ESOPUS MAGAZINE ::: Archive

First Subscriber Invitational: Imaginary Friends
lllustrations by Yvetta Fedorova

Below is a list of 25 of the descriptions of imaginary friends we received from subscribers for our first invitational. The first 13 were chosen by musicians as inspiration for songs that appear on the "Imaginary Friends" CD.

LISA

As a boy, from perhaps age 4 to 7, my dear imaginary friend was a small girl named Lisa. She lived in a small hole in the wall next to my bed. I always imagined her as a year or two older than me. She always seemed to have heavier, older-person things on her mind, so her demeanor was quite sober and even troubled, but never enough to keep her from finding time for me. She took care of me, gave me advice, and was great to have around when I couldn’t sleep. I suppose she stayed with the house when we moved when I was 8. She probably has a family now.

Alan Sparhawk - Duluth, MN

BROWN BUICK, BROWN HOUSE

Funny, I don’t remember having an imaginary friend. Instead,I had an imaginary car and house. I was always talking about my “Brown Buick” and my “Brown House.” The mental image I had of my Brown Buick was like a late-’60s, early-’70s, full-size Buick Electra 225, though I didn’t label it as such at the time. My Brown House was a modest dwelling with a sloping front lawn and steep driveway. I maintain a car fixation to this day, though not necessarily for brown Buicks. And my current house is not brown.

Chandler Smith - Fort Worth, TX

QUIRI QUIRANO

For years I had no memory of my imaginary friend. Until one day, many years ago, my mother and I, and somebody else, maybe my new boyfriend at the time, were chatting amiably. Amiably? Hard thing to imagine since I did not really get along that well with either one of my parents until I moved this side of the Atlantic. But that’s another story.

So, my mother discloses to me the fact that yes, when I was 5 or 6 years old, she worried a lot about me. She, a first-time mother, even thought of taking me to a psychiatrist, but that was not popular back then. She confessed her worries to my uncle—a general surgeon—who told her not to be alarmed if I talked to myself a lot and kept repeating the name “Quiri Quirano” (pronounced “Kweeree Kweerano”) while gesturing to the empty room. It was not going to affect my chances to go to the university one day.

As soon as my mother said the name Quiri Quirano, during that amiable conversation, a whole part of my memory came back to me. Of course, how could I forget? Quiri, my friend. We had so much fun together. How could anybody doubt the goodness of my friend Quiri? Such a good listener, and always ready to comply with any of my requests.

The best thing about Quiri was that his grandmother lived in Firenze, and so in order to visit her—she lived all alone—we would have to get on a train and travel over there. Andmaybe spend the night with Quiri’s grandma. And the train rides…those were relaxing after all the confusion and noise of the train station. Quiri and I would look out the window and see the cows and the peasants, and we would feel so grown up, all alone in the train car.

Quiri was a delicate boy, always neatly dressed, not pushy or dirty-nosed like the boys down the street. His knees were never scratched or peeled, and I think he was quite fond of me.

I still miss him to this day.

Maura Pieretti - Belleair, FL

THE COMPETITION

I didn’t have an imaginary friend in the traditional sense. I had an army of kids I competed with. Type A at the age of 5! I remember standing on My Little Step Stool in front of the kitchen sink “helping” Mommy washing dishes while in my head, a Howard Cosell–like commentator was running the play-by-play action:

“And Mia has two plates, a cup, and some butter knives left but it looks like Katy is pulling ahead. Oooh! Katy dropped the cup! That’s gonna cost her! And Jill is out of this race because she had to go to the bathroom. Looks like Mia is on her last plate and is rinsing and she’s DONE! Ladies and gentlemen, the dishwashing champion of Maple Avenue is Mia!”

I’d hear the roar of the crowd and would take my victory lap around the kitchen.

Then there was my anti-friend, The Devil, who would chase me up the basement stairs. I always ran and he always just barely grabbed my ankles. I had to beat the devil! To this day I run stairs but I don’t think it’s the devil chasing me, it’s the scone I had for breakfast!

