Names in a Bear

KAITLIN ANAKA FRANKLIN PARK JAYDEEG IBBIS KHAIEEP LARRY UBLURIAK. ANTONIA SPOT BARBARA SAUNDERS QUSONING LENA SPENCE ARNOLD HENDERSON RICK GOUZECKY ᐊᐣᗰᕍ ᓴᔨᓱ GRAHAM COOTE (LIMEY) BIG HEAD # 44 RAVEN WES SKY BETTY URSULA GALE MACHUSHEK SAMANTHA I LIKE CHASE TRISHA LOVES BOBBY BUTTER BEANS PUDGIE WHITMORE DANIEL NIPISA

I am sitting inside a polar bear. A wooden polar bear, that is. A polar bear slide made of stacked wood planks. I am sitting on the raised wooden floor. There is old, blackened chewing gum tacked down all around me. Probably under me too. In certain places the wood is compacted, polished by the many children who have passed through here. A red tube slide extends from the bear’s mouth, starting six feet off the ground. Inside the bear, it is dark. The light of Churchill’s town complex stops at the small entryway. A strong red glow emanates from the bear’s mouth, guiding the way to the slide. The space inside the bear is small—cramped for an 18-year-old boy. I can picture the kids playing here—screaming—their voices muffled by the wood walls surrounding them. They run up the steps and stomp on the floorboards, pushing each other around. The bear is splintered, compressed, warped, and polished by these small feet. So too, are the bolts that hold this bear together, worn by time and use.

This is how I know many children use this space. I also know because of the names. By the light of my phone, I see hundreds of them. I was told before coming here that I would find them on the polar bear slide. But I had imagined them covering the outside of the bear: on its flank, paws, or nose. Like tattoos, or the graffiti marring the beautiful rocks outside.

Those names are exterior, show-offy. But no, these names—the children’s names—are inside the bear. Of course they are. Only adults feel the foolish need to mark a space, like dogs pissing. No, I imagine these children wrote down their names to form part of the bear’s inside. Their names say: I was a child once. I walked into this belly, this womb; I slid down the slide once, twice, hundreds of times. Until I grew up. But my name is here, amongst other names. And maybe, also, the year I was a child: 1975, 1979, 1992, 1999, 2008, 2009— 

The complex is empty and quiet—almost empty. For now a toddler waddles over toward the bear, accompanied by an older girl, maybe 16. The girl wears an oversized hoodie with many signatures on it. The child, dressed in a kitsch pink onesie and with dark, fluffy hair, is about to climb the stairs.

I gather my things. Should I get up? Get out? I’m not done writing. Can the child pass by me and go down the slide? If I want to get out, I should go now. I pack my bag and prepare to sling it on. I’m squatting now, caught between leaving and staying. Too late: the child has started to climb the steps that lead into the body of the bear. She hasn’t seen me. Neither has the girl standing behind her, who I assume is her sister. I brace myself for the awkwardness that will ensue, unsure if I should speak up to let them know I am here, or if I should wait until they are inevitably startled by me, a man crouching in the darkness, watching them. I wait, playing out in my head the interactions that will occur in the next few moments.

The child must know this slide. She’s young, two maybe, but it’s not her first time. Her sister must have shown her how to climb the steps, walk through the belly, ascend the few more steps, and how to sit down on the red plastic tube. Slide down. Scary at first, no doubt. But now the child knows. She knows that after the dark belly comes the fun red slide. And then she can giggle, laugh, walk back, and do it again.

The sister, who herself must have slid down the bear when she was little, knows that on a Sunday afternoon in Churchill, Manitoba, the complex is empty and that this small child will have the bear all to herself. The child is at the top of the stairs now. She sees me. Why didn’t I say something while I had a chance? She stops, looking at me. This is new to her, and to me. She hesitates, almost turning back. I don’t even know if she can turn back. The sister, standing behind her, has noticed me too. She is startled, I think. Now I say hi. I’m not sure to whom. They aren’t either. Neither reply.

“You can come in,” I say to the child. She looks at me, unsure. If anyone else were here right now, they would know what to say. I do not. 

“Is your name on this wall?” I ask the sister. She mumbles something I can’t hear.

Fuck. I can’t just leave because the child is blocking the doorway. The girl prompts her to go on, uncertain herself. The child doesn’t move, still watching me warily. The sister picks her up and carries her away.

How many children grew up here, passed through the bear and down the short, red slide? How many stepped on the planks where presently I sit, writing. I am tempted to write my name. At least, I was. I changed my mind. I am not a child—not anymore. Not in the same way, at least.

I stay in the bear, alone once more. I sit back down in the small, dark, gum-tacked belly, my back hunched against the wall. I close my eyes for one last moment, resting my head against the names. It’s okay, I will be gone soon, and the little girl and her sister will come back another day.

I open my eyes and put on my backpack, turning away from the red plastic slide. I crouch to clear the bear’s exit hole, emerging into the harsh light of Churchill’s town complex.