll only leave you feeling worse in the end. Sure, a nice 'gar relaxes me, and drinking calms those thoughts I can't otherwise stop sometimes, but I don't expect them to solve my problems. I don't expect the answers to come out of them. And I won't let you come over here thinking that you'll get your answers from a fifth of Jack any time you please. That's not why I'm here."

"Well... how do I find the answers then?" I queried with a bit of a sad tone still in my voice. I was trying to clear it away but it didn't want to go so easily.

"That I can't tell you, kid. You're just a cub now, starting out in the world. You have to live twenty more years before you find all the answers you want. Hell, even I don't know the mysteries to life's greatest questions, and I ask them all the time. I'm not a perfect bear, just an old man who happens to love the way things are in his life." He ruffled his hand through my hair and I couldn't stop myself from thinking that Dad used to do the same thing when I was a little kid. He smiled at me suddenly, "Come on. I'll make you a good meal. Maybe that'll cheer you up."

I nodded a bit and watched as he got off the couch, noticing the huge, heavy imprint his body had made in the leather as he got up. I followed him to the kitchen, taking my empty glass with me, and as we made our way through the dining room again into the kitchen, I couldn't help but wish that he had been my father the whole time. As Jim had said, he was just a man, but he was more than that to me; to me he was still the perfect bear, the type of man I had been wanting to fill the void that had been left by my dad's absence nearly a decade ago. I couldn't think of anything to say that would express how I believed in Jim, but somehow I expected he knew.

Jim started cooking for me, and even though it was lunchtime on a Saturday, he was busy preparing eggs and bacon as a late breakfast I supposed. I sat back down at the bar while he cooked, the aroma of scrambling eggs and frying bacon mixing together to make a warm and inviting mixture of scents that made my mind feel more at ease. I watched him in silence. We'd spoke too much already, and I had spilled out all those tears I had held back for so long, but he wasn't asking for anything in return. He had no ulterior motive, I decided; Jim was just this nice all the time.

He served the plate up for me after a while, and I was amazed at the fact that it was piled high with food; he usually served big portions when he cooked over at our house, but he never made something so big for me especially. I felt a bit bad, I didn't want him using all his food just to feed me, but I heard my stomach arguing and I took the fork he'd provided and started to tear into the eggs first, finding they were tenderly cooked and had a bit of the bacon grease in them from using the same pan. Before I realized it, a small stack of pancakes was slid onto the plate with a bit of syrup and butter covering them. I felt a flush of heat enter my cheeks again and he chuckled a bit.

"Well, if you want to be like me, you gotta stop being so skinny, kid."

I tried to explain to him that I had never thought about being fat, that I didn't want to because of how my father had died, but the only thing that came out was, "Yes, Jim." and I kept eating, trying the thick-cut bacon that had a bit of maple syrup on it from where the syrup dribbled off the pancake stack next to it. I had to admit, Jim was a great cook. He could literally fix anything and it would be perfectly to my liking. I knew this from all those meals he'd cooked over at our place, and this one in his kitchen was no exception. I kept eating, finding myself feeling hungrier the more I dug into it. The feelings were welcomed, though, not shunned like I thought they would be. Jim was speaking to me again, but I had started to find my mind listening more closely to his words now. I trusted Jim to always have good advice at this point, and I hadn't thought it possible when I first crossed his yard earlier today. Had I always trusted him this way before? I didn't know.

"I know you watch me a lot, kid. I know you're fascinated with me and how I look. I've seen you watching me working out sometimes. You want to be like me, and you already told me that today too just by being here as long as you have. You don't have to admit it, we both know it's true." Jim was saying confidently as he sat near me at the bar, watching me eat. He put a gentle hand to my flat stomach, and my ribs felt his body heat there because I was so skinny. "Don't worry though, we'll make your belly grow until you're big like me. It will take time, but if you come here every day for at least one meal I'll make sure it's a good one."

"I promise I'll be over every day after school then." I said quickly with a mouthful of bacon. Jim laughed happily at this and shook his head, but said nothing. I swallowed the food in my mouth, then replaced it with a stack of the pancakes that I'd piled onto the fork. I still had a hard time admitting that I wanted to get bigger and bearish like he was, but the idea was slowly warming up to me. The idea that my father had been fat persisted, and I didn't want to believe that part of me had been wrong this whole time; it would take a long time to admit to that.

"You don't have to be here every day, kid. I'm not always here." He saw my eyes, he had to know how deeply unsettling this sounded considering what had happened in the living room. "But for you, I will try to be."