Mia Gomez - Butler, NJ

LITTLE DOO DOOTZ

For about a year from ages 3 to 4, my secret imaginary friend was “Little Doo Dootz.” He was not exactly a mouse, but about that size, and he lived in a crack in the wall near my bed. Particularly when I had to take naps, which I never liked, I would call upon Little Doo Dootz to come out of the wall and play. We had conversations, games, laughs at the expense of the adults. Of course, the adults laughed at me and Doo Dootz, too. It was oh-so-funny that Kathleen would talk to a crack in the wall.

I hadn’t thought about Little Doo Dootz for many years until the subject of imaginary friends came up over dinner one night a couple of years ago (I’m 47 now). I told my friends about Little Doo Dootz who lived in a crack in the wall, and they went into absolute hysterics, finally pointing out to the bewildered me that the character’s name and living situation had decidedly scatological implications, particularly for a 3-year-old, which of course I had never, ever thought of before.

Kathleen Conkey - New York, NY

BUNNIES

I have had a family of bunnies in my hair for years now, after the braid I wore was set on fire. I was 8. The bunnies just appeared there, that day, after my melted strawberry-shaped ponytail holder fell off. Nothing was the same after that, because once the bunnies showed up, my hair started to expand. At least that’s how I remembered it starting.

Anyway, there are four of them. Nobody knows about them, because they don’t come out, and no one else can seem to hear them. Their arguments are mostly about “giving me my space” and “she should not have used that conditioner, I think I’m going to be sick.” When they start going on like that, then I just guess that they think I’m not listening, because I’m not that tuned in sometimes. So they argue alot, but they also sometimes talk to me. They get indignant when I do, like when we see someone do something stupid or mean. We all loathe bad manners. Then sometimes we’ll say, often all at the same time, “What was that guy thinking?”

What do they sound like? It’s just a bunny accent, pinched and nasal, not quite Detroit, but close. I don’t know what they look like—I’ve never actually seen them, even though I’ve looked pretty hard. When I’ve point-blank asked, they answer in a singsong riddle, like:

“We have long floppy ears, and soft puffy tails.

Our teeth are very yellow, and so are our nails.”

When I used to look for them, I’d get out the magnifying mirror and hold it against my head at an angle, trying to catch them with a big pink hair pick that someone gave me. Obviously, it’s never been successful, and when I did this, they only got mad, and stopped talking to me for a few days. I tried a serving fork, once, too, which I thought might be both scary and more effective, but all I’ve ever seen is brown fur.

I’m not sure what they do all day, except make more room for themselves, which makes my hair very big. I think they do this by getting down on all fours, and fluffing with their paws. When you do it at the roots, it’s bound to create volume. Some day soon, my hair will be too wide to get through doors. I’ve tried to manage this with shampoos and “calming” conditioners, which just end up making a giant shiny hair crust that keeps out the weather.Salon cuts have not helped at all. I’ve had the pixie bob, and even an art buzz, both of which looked horrible, and the shorter length just meant that the bunnies fluffed extra hard to get comfortable. They got very angry, too, and it was lonely up there for about a week. I missed them. So I guess the bunnies are sort of my friends, and maybe they are imaginary because you can’t see them.

Lara Berkley - Seattle, WA

W

I don’t think I can say it was a friend. More like an anti-friend. It was the letter W. I would see it, about the size of a dinner plate, white with a grayish glow about it, hovering in the air and wobbling. It never emitted any kind of noise, but inside my head I would scream and run.

I never saw it at school (but I would sense it sometimes, waiting for me) and I never saw it when my parents or brother were around. It would appear only when I was by myself.

It seemed to appear when the possibility of danger or trouble arose.

The first time I saw it I was walking down the pothole-ridden road that led away from our house. I had stopped walking to tie my shoe and looked into the woods. There it was, situated amongst the Spanish moss that hung from the huge oak trees. Although it made no sound, I could almost hear it wobbling; a kind of reverberation that I felt inside my chest, under my heart. At the same time I realized I was probably late for dinner, and I ran home to find that my mother was wondering where I was.

