Adventures in Toyland #1: It's All in the Bag
Posted by: ClevoBobby 05.11.05 12:01am
A few years ago I was employed at a toy store in Cleveland called Big Fun. It was (and still is) a wonderful little hole-in-the-wall packed with an incredible amount of cool vintage stuff. Being a store that sold vintage toys and memorabilia, we advertised heavily that we purchase old toys. Over the years that I worked there, I've had some rather interesting experiences going on "away team missions" to root out the plastic toys that dreams and paychecks are made of. This is the story of one of the most memorable.

It was an ordinary September Tuesday when Steve, the owner, got a phone call from a man he met years ago at the big Chicago Kane County toy show. Apparently this guy was planning a big move and wished to sell off the contents of his toy store and whatever else he had packed away in his attic. Steve and I planned to leave the following night, drive to Indy, crash at a motel, and then arrive at his house early the next morning. Steve also added, "From what I remember, this fella is a little odd.”

The next evening we took some cash out of the bank, loaded our overnights into Steve’s van, and headed off to Indy with my head filled with dreams of 12-backs, 12" figures, and boxed vehicles and playsets galore.

Nearing Indianapolis, Steve and I decided that a stop at Quaker Steak & Lube was in order. To be quite honest, however, when are wings and beer not in order? We started easy: medium wings and Coors Light. As the night wore on we gradually moved up the ladder in terms of the ass-kickingness of the various wing sauces. The Louisiana Lickers are damn good I’ll tell ya. Eventually, the discussion worked its way around to whether or not we were going to give the feared "Atomic" wings a go. This is the King Sh*t on Turd Island of wing sauces...the ones that come complete with a warming about touching your pecker after you eat them. Internal debate: do I eat the Atomic Wings? Well, Alan Shepard strapped himself to a fuel tank and shot himself into space and boys ten years younger than me stormed the beaches of Normandy so surely I was capable of this petty act of bravery. Besides, I'm sure Batman and Johnny Cash would eat Atomic Wings were they here. I ate 24 of them.

Later on, at about 3:00am, I lay in a bed at a Motel 6 beginning to reconsider my decision. I was hung-over and Steve was snoring and farting so horribly that sleep was impossible, even if the entirety of my digestive tract wasn't killing me. And it most certainly was. It's at this point that I realized that Alan Shepard could stick his Mercury rocket right up his ass for all I cared and that people like my granddad fought the Nazis so assholes like me wouldn't have to. As far as Batman and Johnny Cash go, f*** 'em. Besides, I'm sure both of them would have passed on the Atomics. Nothing would be more embarrassing than crapping your chaps while playing for an audience of tough convicts or dumping in your Kevlar while roughing up some bank robbers. That, however, would have been at least some sort of release. I had none. I was constipated beyond all possibilities. Just so you know, Steve and I slept in separate beds.

The next morning Steve awoke (I never did fall asleep) and we began the final stretch of our journey. After a few wrong turns we arrived at the house of the man who could potentially make this entire ordeal worthwhile. We knocked on the door and he led us into the kitchen.

The man was unreal. He had the hair of Dr. Brown from Back to the Future, the body and mouth (and smoking habit) of Denis Leary, and the chemical intake of Keith Richards. Between long drags of his cigarette (and cigar; alternating) the man spun a yarn about an "epiphany" he had while standing inside of a Buddhist temple just outside of Bangkok, Thailand. The string of events and establishments of ill-repute that led this man to eventually standing in the temple was graciously omitted. Actually, I probably should've asked... I'm sure it would've been well worth the effort. At any rate, after this epiphany and the following realization that Bangkok had just superseded Amsterdam (shocking eh?) as his new Mecca, he decided that America had little to offer him and a big move was clearly in order. The move: why Bangkok, Thailand, of course. The game plan: return to America, sell his massive toy stash, sell his house, give his kid a couple hundred bucks or so, then split. Goodbye Oreos, goodbye Moon Pies, hello to brothels, authentic Pad Thai, and Buddhist temples galore.

The inside of the house matched the man. The walls were painted black, purple, and a dark maroon. Overflowing ashtrays lay everywhere a water bong didn't. Framed prints of marijuana plants graced every wall, and the amount of pornography littered about the place was absolutely staggering. Had Dr. Brown (for that is what I shall call him) used real Zebra skin to cover his furniture, the poor bastards would've been long extinct. Outside, two fleabag Rottweilers barked and growled though the screen door.

Eventually Dr. Brown led us up to the second floor hallway and tugged on a strap that released the rickety ladder that led to the attic. The three of us crawled up there and Steve and I took a look around. The attic was large and filled with boxes, garbage bags, and shopping bags of all sizes; all filled with toys! Promising. Besides the chimney stack and the toys, nothing else was up there. We began rooting through the stuff, setting crap we wished to purchase in one pile and repacking the garbage that we would pass on. Dr. Brown sat at the edge of the opening, running his mouth about various conspiracies or some sh*t and making attempts at discussing marijuana legalization laws. Steve and I largely tried to ignore him. Important business was at hand. Eventually Dr. Brown brought us up a couple mugs of coffee and setting them on one of the boxes, told us that he had to run down the street to "take care of some important business" and that he would be back in about a half hour and if Steve and I were to find any joints lying around, we were free to smoke them. The search somewhat increased in vigor. Also, he mentioned, a woman that he met at a bar the night before was asleep in his room and not to be alarmed if we ran into her while he was gone. This guy got better by the minute.