It was then that I fell in love with Jim. I had watched him for so long, listened to him, believed all that he'd said as long as I could remember, that I knew it had to be love. If it wasn't love, it was definitely close. I had never felt like this with anyone else in my life, not even my own father had this sort of love and care in my heart. Even to this day, I don't think anyone else has ever taken the spot he held. I blushed hard and looked him over as he sat there and I felt like he must've felt the same way with me, but in his own special way. I filled the part of him that had never had a son before.

The food was delicious, but gone now. I looked down realizing that all that was left was a bit of the syrup and some small crumbs. I lowered my gaze a little and smiled as I saw my shirt, looking like it had been pushed a bit by a bloated stomach. I imagined that it was much bigger and fatter than it was, and strangely enough I was comforted by this image, more than I thought possible considering my father.

He stood up and began to clean the dishes, and I watched him like a puppy would watch his master play with a toy, eager to join in. For the first time in ages I felt content and at ease, and was because Jim was here with me. I felt comfortable with him.

However, there was more building up in me and I couldn't help but think about that cigar he'd let me try before, the way it tasted in my mouth and the way the smoke had relaxed me (upon reflection it had been so relaxing, and made my emotions more vivid, which I had not expected). The smoke's smell was also not unpleasant and I found myself wanting to smell it again as I tried to justify my desire. I wasn't addicted to smoking cigars... I soon would be though. I thought out it for a moment and then frowned, hearing a voice in my head telling me that it didn't matter. You do what you want because you want it, it said. It sounded a lot like Big Jim Remy's voice.

I didn't have to ask him about the cigar, fortunately. He turned to me, the dishes clean, and smiled, "Why don't you come out on the back porch and have a cigar with me? I could tell you liked it earlier." He went to the living room, grabbed a couple of cigars from the humidor and brought them back, along with the cutter and lighter he kept in his pants pocket, then nodded to me. I rose from the bar and headed out to the back porch with him.

We came outside and I found it was much warmer now than it had been when I arrived that morning. What time was it anyways? Judging by the sun it was early afternoon but felt later, and the heat was comfortable but almost a bit too warm. I followed his lead and sat in one of the wicker chairs that sat outside on the porch, listening as it creaked a bit under my weight.

Jim handed me a freshly-clipped cigar and then smiled. "You know how to work a lighter?"

I nodded a bit. Whenever the power had gone out during the winter, we used a lighter for candles. I smiled a bit and flicked the lighter on, turned the flame to the tip of my cigar, and then began to inhale the smoke into my mouth again; despite the heavy coughing still, I found myself enjoying it more than the first time. I resolved to smoke the whole cigar and not just one puff like the last one. I wanted to make Jim proud of me by showing I could do that. He didn't sit down, however; he went back inside and came back once again with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other, both filled with ice. He sat down and placed the glasses on the table between the two wicker chairs, then filled both halfway with whiskey before nudging one of the glasses towards me. I couldn't help but smile as I took it and nursed it with my other hand, the first one being busy holding the lit cigar. I sat there thinking to myself for a while that this is what I wanted to do more often as well, enjoying the outdoors with a cigar, a drink, and the big bear that sat near me.

Feeling the same, Jim said, "This is exactly what I love about being a bear. You get to enjoy life with or without somebody here to share it with you. It's so much more enjoyable with somebody else though." I nodded slightly and smiled at him, watching him drag back on his own cigar, chase it immediately with some of his whiskey, then exhale the smoke through his nose as he pulled the glass away. He couldn't have looked more perfect in the early afternoon light and I couldn't have been happier to be sitting there with him.

As time went on and we sat in the silence of nature, enjoying all our cigars and whiskey had to offer, I started to feel that warm buzz returning, but it wasn't like before. It was a deeply settling buzz, something warm and enjoyable that rose from the center of my body and radiated outwards like a gentle heat that my very heart and lungs seemed to pump all through me as if it was replacing my very blood. I could only sit there enjoying the feeling while I was with Jim, though. I didn't feel like it would last when I went home later that night.

And indeed, after a few hours of sitting there in the afternoon sun, sipping whiskey and talking about life and philosophizing like we used to do when I was a kid, I found myself opening up to the comfortable possibility that I would be able to connect with the bear more often; that this was the start of something far bigger than I even imagined. I said my goodbye to Jim late that afternoon, the sun setting, and began to head home with nothing less than a life-changing feeling of warmth in my body and mind. It felt good.

It was raining outside, the sound of thunder crashing throughout the air as lightning crisscrossed the sky. It was the start of summer, nearly two weeks after I had finished school for the year, and I was drenched in the heavy rainfall as I trotted across the yard towards Jim's house. I had to talk to him desperately today, and I had hoped he would be home because of what I needed to say.