Several months later I was hiking in the woods behind our house. I was with my older brother, but we decided to explore different areas of the woods so we split up. As I was walking up a tiny glen that led to what appeared to be a house foundation, I came across a mineshaft, a common occurrence in gold rush areas. The rim of the shaft was overgrown with manzanita and poison oak but I could still see the darkness that suggested a great depth. I picked up a rock and threw it down. I heard the rock hit the sides of the shaft as it fell, and after about 15 seconds I heard nothing. Just as I was getting ready to turn around I saw the W hovering over the hole, warbling there as if I disturbed it from a nap in that horrible pit. I turned and ran. I looked back once and saw a dim shape still there.

As I got older and became more firmly entrenched in the realm of language (or the symbolic, as Jacques Lacan would term it), my W sightings became scarce. I no longer needed the prompt of an imaginary “friend” to hone my common sense. The W melded into the rest of the alphabet, no longer standing out as a signifier in an imaginary way.

Cicely Kolb - Portland, OR

KIBBY, ZOCKY MERINO, & THE MAN WITH THE MUSTACHE

Odd that your e-mail exactly coincided with what we were talking about last night—namely, the fact that our son, Christopher, who died just before his 28th birthday, had three invisible friends who apparently never left him: Kibby, Zocky Merino, and the Man with the Mustache. Christopher wasn’t nuts, but he did write poetry, and he had an extraordinary voice. I’m not sending you this because you should publish anything about it, but just because the timing is strange. I do, however, think you might be interested in the following, written by my grandson when he was 9 (he was angry and was told to get his act together “or else”). He went into his bedroom and gave his mom this:

Coward under skin of me
greed of giant, heart of flea
at first sign of terror flees,
Why am I?

Darkness of the soul combined
with impurity of mind
never searching to truly find
Why are you?

Importance of a drop of rain
a speck of dust on a muddy lane
a single hair on a lion’s mane
Why are we?

Other than that, Jackson is an ordinary kid, living in the East Village, with a stud in his ear. He does write poems from time to time.

Marjorie Lee Wilde - Briarcliff Manor, NY

BARBARA

“This is the tale of Corally Cruthers.

She had no sisters and had no brothers.”

And so began my favorite little book when I was very, very young.

I think Corally was the genesis for the imaginary friend who lived with me when I was about 3. Her name was Barbara.

Corally, Barbara, and I looked very much alike, with seriously curly hair, blue eyes, and bony knees. When I try to picture Barbara, all these years later, that is how I see her. I wonder how she looked to my mother, who had to sit on the very edge of the streetcar seat because she was “mashing” the ever-present Barbara. Being an only child, I made the most of this dear friend, blaming her for the crayon pictures on the wall and the spilled juice. (I was given many messages for her from my mother.)

Barbara gave my life a lovely spark for the year or so that she lived with me, and I love remembering her….Maybe I’ll try to bring her back someday….

Marjorie - Hampstead, MD

JUDY BIWORKER

I had an imaginary friend—two, actually, but one was my best friend. Judy Biworker. We only spoke on the phone; it was a red plastic dial-up phone.

She lived in Buffalo, New York, and that was due to all of the candy manufacturers being located there.

Mary Ellen Carroll - New York, NY

HENNY-PENNY

My imaginary friend was Henny-Penny, the “sky is falling” Henny-Penny—that one. Henny and I would sit in my closet with the door shut. Closets were small then and dark, and the walls had cracks in them. We would protect ourselves with my mother’s nylon stockings. There weren’t panty hose then, only those nylons she wore with a garter belt. I’d tie the stockings together on our heads. That way we would be safe and feel like we had long hair, too. Henny and I would go through the cracks to other places.

Our favorite place to go was this cave behind the waterfall. There were ledges inside with moss, and we could lie down and listen to the sound of water. We liked to swim in the pool. We’d go way deep under, and our long hair would stream behind us.

Sometimes there’d be a storm, but we could stay inside the cave. Even before the rain started, the thunder would come—and lightning. It would be so loud, it was almost quiet.

In this cave, Henny and I never worried about the sky.

