The following is a story of which we are particularly fond which appeared in our recent anthology Flights of Fantasy:


Moe: A Friend in Need

	I wish I could tell you when and how I was born, but it doesn't matter. The where and why are more
telling. Conceived under a mop of golden curls, I was conjured up and named Moe by Dana, a precocious
three-year-old. It’s curious a young girl would invent an adult male companion, but my age and gender
weren’t issues then.
	I know many children have imaginary buddies, like Shiloh, Neil Diamond's friend of some fame.
Most are created out of loneliness, but I wasn’t a product of that desperation or an invention to counter
boredom. Dana was never needy in that sense. Though she had no siblings, there were two doting parents
who gave her ample attention.
	Thinking back to my genesis, my earliest recollection is being summoned—summoned, mind
you—to account for breakage. A pricey Tiffany vase had unexpectedly fractured into hundreds of antique
leaded glass shards. Dana’s mother raised an accusatory eyebrow.
	"Well?"
	"Moe did it!" Dana pointed a damning pudgy finger at me! No sooner had she invoked my name
than she was off the hook.
	It was immediately clear to me that I was never meant to be a playmate; Dana had dolls for that.
She spent countless hours with those ugly dollies, pouring tea, holding cookies or scones to lifeless lips, and
making smacking noises as they ate. I was merely a voyeur at high teas and was never offered treats.
Ironically, when her mother noticed the tea party in progress, Dana surreptitiously pushed all the pastry
crumbs on the floor in my direction with her foot.
	"Who made this mess, Dana?"
	I knew it was coming.
	"Moe, Mama."
	Her mother patted her head, and Dana beamed up with a smile of practiced innocence.
	It wasn't bad enough I was held responsible for accidental misdemeanors; my young friend started
initiating trouble for me. When Dana helped set the dinner table, she set four place settings at the square
table. Wherever her father sat, Dana howled, "You sat on Moe!" Making her father jump out of his chair
was quite a power trip.
	Her folks thought she was just darling, so I bore the brunt of their displeasure. Eventually, her father
suggested I’d be more comfortable relaxing in the den while the family ate in order to avoid nightly
repetitions of the manipulative game of musical chairs. I saw the pattern emerging: When Dana
misbehaves, banish Moe.
	I wish I’d been a playmate like Shiloh—even a pretend brother or sister. I'd have been happy as
anything but a scapegoat, although I do appreciate how it must have been, being an only child. Most
children have siblings to point a finger at when something breaks, tears, or stains; think of it as “familial
deniability.” Dana had no one else to blame. As adored as she was, the child was clearly at the bottom of
the pecking order. Thus, she cleverly fashioned me as her designated peckee. I never liked that position,
but I became resigned to it. I continued to run interference for her, not out of duty, but because I’d grown
to love her.
	When she was five, Dana started school and things gradually changed. The more confident she
became, the less I was called upon. The more empowered she felt, the less she sought me out. Soon I was
forgotten. Her parents were relieved to note my departure; they had hoped I was just a temporary phase
and not a symptom of childhood neurosis or worse.
	I found myself in suspended animation on a shelf in Dana's closet, stashed between a Madame
Alexander doll too fancy to play with and a box of outgrown clothes. Good old Moe—relegated to collecting
dust.
	Years passed. We moved several times, and I lost track of where I was. Where do imaginary friends
go when they are out of mind? Eventually a husband arrived on the scene. Frankly, she could have done
better, but my opinion wasn’t solicited. I wasn’t invited to the nuptials—neither a boutonniere for my lapel
nor a crumb of wedding cake was proffered. Then babies came along—no cigars for me. I understood. She
was busy. After what seemed an eternity, the unworthy husband left, and the son and daughter wandered
off to make their own lives. Had she introduced them to me? No. Not even a passing thought sent my way
in all those years. I'd have known. I’d been moth-balled but remained on alert, perhaps slightly miffed, but
nonetheless ready to spring to Dana's aid. The SOS call for which I waited patiently didn't come…until
recently.
	Which brings me to why I’m here and why I’m now reflecting on a long, fairly sad, history of a
relationship during which I was so briefly noted and basked in my friend's favor. Even the most ardent
lover's attentions would have cooled after such a lengthy period of neglect and passive rejection.
	Last weekend, Dana went to a concert—a full program of Gershwin. While entranced by the music,
she and a female friend consumed the better part of two bottles of champagne. Alas, Gershwin is for lovers,
and Dana is currently unattached, alone—celibate. Am I gloating? Perhaps, but I digress.
	On returning home from what should have been a delightful evening, she slumped into a chair and
wondered if she’d ever come to terms with her gnawing emptiness. She stared toward the doorway of the
darkened master bedroom, and it mocked her.
	When exhaustion threatened to overtake her, she dragged herself to her room, stripped naked in
the dark, and lowered herself to the bed. In the four years she’d occupied the king size bed alone, she’d
slept on the edge, fearing that crossing the median would be an act of trespass, or that her ex-husband's
warmth somehow lingered there.
	Sleep didn’t come quickly, and Dana descended into an alcohol-enhanced wallow of self-pity. Her
tears created Pagliacci-esque trails of inky mascara on her cheeks, and the pillow she held to her face to
stifle her cries smudged her lipstick.
	Opening her mouth slightly, a low-pitched, guttural sound – barely more than a soft moan –
escaped. "Moe."
	It was sufficient to fan my flame.
	"Hold me," she whimpered.
	My mind raced. I silently recited all the spiteful rebukes I’d long suppressed: “What goes around
comes around, kiddo,” and “You're no longer the topsy-curled cutie I fell on my sword for,” and “You never
considered my feelings!” But the question that begged asking was, “Do you realize I’ve waited fifty years
to be needed?”
	Over time, however, I’d made peace with the limited role I’d been given; eventually, I suppose we
all do. I remained mute, as I have since the beginning. And, as always, she took my silence as acquiescence.
I sat beside her on the wide, unused expanse of bed and wanted to believe her casually outstretched arm
reached for me.
	"Moe," she murmured and sighed softly.
	Her breathing lapsed into an even, slow rhythm, and the hard-set crimson slash of her lips relaxed
to a faint smile.
	Only after I knew she slept too deeply to be roused, I dared to kiss her still damp cheek.