Most of my school year had been spent with Jim when I wasn't focused on my studies or trying to take care of my mom, who's health had started taking a turn for the worse almost immediately after I started seeing Jim at the beginning of the school year. Things had begun to get stressful around Christmas when Mom's doctor had come out and told her about the lump they discovered on her brain. Luckily it had proven benign. However, that didn't mean her health was getting better. She was slowly coming down with more illnesses than was normal; whatever it was she'd been having increasingly harder times and I had been doing my best to take care of her. I could only do so much, though.

Things had been progressing far faster than I had ever expected with Jim, however, and sometimes it took away the problems and the pain of watching my mother suffer through problems I had no idea about how to cope with. The weight that I had put on was the most noticeable. Eating at Jim's house every day after school, and then the weekends helping him do whatever it was he needed to do, had helped me gain weight. I had stopped looking so skinny almost immediately, but I was nowhere near Jim's big size. I had gone up nearly one hundred pounds, though, and I was not about to doubt the means by which I had put it on. The weight had been two-fold in where it was added, of course; most of it had been muscle that I had added underneath the fat that came from eating Jim's incredible cooking. He and I spent more weekends than not in his garage fixing up his truck or in his home gym working out. I had bulked up easily and I didn't know why or how it was possible, but I'd be damned if I questioned it.

Jim had been supportive all the way, but it wasn't without its ups and downs as well. As I had expected to happen, I had become a cigar smoker and a whiskey lover, but there was a price for it; I had to fight feelings of addiction quite often and pace myself. I knew what I had to do thanks to Jim encouraging me and being by my side the whole time, but sometimes I wanted to go beyond what we did together, and at first it had scared me. I had thought of my father a lot, of how he was so big and had died so suddenly, and sometimes I wondered if doing what I did with Jim would make that happen to me. I had my doubts at first; when the weight started piling on and my craving for whiskey and cigars got stronger, but I would brush it off as things that were going to happen with or without my father's death in my life. I had been so dead-set on making myself into a tough bear that I was willing to put aside the one thing that held me back from unleashing my true potential. Jim Remy knew this though, and while he wasn't happy with me holding myself back, he understood my hesitation. He would always stay supportive.

It wasn't until after Christmas that things began to feel pressured and strained for me, though. As I had been bulking up, my personality had remained largely unchanged. It was true that I was more relaxed and at ease with myself, but there were still times when I couldn't hold back the tears over things that happened in my life. School had not really changed much; I was still bullied, but increasingly the weight I was putting on became the reason for my torment, and the transition had been scarily quick as it went from skinny jokes to fat jokes in the course of the year. I had tried at first to brush them away, then to defend myself with my growing strength, but I wasn't big enough yet to do so; I had been suspended once for fighting in school just because of the defense I was trying to build.

Aside from the weight I was putting on, there was also the fact that I was coming to terms with my sexuality as well. My love for Jim would carry me through many days and nights when I was lonely and had nobody else to think about, but the kids at school were not immune to the thought that I didn't chase after the skirts. They knew I watched the football team showering after practice, assumed that I only worked out in the gym after school because I wanted to see the show of all those bulky guys getting clean, and constantly made fun of that as well. Teens can be cruel, I guess you could say. The worst of it came when the season had ended and there was no reason for me to go to the locker room shower except after my daily work-out routine was over, and typically there was no reason for anyone else to be there as well.

The quarterback of the team had caught me off guard one day in the gym's shower, and it had been no real surprise that he had not wanted to congratulate me on my recent gains of muscle on my arms or chest. He had come to torment me like always. The teasing had finally gotten to me after a short bit of trying to pass it off (Jim's first suggestion had always been to let it go, that it wasn't worth the fight) and the two of us started exchanging words, then fists, right there under the running shower's faucet. He'd left with a broken rib and a busted nose, and I got suspended from school for two weeks. As pissed as my mother had been at me for fighting, she would have never understood that it was self-defense, Jim was more upset because he had told me specifically to watch my strength.

"You're becoming a man, Eddie." He'd said to me, "You can easily break a kid's jaw with that left hook you throw." He'd been right, but it hadn't been the jaw I'd busted open with the hook. And Jim had despised the violence; he had thought that even though it was probably necessary, he hated that it had even come to that in the first place, and more so that I had taken the first swing.

Jim and I spent more time than ever during those two weeks that I was suspended, discussing the meaning of what it was to truly be a bear. We had never discussed it in depth before that time, but I learned a lot in those two weeks. I learned that Jim believed in a selfless attitude, always wanting to care for those who couldn't do so themselves because he knew what it was like. He did his best to take care of me; truthfully I had thought of him as the father I'd always wanted, and he thought of me as a son he would never have. He tried to teach me about how he viewed the world, but we weren't as different as our conversations would lead you to believe. We could spend hours talking in circles about the same opinion, giving each other our insight into it, and then moving on to the next topic.