Catherine Hammond- Tempe, AZ

DELORES

I met Delores at my best friend Mattie Hesch’s house the summer I was 7 years old. Delores followed me on the perilous block-long walk back to my house, up the front steps, through the front door, up the stairs, and into my room without saying a word. When she had reached the safety of my room she plunked herself down underneath my bureau (so as not to be seen by anyone over the age of 7) and demanded that I play with her night and day, bring her crackers and cereal and water, tell her stories, loan her my stuffed animals—every sharing activity in which the average 7-year-old child is loath to participate. To this day I cannot explain why I obeyed so readily, why I agreed to hide her existence from my mother for several days, why I allowed her to turn me into a recluse when all of the neighborhood kids were playing a game of kick-the-can in the back alley, or why, when it took all of my might to not succumb to the comfort of footy-pajamas and an enormous twin-sized bed, I willed myself to stay awake and keep her company. And to this day I cannot explain why, after supplying her with all the comforts an imaginary friend could desire, my imagination allowed the fishing pole that she had been carrying when I met her to be turned into a rifle. The closest thing to a rifle I had ever experienced had been in animated form on television, and I had certainly never had one trained on me with the aggression and gravity that Delores expressed.

This was the point at which I finally decided to go to my mother and tell her about my friend Delores. My mother, of course, could not see Delores, but she did as only the best of mothers would do: She sat down with Delores and me in my room over water-flavored tea, and the three of us chatted. I, who had never actually had a conversation with Delores (as all of our communication up to this point had taken place on that telepathic level that exists only between children and their closest imaginary friends) was naturally the translator. It was during this interview with Delores and my mother that I found out that Delores had run away from her home in 1907 (yes, Delores was indeed a time traveler) because she was upset at her mother (for a reason that I either cannot recall or never understood in the first place). The three of us finished our tea, my mother explained to me (out of Delores’s earshot) that Delores’s mother missed her, and I explained to Delores (in my mother’s earshot) that 1907 was actually much more fun than 1989 and that she should go back. After many long and tearful conversations with her delineating the pros of the early 20th century and the cons of the late 20th century, Delores finally left my house, taking her rifle with her, and returned to 1907.

Anne Rutherford - Washington, D.C.

JUDY

Deep in the country, amidst the large white house and barns surrounded by fields, forest, and lake—not a house or a human within shouting distance—a lonely daughter, at the distant bottom of a triad, longed for company. Animals and pets abounded on the pretended farm, but regular society eluded her outside of school, a half hour’s bus ride from home; hence the arrival of “Judy.” She slipped in one day and took on a life so animated the girl immediately spoke aloud to her. First a clandestine companion, Judy accompanied the girl on her solitary walks in the woods and through the vast stone quarry nearby. Together they wandered for hours in the surrounding countryside, constructing dams and sailing eggshell boats along the stream, or building diminutive structures of sticks, stones, pine needles, and leaves along the massive rocky ledge of the quarry for the mice family they imagined they were housing. Elaborate stick furniture and mouse clothing were constructed in the secret clubhouse in one of the barns and carried back, along with dyed paste food for acorn cups and bark plates.

Eventually Judy was brought into the house and sat at table with the little girl—the patient mother setting a place for an unseen friend without comment, the girl quietly whispering to her during meals. Perhaps it was just as well that the older sisters were off at boarding school by the time her companion arrived.

No one aside from the mother was ever made aware of Judy’s presence; she lived with the girl until the family abandoned the solitary country life, packing up or dispersing horses, a bull calf, chickens, geese, ducks, cats, dogs, guinea fowl, and an evil-tempered parrot as they left. Judy sat on the broad front step of the big, old, double-doored entrance, one skinny arm draped across knobby knees, the other waving good-bye as the ancient, wood-sided Ford station wagon, packed to the rooftop, hove out of sight. There was no question of taking her along.

Elizabeth Hope Cushing - Cambridge, MA

The following descriptions, which were not selected by participating musicians, appear only here:

THE HAND OF THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS FUTURE

Regarding the "imaginary friend" invitational, here's a true story I've never told anybody.

In 1993, I was 14 years old and a freshman in high school. My best, then worst class was Algebra I. For the first two months of the school year, I was doing great in Algebra. But by late November I'd started to have a terrible time.

My frustration came to a head after I watched "A Christmas Carol" (George C. Scott version) on TV with my parents the Sunday after the five-day Thanksgiving weekend. I had a bunch of Algebra homework due the next day and I hadn't even started. Because I was tired or not really trying, I couldn't understand the first problem—the easiest one of the 30 or so assigned. After about five minutes of skimming and re-skimming the directions and the example problems, I threw my book across the room and began to cry.

