Bear hugs

I had a friend named John who used to give bear hugs to everyone.  He wasn't even that big, a normal-sized guy who liked to wear flannel shirts.  Any occasion could call for a bear hug; you got an A on your physics test, great, c'mere and gimme a hug!  When a small child screeched with delight because a cat suddenly woke up, that warranted a bear hug.  If someone's frail great-grandmother was celebrating her 92nd birthday, bear hugs for everyone!  I might cringe in such a situation, watching him squeeze what could be the final few years out of this poor old woman.  His force and power and passion were incredible; it felt like six elevator doors closing on you at once, only the door would be coated in soft flannel and smell like a soft blend of vinegar and red onions and Old Spice.  I think that probably there is a ubiquitous fear among people of being crushed; something about your rib cage collapsing around your own heart is incredibly primal, rib bones fracturing into sharp white spears that then inch closer and closer to your increasingly throbbing heart until one punctures your pulmonary artery and you feel warm blood filling the inside of your chest.  That is what getting a bear hug from John was like.  

John and I were good enough friends that we could just walk into each other's houses without knocking; it was commonplace, so if you were planning on doing anything private, go somewhere quiet with a deadbolt on the door.  It was understood.  So you can imagine my surprise when I walked into John's house on a Thursday afternoon and found him in the living room, warmly embracing a large, brown grizzly bear.  They both looked at me apathetically, and I felt my legs buckling from a mixture of confusion and fear, so I sat down on the soft carpet and watched them.  The bear had his too-short arms over John's blue and green-gridded shoulders, and his massive claws were digging into John's back.  I smelled blood, but I couldn't see any scary-looking stains, so I let it pass.  John's own arms were up under the bears armpits and his head was nestled into the bears chest.  I imagined the amount of dander and hair he must have been inhaling and made myself cough a little bit.  The bear snapped his head towards me and emitted a sharp, quick bark, as if to say, hey, we're having a moment here, so can you please shut the fuck up?

The mountain of fur was almost eight feet tall, and I didn't really want to walk past it to get into the kitchen; I felt it would be awkward, so I asked John if I could borrow his car.  The response was muffled and coated in hair, so I slowly stepped over to the coffee table and grabbed his keys.  The grizzly bear searched me warily with one eye and dug his claws deeper into John's back.  This only made John squeeze the bear harder, and they were both breathing with a considerable amount of restriction.  It occurred to me at this point that maybe I was witnessing something sexual, and that John and the bear were too wrapped up in each other to ask me to leave.  In any case, I mumbled some weak good-bye, jangled the keys once to make sure John knew I was taking his car, and walked out the front door.  I never told anyone about that day, and John never mentioned it to me either.