We never spent a day apart without at least talking on the phone to each other, and I was truly glad for that. Jim had been there for me all my life, and I felt bad realizing how only recently I had started to take him up on that offer. He insisted that he knew one day I'd come around, that I'd open up to him, but he'd never push me into coming to him. Oftentimes, however, I wished he had done that; I wasn't going to tell him that I had wished he'd been there sooner because the truth was I would never have let him in sooner. My mind had opened up to him easily and quickly, but it had needed the right moment to do so. Things had never gone entirely right in my life and when they did, it was because Jim had been there. I was sure of that.

He didn't want to admit it, but I knew about Jim's biggest fear the longer we talked. He had always kept his own counsel, always kept to himself, and that hadn't changed from high school when he was Slim Jim. He did it to keep his deeper thoughts inside, and I knew that his biggest fear was that they would come out one day and hurt somebody. I only once saw this happen, and it was the day I had been suspended for fighting in the gym's shower. Vividly recalling his own experiences in school, he compared me to the bully that had brought me to the breaking point.

"If you let them reach within your heart, Eddie, they'll rip it out." He'd said, "But you don't go ripping out their hearts to keep them out of reach." He had told me that if I wanted to beat somebody up, he would not respect the decision. He admitted that he wasn't going to take me under his wing anymore if I just decked the son of a bitch that called me the wrong name, and he would be damned if I became a bully because of my new size. That was the only time we'd ever fought, and it was just like many of the other long talks we'd had; we both agreed on the same points, but this time instead of understanding it, we seemed to differ. Jim had suggested that maybe we weren't agreeing, but I thought we were. I had not stayed too long after the fight.

The rain fell harder now, the thunder crashing through the sky once again, splitting it open with rolling waves of sound, and I jogged up into the garage that held Jim's truck and shook myself a bit trying to get rid of the rain that was dripping from my face and hair before I trotted up to the door that would hopefully be opened soon. Jim was usually home; but today I hadn't heard of seen from him before I had gone over. I typically checked through the windows of my house before hurrying over, to make sure he was home. I knocked hard.

"Jim? It's Eddie. Open up!" I called, and then cleared my throat a bit. My smoking had become a bit of a steady habit; one a day, every day that I saw Jim had already started to take its toll on me, or I had suspected. It frequently sounded a little raspier, deeper, and gruffer than I was used to, and I could often just clear my throat and it would go away but today it didn't, "Jim, I need to talk with you!"

There was a short pause before the door was unbolted and unlocked. I had never noticed that Jim bolted or locked his doors before, but today for some reason I did. He opened the door a bit, and I realized why he'd locked the house. He was standing there in nothing but a towel, just as wet as I was. He frowned a bit at me, a gruff tone in his voice, "What's up, kid? You want to come in?" He was polite as always, even when he sounded angry at me.

I must've looked a sight to him with my hair looking a bit disheveled and uncombed like it usually was, strands of wet blonde hair hanging in front of my face down towards my eyes, and my clothes were clinging to my bulkier body like wet newspaper. My proud belly that I was working on growing seemed too big for my button-up shirt as the buttons there seemed strained a bit around the midsection, and the strong arms I was getting seemed to fill the shirt out like a sausage casing. My legs clung to the jeans as always, but the denim made them seem even thicker than usual and somehow more powerfully defined too. My chest and shoulders had broadened out as puberty had continued over the last year or so, and my shirt looked taut there as well, making my clothes in general look too small. That had been a big problem this past year; finding clothes that fit was like a never-ending broken record; Jim had given me some of his old shirts and pants, and today I was wearing an outfit he'd given me only two weeks ago. I felt a bit bad that I was already outgrowing them.

"I need to talk to you about Mom." I said in a rushed tone, pushing my way into the kitchen and heading to the fridge for the bottle of whiskey that Jim had told me I could help myself to. Jim closed the door behind me and turned, holding the towel up with one hand even though his fat, hairy gut could've done that by itself.

"Your mother?" Jim asked, surprised to hear this. "Did you two get into another fight over your weight?"

I stopped just shy of opening the fridge and I turned to face him. Normally if I'd have seen him in this sort of shape, nearly-naked and soaked from a shower, I'd have blushed because he truly was arousing to look at in all his glory. I couldn't help the thoughts that rang through my head, and even now my manhood stirred a bit seeing him standing there as he crossed his arms over his thick, meaty chest and idly twirled one of the chest hairs with a thick finger. But I had too much on my mind to let my cock dictate what I was going to say.