Then, inexplicably, a wave of calmness swept over me and I did the following:

1) I walked across the room and retrieved the thrown Algebra book.

2) I sat down and reopened the book.

3) I imagined that the bony hand of the Ghost of Christmas Future was perched on my desk lamp, sort of like a bird, pointing its index finger at me, chiding me.

The chiding hand compelled me to concentrate. I worked through the first Algebra problem and swelled with pride. Then, I got stuck on the second problem. I looked at the perched hand—which I still imagined was pointing its index finger at me. This time, I silently asked the hand for help.

It worked! Immediately after I made my plea to the hand, I had a breakthrough and I made it through the second problem. Again, I felt a surge of pride.

I went on like this for about three hours—starting a problem, getting stuck, talking to the hand, solving the problem, feeling proud—until I'd finished all but two problems in the homework. As I reached to turn off my desk lamp, I imagined—I wish I were lying or kidding—the perched hand of the Ghost of Christmas Future twisting itself into a thumbs-up, as if to say "good job."

About a week later I got the homework back from my teacher and found out I'd done every single problem wrong.

Brian McMullen- Brooklyn, New York

CAROL

I do not recall my own imaginary friend, but I vividly remember Carol, my daughter Alison's imaginary friend who came to live with us right after my second daughter Christina was born. Carol lived with us for a year. She ate with us (we always had to have a place at the table for Carol) and slept in Alison and Christina's bedroom. Her grandparents lived in New York in a house next to Alison's grandparents. When we went to New York (or anywhere else) Carol had to be buckled into her seatbelt. Carol was exactly Alison's age—2 1/2—and was a very picky eater. Don't even try to serve her peas. Sometimes we'd be already to go out with both Alison and Christina in their snowsuits and all of the paraphernalia—double stroller, extra diapers, change of clothes—that a toddler and a newborn entail. But wait. What was that, Carol? You don't feel like going to the zoo? You'd rather stay home? And we would stay. Carol was just that strong-willed.

Carol was almost as strong-willed as Alison. In fact, Alison and Carol were alike in every respect except one. Carol did not have a baby sister. Carol was an only child. (Where were Carol's parents? And why did they foist this child on us when we least needed an extra place at the table? Carol never told us.)

Not that Carol didn't share many other things with us. She had a favorite chair in the living room, usually the very one that a hapless guest was about to sit on. Carol was annoyed by Christina's crying, in fact couldn't stand it or much else about Christina. Carol preferred staying up to going to bed and generally treated our apartment like she was Eloise at the Plaza. Carol did whatever she damn well felt like doing.

Christmas rolled around. It was our second with Carol and by this time we knew her routines. She would ride with us to her grandparents' house in New York and come back with us whenever we wanted to return to Washington. It was her one stab at being pliable. Is Carol ready to go to New York, I asked Alison. She's not going this year, replied Alison. And why? "Carol's dead."

The end of Carol.

Alice Powers - Washington, DC

BOBBY DO

My cousin Bill Smart of Fresno, CA. sent me your info. and objective. I'd love to participate. I suppose that Bill thought of me because I had a bit out of the mainstream imaginary friend scenario. My imaginary friend was "Bobby Do" and I was his pet dog "Bobo". I'm not sure how many people out there on the imaginary landscape imagined themselves to be a dog in the relationship. I'm a big Calvin & Hobbes fan...naturally, I identify with Hobbes. I've always wondered if the characters were inspired by clergyman Calvin (seeking absolutes) and philosopher Hobbes (a predecessor of Existentialism).

I live in Tokyo, Japan, and am Chief Instructor for Business Accounts for a UK based English language school here. I worked for 33 years in the Hotel & Restaurant racket before retiring and going into writing for English language publications, editing and thoroughly confusing my business class members.

Remember that things do not have to be real to exist.

