Bob

I have an office at home, which I now share with a guy named Bob. Every morning, he insists on scaring the living daylights out of me. If that weren’t bad enough, he’s always glaring from across the room. I mean, every time I look up from my computer—like, right now—I see Bob unblinking and scowling, shooting daggers my direction.

I first met my new officemate at Dick’s Sporting Goods. Actually, it must have been one of his cousins, or maybe an uncle, not sure. My boys and I would sometimes stop in to kill an hour on the weekend between their basketball games and water polo matches. We’d always first check out the discount bin because we once found a brand-new leather football marked down to just ten bucks there, which is the equivalent to striking sporting goods gold. After that, we would wander over to the weightlifting area where we would “say ‘hi’ to Bob.”

My boys would giggle when I’d walk up to Bob and growl, “What’re you lookin’ at, huh?” I’d get right in his face, my nostrils flaring, teeth gritted, neither one of us backing down. The tension simmering to a boil. Then, Bam! I’d let loose with a left jab. Bob would stagger, perplexed and stunned. Before he could regain his balance, I’d catch him with a right hook. Smack!

By now, my boys, “the brothers,” as we call them, would be consumed with something between cheering and laughing. “Get ‘im, Dad!” They’d goad me on, “Knock ‘im out!” I’d throw everything I had at Bob, a furious combination of flying fists, until I exhausted myself. Totally spent, hands on my knees, wheezing for air, I would look up to see the block-headed guy just standing there completely unfazed. Mocking me.

It was at that point when Donovan would step forward and say, “Hey, Dad, I got this.” A few minutes later, he would double over next to me, which was the cue for his little brother to jump in and finish the job. “Watch,” Harrison would say before picking up where we left off. Around that time, an apron clad store clerk would usually appear and politely, but firmly, remind us that “Um, uh, excuse me, but B.O.B. is for display purposes only.”

B.O.B. is an acronym. It stands for “Body Opponent Bag.” You see, Bob is a dummy. A punching bag. Or a “bum,” as the brothers call him.

For years, Donovan and Harrison have been asking me to take Bob home with us. I just couldn’t justify the expenditure, I mean, the dude runs $300; but more importantly, there was really no place for him at the house. Their bedrooms aren’t large enough and I couldn’t see Sheryl, my wife, going along with putting him in the living room, as the brothers suggested. Recently, our boys conspired to pool their resources and “adopt” Bob. That’s why he now shares my office.

I’m an early riser, the first one to wake up at my house. My routine is always the same. I will wander into the kitchen, make myself a cup of tea, then, half-awake, I’ll tread the stairs up to my office. Still bleary-eyed, I’ll push the door open, and—Boom!—my heart jackhammers. Blistering hot Himalayan green tea splashes out as I gasp and recoil, cowering in the darkness, while I brace for the hulking silhouette to land his first blow.

Except Bob has no arms. And no legs. And he’s made of some sort of weird, soft plastic. It doesn’t matter because I forget all that—every single day. It doesn’t matter how many times I remind myself that Bob’s not real, the sheer terror I am subjected to before the sun rises each morning sure feels real to me.

I’ll just go ahead and say it right now: “I hate Bob.”

But I tolerate him, because with two teenage boys in the house, there is no better antidote for their “piss and vinegar,” as my family has called it for several generations now, than a therapy session with Bob. Prior to taking on a new officemate, the brothers would often let out some of their excess energy on their mom. They think it’s really funny to pick her up and carry her around the house, setting her atop the counter or a dresser, as if she were a real-life Elf on the Shelf. Now, when she spots one of them coming around to mess with her, she just points upstairs and commands, “Go see Bob!”

The ceiling above us crashes and bangs, as Bob is throttled by one of the brothers. Ten or fifteen minutes later, a shirtless teenager staggers heavy-footed back down the stairs, chest heaving, hair tousled and matted with sweat, rubbing his reddened knuckles, a satisfied grin emerges.

“Wow,” Sheryl shakes her head in disbelief, marveling at our now tranquil son as he wanders away without comment toward the shower, “I love Bob.”

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