"Not just that. She's comparing me to Dad again. She said I'm going to die of a heart attack if I keep putting on all this weight." This was a serious accusation, Jim knew, because of what a comparison to my father made me feel like. He frowned hard and I slowed down a bit and sat at the bar trying to collect my thoughts. "She... She said she knows about my smoking habit. I think she knows why I come over here all the time."

"And what reason is that?" Jim asked as he stood firmly in place, the crossed arms now resting on top of his big gut.

"My goal... to be a big bear like you." I said unable to stop the racing in my heart when I said this. It was a habit that whenever I repeated this goal, whether to him or to myself, those mental images all screamed at me at once, and it made me feel motivated and inspired even now. "She doesn't like it. She wants me to be the same kid I've always been."

Jim shook his head a bit, "I don't understand, Eddie. You are the same person I've always known, just a bit bigger in the waistline now." I shook my head, trying to explain what she meant, but he cut me off, "Let me explain. I don't think you realize that I'm not this way simply because I put on three hundred pounds since I was your age. It didn't come from my cigars, or my whiskey. It didn't come after I got this big either... I've always been the same person. Just like you have always been the same too."

I shivered a bit as my wet clothes began to chill. "I don't know about that, Jim. There has to be something about me that's different. Different enough for her to say something."

He noticed my shivering and shook his head, "Why don't you come into the bedroom and we'll both get into something drier?" I nodded a bit and stood from the bar, following him upstairs as he led the way into the living room and then up the staircase to the upstairs to the master suite. I had gotten used to the creaky stairs over the last few months; I made sure not to step on the first step because it groaned the loudest from age.

When we got into the bedroom, he looked over at me and tossed me a pair of jeans and a white tank-top to put on, and I thanked him graciously for it. After I had put on the clothes I frowned a bit; how had his clothes gotten so much closer to fitting lately? His jeans were nowhere near my size, of course, but the tank-top was much closer, even hugging my small gut a bit. I thought I heard Jim chuckle a bit and mutter something under his breath, but he said nothing and I did not ask him about it. I belted the jeans and frowned even more realizing I had to go up a belt loop hole just to make the comfortably fit. Maybe I had been eating more than I had thought lately?

Big Jim was dressed in one of his usual plaid shirts, today it was a green and blue mixed in the flannel weave, and some khaki slacks that were relaxed fit. Jim was an advocate for anything "relaxed" because of his big thighs and ass filling up his clothes to their limit. He turned back to me and tossed the towel into the hamper by the closet door and folded his muscular arms over his broad chest.

"Now then... You want to know what I think?"

I nodded a bit eagerly. To me, Jim's opinion was law in most cases; he seldom had a point he couldn't prove with facts or numbers, and his logic was often more stable than my emotions tended to be whenever I was in this kind of a mood. He was a lighthouse in the dark, foggy night, eternally guiding me in the right direction when I got lost.

"You're a lot different, kid. You've changed so much since August alone that I can hardly believe you're still the same person. You're much heavier, for one thing. That tank-top looks more fitting on you than I think any shirt I have fits on me. And those pants won't take too much more to fill out at the rate you're growing. You even have a nice layer of stubble you always seem to keep on you. And your voice has changed too. I think puberty's finally hitting you." He said, ticking off all the physical changes that I myself had noticed lately. He didn't seem to be getting the point that I was trying to make until after a moment later, when he continued from an unusual pause, "You're also much tougher, kid. You don't take shit anymore from anyone, and you used to let people run all over you. If there's one good that came out of that locker room fight, it was that it shows how much tougher you are. You hold your ground now, and you don't back down. Your father was a lot like that."

"I know, Mom keeps reminding me at every turn how much like Dad I'm becoming." I said scratching at my stubble a bit, thinking to myself that I did like how good it felt. It was rough, but somehow even and thick. I sighed a bit and sat on his bed, thinking to myself how deeply unsettling the similarities between Dad and I were, and Jim stood there with his arms against his thick chest, the sleeves bulging tightly against the massive biceps as he stayed firmly in place. "I don't like that, Jim. I don't want to be Dad. I don't want to die of a heart attack before I'm fifty."

"And you won't, Eddie." Jim said firmly, but it was just as reassuring as always. It was also final, and there was no need to argue with him about it, or debate the semantics of what raged in my mind. Jim had spoken for us both when he'd said that, and I had no choice but to agree. I knew what he'd say even if I went forward, and Jim could tell I wanted to keep speaking, to shoot down his statement with an excuse of some sort, so he kept going, "If nothing else can convince you, then at least consider this, Eddie... your father was much different than you and he will never be you. He didn't have a bear to look out for him like you do."