Martin Thomas Waller - Tokyo, Japan

GUS

This is in response to your message for imaginary friends. I'm not so sure mine would ever count as a friend—he was more of a weirdo I couldn't get rid of. I never actually gave him a name, but for some reason he looks like he'd be a Gus. When I was in the first and second grade I think I went through this really paranoid phase. I was sure I was being watched. One night my dreams came true, because right in my bedroom window in the middle of the night stood Gus. He was a small little dude, no more than three feet tall now that I look back on it. He was old, though, with silvering hair and a great balding spot on his head. He always gave this ridiculous taunting grin at me through the windows. My mother always laughed when I would go outside because if I were going out alone, I'd take a running start out the door and run practically everywhere so that Gus could not catch up. When we were driving in the car, there he was just hopping along from tree to tree following us wherever we went. He never came inside any buildings though. He always hid behind something outside and waited for me. I would yell at him to go away, but he wouldn't. Instead he'd just roll on the ground laughing which angered me more. By the end of second grade, my parents got my sisters and I a puppy. Of course, I had to protect our new family member, so one day I got the courage to face Gus. I ran out of the house and straight towards Gus. Well, he ran as fast as he could into the woods, and wouldn't you know it, that was the end of Gus.

Reta White - Lexington, Kentucky

THE TUTU FAIRY

The Tutu Fairy lives in the forest among friendly creatures and eats lunch out of the prerequisite acorn cap bowls.

The Tutu Fairy told me tales of the forest late at night before I fell asleep.

The Tutu Fairy wears a pale blue unitard with matching tights and a professional quality ballet tutu that resolutely sticks straight out.

The Tutu Fairy sports a fine black mustache. It’s quite luxurious!

Christina Ruhaak - Madison, Wisconsin

ANNIE

Thank you for the opportunity to talk about my imaginary friend. Her name was Annie, and although she was my twin, she didn't seem to know very much. It was my job to teach her everything. She was always at my side, reliable, dependable, and anxious to learn whatever I deemed indispensable to know that day. I was the authority on just about all life's confusing and shifting changes. Annie was happy to let me unveil the reasons for all the riddles that surrounded us. And what an apt pupil she was. She didn't mind my superior abilities. Even now, at the age of 74, I find myself explaining things to an unknown someone and I catch a fleeting memory of Annie, who has stood by me all these years, a willing student of my advanced knowledge.

I was a depression child, but the drab meaning of that was unknown to me. My father was out of work, with a sick wife and an only child. There’s a sad place inside me that can still feel those desperate times. At some low point, my life abruptly changed when our family was offered charity by a friend of my father and we went to live with them at a glamorous country club. It must have been like waking up and finding myself in the land of Oz without the munchkins. Everything glittered, especially my "uncle" who reveled in theatrics, While I accompanied him to be doted on and indulged, I remember worrying my Mother would die. Annie arrived to be with me and to listen to my explanations of all these confusing new worries and wonders. I would carefully interpret to her how everything worked. Big cars would come with glittery people, and I could tell her who they were. Airplanes would land on the fairway, and I knew where they came from. Dancing would happen right there with real music, and I was an expert. I knew right where heaven was. Of course, just like Dorothy in the land of Oz, my family had to go home. My life, inexplicably changed again, and we returned to a cold water flat. Without Annie, how could I make sense of all these inexplicable shifts? Together, Annie, and I with my superior abilities, were able to adjust. She has stayed with me, listening to my explanations, through my whole life. In old age, its harder to be amazed, but there are still mysteries to be interpreted and worlds to be explained. Its easier to stay imaginative because I have Annie.

Ruth Karr - Pompton Plains, NJ

SARAH

Thanks for the invitation. Kind of a different take on little girls and their imaginary friends...

I had an imaginary friend with curly blonde hair and green eyes. Her name was Sarah and she was ten, like me. She lived around the corner. Our Dads introduced us at a "block party". Sarah had lots of dolls, and toys, and a scrape on her knee she picked until it bled. She was a real, living person and I wanted her to be my friend. But Sarah already had lots of friends.

It was Thursday. We were walking up the hill with our quarter size violins after school and Sarah said she had fish. One of them was black and fast like a racecar, and the other orange like the sun. I wanted to see them. Sarah said she was busy. But, Monday would be a good time to come and see.

