BUBBLES
I have inherited a Hobbit named Bubbles. His last keeper/guardian, Dave is now a resident of the SHU until he goes home later this year thanks to his habit of working with the tattoo guys and taking falls for them. He was a nice guy, just dumb as rocks.
When Bubbles first got here, about a year ago, no one thought he’d last longer than a week, but Dave took him under his wing and kept Bubbles safe from the serious assholes, so when he went to the SHU, Bubbles went looking for a new guardian, and found me.
Bubbles, is a 36 year old, 5 feet tall, chubby, and covered in fur (except on the crown of his head, which is balding). His nose is large and round, his cheeks Santa-like in shape and color, and he has tiny eyes that are enlarged by his glasses to a comical size. One of his thumbs is twisted to a nearly 90 degree angle because when he was born it split into two fully formed tips – one of which was amputated shortly thereafter. (According to him that’s not the only extra body part he had, but I’ve never asked for details).
If I had to hazard a guess I’d say Bubbles has the social maturity of a young teenager. He was born on a farm in southern Indiana, went to a school so rural they had a stable for the kids who rode their horses to class, and is extremely religious. After graduating he spent the rest of his youth and adulthood living in his mother’s basement and tending the animals for the farmer down the road. Almost all of the money he earned was spent on Star Trek and Star Wars books and collectibles. He even proudly admits to having his own Star-Fleet uniform!
His views of people and the world are delightfully innocent and upbeat, which is why his first cellmate calling him Bubbles seemed appropriate and stuck.
For Bubbles the average day consists of about 3 hours of walking on a treadmill, 18 hours of napping, and 3 hours of eating. I’m honestly not skewing those numbers, he sleeps and eats more than anyone I’ve ever met – which, when coupled with his happy attitude and his occasional burst of hard work, is why I started calling him a Hobbit.
So the other day, I look up from my book and he is standing in my doorway with a bag of food. I asked him what he was doing.
“Looking for someone to cook for me, I don’t want to eat what they’re serving at the chow hall, but I’m a terrible cook. Wanna help? You can have half.”
I glanced out the window at the cold, pouring rain and shrugged, “Why not.”
You know that kid’s book If You Give a Mouse a Cookie? Well, it applies to Hobbits too. Before I knew it, Bubbles became a regular fixture in my cube, always looking for company, a cook, or a Scrabble opponent. I don’t really mind, but did find it strange since I never really interacted with him much before now. I finally asked him why he decided to approach me.
“Oh, my friend, Dave told me that if anything happened to him I could come to you.”
“He did?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Was he ever going to tell me?”
“I dunno. Let’s play Scrabble.”
I sighed and agreed. Why is it I can never inherit something valuable or a ton of money? Instead I get a Hobbit.
Oh well, at least he is housebroken.
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