"He had so much to live for though-"

"That's not the point... but you're right. He did. And so do you." Jim crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed next to me and put a heavy paw on my shoulder. It felt like a brick for a moment before I shivered a little and hugged him tightly. The hand caressed my back, the other one joining it in a warm, protective hug around me. "Eddie, you know what I'm going to say. You've heard me say it enough times by now. So just let it out and don't hold back. Jim's here for you."

I couldn't stop it then; the tears fell like the rain outside, and my breath rushed in and out of my lungs like the thunder, sometimes in tune with it, sometimes not. But I couldn't stop the tears; those years of fear and the worry that I would end up like my father, feeling so close to being realized and yet knowing they were so far from coming true. There was nothing to say. I wouldn't end up like him, because I wasn't him, but it didn't stop how I felt. There was a voice in my head crying out to those emotions. It screamed at them, shouting obscenities and unsavory words for them to go away. It sounded a lot like Jim's voice, deep, growling, and intimidating to the point that I could instantly recognize its purpose. It was the bear that I had been becoming over the last few months, and it was not happy that I was letting this get to me. It didn't like how I sat here crying instead of believing Jim, no matter how solid the argument was. It told me that I was better than this, that I could straighten up, toughen up, and get through this. I had the ability, I just needed the motivation.

He held me tightly and the tears kept coming, soaking his plaid shirt without hesitation. I cringed a bit hearing myself and I couldn't help but tear away from the comfort of his embrace, jerking myself off the bed before he even realized what I was doing. I mentally kicked myself and pulled to ease my emotions, the bear inside of me picking up the slack that had been there for too long. It wasn't going to let me keep myself down for things I had no control over, and it wasn't going to let me jump to conclusions that might not even be possible. The more it pulled, the harder I wanted to fight it; to tell it to stop. There was the internal struggle that I had read about happening with people who were schizophrenic, and for a moment I thought I had a severe problem developing right in front of Jim, but then the voice in my head spoke and all was quieted. The world outside of my mind ceased to exist, and the black void that was my mind spoke in a deep, growling voice.

Why do you do this to yourself?

I listened to it for a moment, the words echoing off the black void of my mind as if it had been shouted from Mt. Everest to the world below. I couldn't answer it immediately, and when I couldn't, it shouted at me again.

Why do you do this to yourself?

Because it's what I fear. The fear that I will end up like my father, dead and unable to stop it from happening.

We all die some time. You could die right now, or you could die in fifty years. Why does the time matter to you? It doesn't change the fact.

I don't want to die of a heart attack like he did. He had so much to live for. I have so much left to do in my life.

You don't even have health problems right now, though. Jim's been taking care of you as best as he knows how, and you haven't so much as gotten the flu since he started doing that.

What's your point?

You have no logical reason to think these thoughts. You're a bear, Edwin, not a lost cub. You are a bear above all else. You have the strength inside of you to be whoever and whatever you want to be. Why do you deny it?

There was no reason for me to try and hide it. I was arguing with myself at this point, and I was losing to the bear inside me. It set all the rational points before me, just like Jim would have. The bear in me was making the point known; I had no reason to act this way, no reason to keep myself down. It was time for me to put that behind me and move on with my life. Let go of my father's death and stop wishing for the same to happen to me. I had Jim to look after me, and likewise I would do the same when he got too old to do so himself. I had my mother to look after. And of course, I had myself to take care of as well. There was no way I could do these things if I kept crying about how things might turn out in the end. My mind knew it, and in my heart I knew it too.

Big Jim Remy knew it as well. That must have been why he was hugging me so tightly as I awakened from my thoughts. He was hugging me right there in the middle of his bedroom, and he wasn't letting go. For a moment I thought he was crying, but he wasn't. He was only sighing heavily.

"Are you sure you're okay, Eddie?" He asked me as I looked back at him, a surprised look on my face. He was always so caring, so endearing; why did it suddenly sound like he was sad too? His face hid it well, he had that tough bearish expression on his face at all times and he hid emotions well. But I thought I heard a bit more concern and sadness in his voice than usual.

The big bear kept hugging me for a while, but I didn't answer his question. I couldn't. I didn't know what to say. Truthfully, I figured that if I couldn't answer my own mind's questions, I couldn't answer his either. The tears had stopped, though, as abruptly as they had come.

Jim stood and turned around. "Come back downstairs. I want to have a glass of whiskey with you." It wasn't an offer, it was an order. Jim knew I liked drinking whiskey when I felt bad, and even though I'd been told specifically never to drink when I was sad. I drank when I had a bad day. It made me feel better instead of worse. The answers to my problems typically came easier with a fifth of Kentucky bourbon or Tennessee whiskey in my system, and generally they were good answers too. I nodded firmly and followed after him.