It was Monday. Sarah said the fish had died and I couldn't see them. She'd buried them in the ground. But if I wanted I could come over and see her big room.

Sarah's room had a painted wall with two large fish, black and orange. I asked her if those were the fish. Yes, she said. Those are the fish. "But you told me they were real," I said. "I lied," she said.

"Do you want to come on our boat? We can sail on the sea," she said some months later. Yes, I'd like that. Saturday came. Sarah called to say that the boat had sunk.

My mother found a Mickey Mouse watch in a silk satchel in the back of my closet. "Whose is this," she asked? I said, "my imaginary friend's." My mother said, "Did you steal this?" I said, "No," I said. "My imaginary friend gave it to me."

My mother called Sarah's mother and asked her if Sarah owned a Mickey Mouse watch. "Yes," said her mother, "She did. But, it's missing." "Well," said my mother, "we'll be right over. My daughter has something to return."

I knocked on the door. I returned the watch. Sarah said I was a thief. On the playground she told everyone not to like me. "She steals things," she hissed.

Later, long after I'd given up on my imaginary friend, Sarah walked up to the new girl from Pensacola and said, "Do you want to come over and see my fish?"

Jenny Hannah Moore - San Antonio, Texas

PRINCIPAL MCINTIRE, JURGO, DR. DIAMOND ET AL.

An only child, I sought friendship like a junkie.

Since my paternal grandparents lived with us, I tried recruiting them as playmates. My grandfather played the accordion and piano for me, while I twirled. Fun, but there was only so much twirling I could do in a day. My grandmother created a homemade rag moppet named 'Gangsteris' (Gangster in Lithuanian), who would terrorize everything and everyone in sight. But playtime with them was in the late afternoons and evenings, and my grandmother religiously watched The People's Court, Three's Company and Lawrence Welk (despite the fact that her English vocabulary was limited), so focus sometimes drifted. Plus she would often nod off in slumber, since she was well into her 80's.

I tried to have an imaginary friend, several times. It didn't work though. I got bored. However I discovered something much better, Me. I would spend hours playing “Let's Pretend” by myself, allowing my imagination to take me wherever it could go, creating my universe of “imaginary friends.”

I would imagine our house, deck and yard to be anything from Paris or NYC to a farm or the headquarters of the C.I.A. When I played school, there was always Principal McIntire, Coach Green and the juvenile delinquent, Billy. When I was Secret Agent Ingrida, there were Jurgo and Svetlana in the USSR, Jean-Luc in Paris and the evil Dr. Diamond (actually my pediatrician, who is not evil at all, but achieved evil status because of the penicillin shots he would administer). When I was the globe trotting journalist, there was Peter, the pilot, who would fly me around the globe, and Anne, my best friend who received all my photographs and stories and made sure they got to press. As doctor, there were my patients—Mr. Berger, Mr. Carey and Mrs. DiNatale, to name a few.

These people all had faces for me. Jurgo was heavy set, with a salt-pepper mustache and beard and Svetlana, his opposite, tall and thin, with cheekbones like razors and long burgundy hair. Jean-Luc had black tousled hair, blue blue eyes and zee parfait French accent. Dr. Diamond always wore a long white leather coat and had silver hair, gelled and slicked back. The best part was that I could “create” new acquaintances at my fancy. My universe of friends was endless.

I would think about these temporary friends, make up new ones and dream about all my 'real' future friends while playing (or while scooching around the house on my back, pretending the ceiling is the floor, one of my kooky favorite activities to do).

Ingrida Martinkus - Chicago, Illinois

MISS LANGTREE – AGENT TO THE STARS

As a kid, I didn’t have an imaginary friend so much as an imaginary agent. By third grade, so says my mother, I had decided that the world was pretty dull. I much preferred to inhabit the lives of fictional characters from books, television, and plays; thus began my theatrical career. While most of my stage moments were shows performed in our garage—lawn chairs carefully arranged in the driveway for neighbor moms and chums—once in a while I was cast in an actual production.

After being given the lead in a Cub Scout production of The Littlest Angel, Miss Langtree entered my young life. Clearly I needed a hard-nosed agent with a track record. Miss Langtree came highly recommended, I told myself, because she had gotten Opie his role in The Andy Griffith Show. Opie and I with the same agent . . . I was on my way.

