Junk
While vacationing in the city I spent some afternoons wandering about and through various boutiques, bodegas, and novelty shops to while away the waking moments between my well-planned leisures. In doing so I came across one shop in particular that had a large assortment of classic toys and other child-oriented collectibles. Many of the toys were still in their manufacturers' packaging, but there was an oblong bin with many toys that were arguably also vintage but without their original packaging and somewhat less stringently cared for over the years. I set myself to rummaging.
After a scant few minutes, under what compulsion I am still uncertain, I found a very familiar little fellow that I pulled out to further inspect. I recognized the figure as being a compatriot of He-Man's, and though I do not remember his specific name or any narrative canon associating him with the other masters of the universe pantheon, I do
remember that in my own childhood I had owned a figure just like this one. Something like HammerHead or RamFace or BitchAss, or something that represented his personal modus operandi or ken. This particular little hero had obviously seen better days. He was covered wtih little scratches and his joints were compacted with grime.
Closer inspection of the figure led to a skipped heartbeat and a widening of the eyes in true disbelief. Scrawled on the underside of his foot in suspiciously bad handwriting were my very initials. How could this be? Before I let my reeling mind leave me in a stupor, I did the sensible thing and purchased the objet trouve for four ninety-nine plus tax. I left the store immediately to return to the hotel. While walking down the sidewalk I laughed at my own silliness for purchasing such a useless thing just because some bastard kid happened to have the same initials as I, but I held the toy tightly under my arm. I affirmed myself of the logical explanations that would manifest themselves to me shortly.
At the hotel I set the thing on the dresser opposite my seat on the foot of the bed. Staring at it expectantly did nothing. The toy just held my gaze with its vacant, painted-action-figure facade. Reluctantly I remembered that this was the model that I had buried deep in the backyard sandbox of the house I lived in from ages three to eight. The grime in its joints looked to be the exact same color and consistency of the clay that I dug into beneath the sand. I was never able to relocate the toy, however. I forgot all about him after we moved and assumed he was still down there between the sand and clay. This was the exact same one. There was no mistaking it.
I thought and thought and thought about how this relic could have possibly made it to that junk shoppe and what turn of events could have resulted in my discovering it. Was there any meaning to this? Eventually I let it go as just a coincidence. Improbable, startling, seemingly-telling, but in the end just a stupid coincidence. However, the miasma of this particular coincidence struck me very uncomfortably, and when it came time to leave the hotel and return home I packed everything except for the toy and left with it standing, staring just as blankly as if making a final pleading case for the normalcy of its reappearance.
After a few weeks had passed I had nearly forgotten about the old toy, but then I received a package from the hotel. I opened it while standing there on my front porch in the orange, flattened light of the afternoon sun. They had sent me the toy. This was, of course, completely impossible because I left no forwarding address with the hotel. I even registered using a false name. There was no way they could have found me. Horror- stricken. . . though, approaching a kind of reverence, I quietly turned around and went back inside the house with the package under my arm.