We sat on the back porch for a while that afternoon, safely protected from the rain by the awning that stretched over us. Jim sat in his big chair and I sat in mine, and together we shared a bottle of his whiskey, a couple of his good cigars, and the sounds of the natural world. It wasn't like every other afternoon had been, though. It had a ring of solemnity to it, a touch of bitter reality creeping in at the edges, pulling at the ideal fantasy that we had created by being here every day, relaxing and listening to the world around us. We always laughed or enjoyed each other's company in some other way, but today there was no joking. Today we sat in the chairs, contemplating our place in the world, and thinking deeply on our own lives. I especially did a lot of thinking about what I wanted to do with my life, where I was going, and who I wanted to be.

I strengthened my resolve more over the course of that afternoon, and I began to figure out the answers as I smoked my cigar and drank the whiskey. I was a bear, I knew that, and I would never be anything less than that. I couldn't go back to being who I was; it wasn't who I wanted to be. I wanted to be as big and powerful as Jim, tough like he was, and mentally strong like he was too. He was everything to me; he was who I wanted to be. I realized that ages ago, and I didn't think I would be able to see myself any different from him with enough time. The thought of that comforted me throughout the afternoon, the thought that he was going to be here for me and that I was going to be there for him. Two bears eternally smoking those cigars and drinking that whiskey on the back porch in ideal comfort, the image burning itself into my head as nothing less than the greatest desire of my life. I was glad to have that thought to hold onto, and I exhaled from a drag on the cigar in my mouth, the hot and thick smoke clouding around me as I did and making me feel relaxed. It was pleasurable, and I had to admit that even despite the rain and the cold emotions that had clouded the majority of the day, in that moment I was truly happy.

Twenty years have passed since that rainy day on the porch. My life has turned out far better than I could have expected when I was still in high school. I'm the biggest I've ever been in my life; a proud four-hundred and fifty pound bear. I'm made of muscle and fat, thanks to Jim's diet and exercise plan that he started me on all those years ago. He turned me from a skinny little kid into Big Eddie, more or less. I know that I did most of it myself, of course, but I would have never done anything without his support. I'm even bigger than Big Jim Remy himself ever imagined I'd be, and I still occasionally find myself putting a little more weight on my frame.

At this point, though, I'm maintaining my weight, diet, and exercise. I don't mind saying that I can easily lift over five hundred pounds when I work out. My husband Cal is a true bear enthusiast, and he's certainly proud of his Papa Bear's massive size. I can talk all day about how he likes to rub my big, hairy belly, or how he clings to my huge arms whenever I flex one to show off.

It's true that I am a heavy cigar smoker, and a heavy alcohol aficionado at times, but I try to limit myself with both because my doctor told me that the growling rasp in my voice is only going to lead to something worse if I don't back off a little. I love how I sound though; tough, rough, and bearish. I agree that the health and well-being of my body comes first, and that is why I have tried to cut back a little on the smoking somewhat in recent days. It's why I don't always smoke with you when we go outside, son. But I do enjoy watching you do it. You've started to turn into quite the bear yourself. Your beard's almost as thick as mine is now.

I'm sure you're wondering what happened to Big Jim Remy, and I suppose I owe you an answer now that you know how big a help and influence he was in helping me be the bear I am today. Well, son, after Jim and I had that talk on that rainy afternoon, things were good for a while. Jim and I built our bond tighter and stronger than it had ever been, and it kept growing for a good number of years, long after I had graduated college and moved into this house with you. Back when you were just a little bear cub, though, something bad did happen to Jim.

Jim had fallen ill one winter, and when I went to visit him I could tell he probably wasn't going to make it to the next one. He had what the doctors called inoperable cancer, but he was tough enough to know that he could continue to live the life he wanted to as long as he followed some rules. He surpassed their original expectations for survival thanks to his following their orders. Sometimes a bear has to follow orders rather than give them; I learned that from Jim as well.

Jim had to give up smoking and drinking for obvious health reasons, and the chemotherapy and medicine made him rapidly drop quite a bit of weight. He and I had switched places after only a few months, with me being the one to take care of him on a daily basis. I'll never forget how appreciative he was of my caring for him; he had been surprised that I'd kept my word, but I had promised him that I would do everything I could to take the best care of him that I could. A bear never breaks his promises, remember that, son.