M.L., as my parents called her, soon had me fully booked. There were sidewalk sideshows, entertainments at PTA meetings, a puppet show to celebrate a visit from the school superintendent. Life on stage was good. The world wasn’t so dull after all.

And then came a parting of the ways. For some reason, I loved the Dickens classic Great Expectations. I was especially drawn to the scenes between Pip and Miss Havisham. I had to bring Pip to life. M.L. predicted that playing Pip would be my greatest challenge . . . and my greatest triumph. She even advised me to get outside counsel from my mother, which was rare since Miss Langtree didn’t cotton to interlopers mucking about in her affairs. My mom suggested I choose a single scene or chapter from the novel, since taking on the whole story might stretch the limits of my budget (an allowance of $3.00 per week) and our garage.

M.L. cast my sister Pamela in the pivotal role of Miss Havisham. Construction paper invitations went out across the neighborhood, and all my attention went to opening Saturday afternoon preparations. Pamela never shared my love of playacting, but she went along with the program due to my force of will and my sense of manifest destiny.

Alas, a triumph it was not to be. Mid-scene, my little sister forgot her lines, pulled my mother’s slip off her head (which to our eyes looked just like Miss Havisham’s wedding veil) and began to cry. I grabbed the veil and took over the taxing role of the stooped and bitter woman who had been left at the alter. In fact, I played both roles, which turned this heartrending scene into the basest comedy. When the curtain (old shower curtains on a rope) came down, I fired my imaginary agent, who had labored to promote my imaginary career. M.L. left with her dignity intact, and I quit the stage . . . for a few months anyway. I lost track of Opie, but I think he went on to direct feature films… one of Miss Langtree’s success stories.

Erich Parker - Washington, DC

UBERTO T. CAPELLI

I first met my imaginary friend during a game of billiards. He introduced himself with a hearty "my name is Uberto," the suddenness of which caused me to botch my shot and lose a twenty dollar bet. I was angry, but I forgave him when he volunteered to settle the losses for me. "This guy is much more responsible than my previous imaginary friend," I remember thinking.

Uberto T. Capelli was his full name, I found out during our walk home. He and I hit it off immediately, and it wasn't long before I started taking him with me everywhere I went. He developed a reputation among my friends for being the life of every party. "Show us again that trick with the colander," they would beg of him. But, ever the showman, Uberto refused all encore performances. The key to having a captive audience, he would later tell me, is to always leave them wanting more.

First grade came, and Uberto was a wonderful resource for me then. He had learned much about spelling and arithmetic during his worldly travels, and he proved to be a very capable tutor. I pulled straight A's that year, and I cannot deny the role he played in my success. We had what seemed at that age to be a perfect relationship, and I remember wondering, "How could I ever get by without him?" Of course, imaginary friendships don't last forever. I was starting to grow older, and it wasn't long before I found myself experiencing firsthand what it was like to get by without him.

As strong as our friendship was, it wasn't strong enough to withstand Maryann. As you may have guessed, both Uberto and I were vying for her affections. I still remember the tears in her eyes, the trembling in her voice when she finally told me how she felt. I simply couldn't excite her the way that Uberto did, she said. Her news didn't surprise me, but it still hurt all the same. This would be the last I ever saw of either her or Uberto.

I've progressed a lot since that day. I'm now gainfully employed in the fabric industry, and I've managed to improve my billiards handicap by no less than two points. And Uberto? Why, he's doing just fine. Just a few years ago I noticed his name in the newspaper next to Maryann's—it turns out that she now goes by the name Mrs. Capelli.

Dave Dumas - Nanuet, New York

TWINS

Sorry, so far I don't think I had one.

No need, you see. I am a twin. From creation I had a real binary outlook. Always had someone near. Linda Roxanna became her name.

At first, just a little heartbeat as small as mine somewhere in the darkness.

Another little other next to you in that dark watery kiva.

Imagine that!

What is a friend? Someone simpatico? There cannot be one more so than a womb mate.

Our younger sister had a gorilla in the closet. She was not a twin and it was not real.

Lawrence Sunderland - Austin, Texas