Bear Head Blues

The bear head smelled like junior high locker room meets basement Christmas storage. I adjusted the gross foam muzzle for the hundredth time, sweating through my target uniform.

"You're on in five, bear-boy," Chloe said, barely looking up from her phone. She was the reason I'd taken this job at Jungle Mini-Golf in the first place.

I peered through the tiny mesh eye holes and felt like a total spy. Nobody knew it was me under here — I could watch everything without being watched back. I saw Tyler from chemistry fail spectacularly at the windmill hole. I saw my ex-best friend Jenna holding hands with my nemesis. I saw Chloe laugh at something actual-reality-Skyler said.

Reality check: Being a mascot wasn't the flex I'd imagined.

My shift ended and I stumbled out of the bear suit, my actual hat hair looking tragic. I grabbed my snapback from the break room and practically power-walked to the bus stop, running mental laps about how I'd ruined my social life before it even started.

"Hey, Bear Boy!"

I turned. Chloe was jogging after me, still in her polo shirt.

"It's Marcus," I mumbled.

"I know who you are, Marcus." She grinned. "I saw you watching everyone in there. You're terrible at being sneaky."

My face burned hotter than the bear costume had. "I wasn't —"

"It's cool. Honestly? Kinda impressive you committed to the bear bit. Most people quit after one shift." She fell into step beside me. "You running somewhere specific or just existential fleeing?"

I laughed despite myself. "Both?"

"Cool. Mind if I join?"

We walked the rest of the way to the bus stop, Chloe telling me about the time she'd been the giraffe mascot last summer and how she'd gotten stuck in the slide. I told her about my failed YouTube channel where I'd attempted to be a lifestyle influencer but had zero followers.

"You're not still running from that, are you?" she asked.

"Maybe," I said. "But I think I might finally be getting somewhere."

She bumped my shoulder with hers. "Yeah. Me too."

The bear head might have been cringe, but sometimes the most embarrassing parts of yourself are exactly what make you real.