He fought the cancer for two years, and he fought it harder than I've ever seen anyone fight something in their lives. He held together fairly well; only once did I ever see him crying or angry about it, and it was the worst moment of my life. A grown bear like Jim reduced to a puddle of tears over something that simply was not in his control, a death sentence for his very life, and it was not what he wanted to go out with on his conscious. But I suspect that we all would do the same in his place; nobody wants to die from something like cancer and nobody could blame him for breaking down that day. Jim Remy was a strong, proud man, though. He didn't let it keep him down, he never gave up on the fight, and he never told the doctors he was ready to go, but I could tell every day I was there in his house, smoking with him on the back porch, and eventually holding his hand when he became bedridden, all the way until the end; he was not afraid of death. It's a natural end to life and Jim knew you can't fight that. You can fight yourself for only so long, but you can't fight death. You toughen up when it kicks you down, but you never stay down. You get back up and swing with both fists, son. Jim's last day was one I'll never forget.

The last day of his life was spent in a remarkably good mood, considering he was bedridden and so weak he could barely keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time. I held his hand the whole time, and it was so small compared to mine by then. My thick, meaty fingers curled around his skinny, frail wrist that was so pale and cold. I didn't like to admit it, but I told him that the roles had reversed and he was the one that needed the care and attention now instead of me. I was the big bear he had seen in me, and he had become Slim Jim once again.

He shook his head at me with those vibrant eyes of his. His eyes never lost their color or their power, even towards the end. He gave my hand as tight a squeeze as he could muster, which wasn't very much more than a gentle flex I believe, and he spoke to me with all the energy he could muster.

"Kid, I am not Slim Jim anymore. I haven't been for a long time now. I'm still Big Jim Remy." He insisted as I smiled warmly at him, and he kept going, despite how hard it must have been for him to talk, and how hard it was for him to hold back the tears. "I'm still bear enough to kick this cancer's ass. That isn't changing. It may kill me, but it won't kill my spirit." He meant it, I could tell. He seemed genuinely at peace with himself in that moment, the same as he always appeared. I had never seen him upset with himself but once, and even on his deathbed, I could tell that Jim was not afraid of dying. He had lived a good life, he said, and he had accomplished the one thing that gave his life the most meaning.

"What would that be?" I asked him as I fought back bitter tears, feeling that the end was near. I don't like to admit it, but sometimes I still don't think I was as sad as I could have been at that moment.

He smiled a bit, "I made a bear out of you, kid. I brought out the true you. I helped you move past the problems in your life, I helped you make your own path, and I taught you everything I know. You listened, you learned, and you became the bear you were meant to be." He said all of this to me so quietly I don't think I heard the rest of his words, but I know it's what he meant. In my heart, I knew he was proud of who I had become, and he regretted nothing about his life, knowing how deeply he'd touched mine. He'd left a lasting imprint on me, one that could never be denied. He'd made a difference in this world so great that he would never forget it, even in the next life, if there is one.

"I love you, Jim. I've loved you ever since I started coming to see you back in high school. I am never going to forget you." I told him, still trying to hold back my tears. It was so hard, and I couldn't bring myself to force them away, or to bring them to the surface. They hung in my eyes and burned like liquid fire.

He gave me a gentle squeeze again, "I love you too Edwin. You've been a son to me, truly." And with that, Jim closed his eyes and rested eternally. I couldn't stop the tears for the rest of the day. Jim Remy had meant so much to me that I didn't think it was possible for me to cry so much without him. For a while, I thought the tears would go on forever, and the sadness that remained afterwards felt like an eternity. The day that Jim died was one of the saddest of my life, even more so than when my mother passed away a few years before that. His last words to me, though, were what kept me going through it all. I was like a son to him, truly the best I could have been, and he was more than glad to have had me in his life for as long as I'd been, even up until the end. He was more than a man or a bear, my son, but he wouldn't want me to compare him that way. He would just want me to call him a man like any other, a bear if I felt like complimenting him enough, but no more. And in the end, I respect that choice despite how highly I've always thought of him.

You don't have to worry about me, son. I'm still happy, still going strong, and still healthy thanks to Jim's advice during all those years we spent together. I learned how to take care of myself, and I am passing on what he taught me to you. I know we don't speak much anymore, since we've only been able to email each other once a day, but I hope that this letter finds you in good time and good health like always. I hope the story of Big Jim Remy has been entertaining, enlightening, and above all inspiring. Big Jim would have wanted it that way. He would be proud of me if he could see the progress I've helped you to make.

Don't worry about your brothers, Quentin; they'll make things hard on you sometimes, especially about how overweight you've always been, but they are your brothers and they will stick by you no matter what. You always have Papa Bear to take care of you, though, so feel free to drop me a line some time, and don't forget that I love you very much. I'll be by to pick you up around eight at your house. Make sure you wear that shirt I bought you last week, it makes your belly stick out just perfectly, and you know Papa Bear likes it when you show off.

Your loving Papa Bear,

Eddie