Why do you think they call it Beantown?

Have you seen the Bean? Tall and fuzzy, sporting a Beantown baseball cap and puffy maroon sneakers, waving a white-gloved hand at anyone he can make out through the whites of his huge mesh eyeballs?

Chances are -- as you grab chowder at Faneuil Hall or stroll Newbury Street -- you'll encounter him. Don't be alarmed. He's friendly. Playful even. And on a mission to become Boston's new mascot, or at least its good-will ambassador.

``He's also a chick magnet," joked Lizzie Pangborn , director of Boston Baked Bean, as the giant stuffed legume pranced outside the Back Bay Shaw's Supermarket recently, posing like a rock star with four giggling teens. ``The girls love him."

Pangborn, who often accompanies the Bean, much like a celebrity handler, is part of a growing team dedicated to promoting the cause; just a year old, the Bean already has a driver and a little white van, a hip, young staff, a hip-hop anthem, a high-powered public relations firm and a product line. Later this month, he'll join Brooks Brothers and Burberry with his own boutique on Newbury Street.

So who is this character?

``The magic of the Bean is that he just happened," explained comedian Tom Hayes , the man behind the mascot. ``No one planned him."

Here's how it went down. Hayes, who's done stand-up around Boston for decades, met his wife, Inna Zhdanova , a few years ago and decided he wanted to do a Web comic strip based on some of their more humorous exchanges. Hayes approached an animator friend last May, he said; Zhdanova, being Russian, should be represented as a beet, he thought, and Hayes could be another veggie.

A few weeks later, the friend came back. How about a Boston Baked Bean? Hayes got excited; this could be big. The Bean could represent the whole city! He called a lawyer. ``Nothing was trademarked or copyrighted." And the Bean was born.

Of course, he needed a costume -- something that looked like a Boston baked bean, which turned out to be tough. Hayes found a company in Texas, where mascots are big business, and the first suit was ordered; $1,500 bought a large, stuffed, bean-looking suit featuring a big goofy smile. Hayes hired an actor to wear it, and the Bean made his debut at last summer's celebration marking Boston's 375th birthday.

Though he wrangled an invite for the Bean to march in the parade, Hayes said, police were still suspicious when the costumed figure showed up at a news conference held by Mayor Tom Menino. ``Make sure you don't cross that line in that outfit," Hayes remembers a Menino aide saying. But when the mayor saw the Bean, he motioned him over. As a jazz band kicked in, the Bean started to dance. It was a triumph, Hayes said. Magic. ``People just mobbed the Bean."

Despite the Bean's apparent popularity, it's unlikely to become Boston's mascot, officials say. Jennifer Mehigan , a Menino spokeswoman, said she doubts a mascot-certification process even exists. And it would be tough for a private figure to win such status, she said. Still, she added, ``We appreciate everything he does for the city. He does a lot of philanthropic work."

George Martell , a Hayes friend and a backer of the Bean, said the character will thrive regardless. ``It will be Boston's own, no matter what," he said. ``There's not going to be anyone else who has a Bean. Whenever it's something to do with Boston, the Bean will arrive."

And in increasing style. He's already on his second costume, created by a higher-end mascot company, Hayes said. (He may even order a third. It has proved tough to make something that looks exactly like a bean, instead of, say, a potato. ``Or worse," he cracked.)

The Bean has done charity events, visited schools, and twice driven a Boston Duck Tours vehicle. He partied at First Night, where revelers lined up for pictures. ``They were coming over to the Bean like he was the pope or something," Hayes said, laughing.

Hayes laughs a lot. And, being a comedian, makes lots of jokes, some -- it must be said -- of the ``musical fruit" variety. It's hard to avoid, talking so much about a huge, walking Bean. His public relations team has banned all gas jokes, Hayes confided.

The Bean's mug already graces a line of products, including baby bibs ($9.99), T-shirts ($18.99), plastic and plush toys ($5.99 to $19.99), patches ($2.99), and chocolate-covered cranberries ($9.99).

And there's no end to this game; Hayes dreams of a Bean statue, and artistic renditions of the Bean replacing Boston's cows.

He's approached the Greater Boston Convention and Visitors Bureau . . . shouldn't they replace their Maine-like lobster logo with the Bean? The Bean may appear in children's books. He may battle an apple, symbol of nemesis New York.

Though Hayes rarely dons the Bean suit himself -- other than just to dance around the office -- the drive for mascot status, fueled by the Bean's message of love, joy, and Boston pride, has become his life, he admitted. ``I talk about him like a real person."

He's invested $600,000 of his own money in the Bean, drawn from his retirement savings and mortgages on his houses, Hayes said. Toy designers, products, public relations, musicians, parade fees, floats, costumes, salaries -- it all adds up. Maybe someday the Bean will break even. Or maybe not. ``It's my philanthropic enterprise," he said.

Hayes said Boston needs the Bean. It's a tough city just begging for a mascot's gentle, mischievous spirit and good humor. ``Boston needs that image. Something like Mickey Mouse, something friendly.

``Anytime anybody puts on the suit, there's magic in the Bean," Hayes said. "They start acting up. They do things they would never do. He creates nonsense."

Two Fridays ago, 22-year-old actor Ilya Chernoguz was in the suit. A small crowd gawked as he boarded a Duck Tour boat via the handicap lift. ``Look at the Bean!" kids squealed.

But 63-year-old George Cholaki , of Escondido , Calif., was slower to recognize him. ``I think it's a peanut," he said, laughing and snapping a picture as the Bean clambered to the back of the Duck on his hands and knees. ``It's a darker version of Humpty Dumpty."

Soon, the amphibious vessel spun in circles in the Charles as the Bean took a turn at the wheel. ``He's stuck!" yelled 68-year-old Rod Fyfield , of New Milford, Conn. , howling. And sure enough, his suit edging out his arm room, the Bean could barely navigate, to his passengers' delight.

Later, Chernoguz confided the suit can be awkward and, of course, hot.

``I have a system for drinking water," he whispered, careful not to be heard breaking character. ``I stick it through the arm hole. And food too."

The hardest part of being the Bean -- besides the heat, which he can stand for up to eight hours -- is people trying to reach inside his costume, Chernoguz said.

``It's one thing to touch the costume, it's another thing to touch me," he scolded.

And the biggest perk?

``Getting free food." Apparently, vendors like the Bean.

``And the part where I get to entertain people," he whispered.

``That makes up for everything."

Paysha Stockton can be reached at ciweek@globe.com.