A few minutes after Brown’s departure, I had my first promising urge to sh*t. Descending down the creaky ladder, I made my way down the hall and into the bathroom. I sat down, relaxed, and... nothing. Not a God damned thing. Climbing back up into the attic, Steve saw my face and knew right off that the colon tree bore little fruit. I tried this again after drinking some coffee. It certainly felt like I had to go and oftentimes drinking coffee facilitates the calls of nature. But again...nothing. I returned once again to the attic and doubling over in pain, continued my search for 21-back Boba Fetts and boxed die-cast TIE Bombers. Steve was getting quite a kick out of my utter misery. Ten minutes later I knew it was time. I just knew it. I gleefully flew back down the ladder and sprinted for the bathroom door that was... shut! Shut? Shut! This mysterious woman of questionable virtue was taking a motherf***ing shower!

Life is wonderful when you consider all the different decisions one must make. Oftentimes, the more introspective of us think about how life would've been different had different roads been taken; alternate choices been settled upon. Standing outside the bathroom, I faced one of those crossroads. I had to go... like now and there was a strange woman of unknown quality showering in the bathroom. Did I find another john or did I sneak into the bathroom and use the toilet while she was showering? Regardless of whether I did my business and got out scott-free or if she opened the curtain and screamed, the end result would likely have been the same: a great bar story. Here was the deciding factor: assuming that I was going to try and do this on the sly; would the noise from the shower drown out the groaning and farting that I was sure to be doing? I decided to respect her privacy and try something else. Could I go back and re-do this moment, I'd have tried the bathroom. I mean, what if the curtain opened, she was hot-as-balls, and invited me in? Shudder to think.

I decided to take the less adventurous road and hurried down to the first floor. Earlier, as Dr. Brown explained his plans, I spotted a small bathroom off the kitchen, near the back door of the house. What I saw wasn't good. Before Brown had left, he put up a toddler gate in the doorway of the kitchen and let the two dogs in. The bathroom was on the far side of the kitchen. The dogs were not at all happy to see me as I got my first close look at them. They were filthy, apparently underfed, and their heads were covered in bite marks and scars. Slowly, gingerly, I began to lift one leg over the toddler gate. Both dogs stiffened, growled, and bared their fangs. F***.

Steve came downstairs about this time and erupted into laughter when he saw the brutes guarding the sole escape from my current state of misery. I ran outside and took a quick look around. Possibly there was a gas station or corner store in sight where I could use the bathroom. Brown lived in a purely residential area. Walking, hunched over, back into the house, Steve tosses me a roll of toilet paper that was for some reason sitting on an end table and told me to go anywhere I could. With a brief moment's consideration, I bolted for the attic, Steve laughing as he caught onto my plan.

Making it to the attic I grabbed the nearest garbage bag, dumped the contents onto the floor, sifted through the junk looking for good stuff, dropped my drawers, held the garbage bag up to my ass, and leaned with my back against the chimney stack.

This was the ultimate poop. I was really making some rope. I'm certain that had I crapped into a Coke bottle instead of a garbage bag, I'd have not hit any of the sides. Relief had come at last. Now, one would think, having finally found my release I'd have relaxed, enjoyed the cool roughness of the brick chimney at my back, and begun thinking about what to do with the bag when I was done but being the toy maniac that I was I occupied my quiet time with other activities. From my earlier description, you know what the attic was like: filled with boxes and bags of toys. The area directly around me was no exception. So crapping my guts out, wracked with cramps, I begin opening boxes with my right foot to check out what's inside. A couple times I risked freeing a hand to yank a garbage bag closer to inspect its contents. One never really knows. A quick peek could reveal a boxed Power of the Force Tatooine Skiff or any boxed Mego figure. When going through a stash of toys one never leaves stones unturned... even if 99% of the bags and boxes yield little more than Spawn and Pirates of the Dark Water action figures. Yeesh. Downstairs, I could hear Steve roaring.

When finished (some time later), I twisted the bag up and carefully made my way downstairs. The strange woman came out the bathroom, cheerfully wished me a 'good morning' and headed for the bedroom. I bet she didn't know I was carrying a bag full of turds. When I got downstairs I had to decide what to do with it. I considered stashing it behind the couch but figured that would get us an angry phone call in a day or so. I went outside, saw a couple of garbage cans next to the house, and tossed it into the nearest one.

Anyhow, Dr. Brown came home, Steve and I made a pile of all the junk we wanted, settled on a price, and loaded everything up in Steve’s van. We were saddled up and ready to go. Dr. Brown’s toys were packed into the back of the van, nearly filling it up. I couldn't wait to get home and extract the handful of choice gems that I had selected especially for myself. Steve and I climb into the van. Dr. Brown lets the mutts out.

The dogs tear around the front of the house, bee-lining for the garbage cans lined up against the side. The first one knocks one of the garbage cans over (you know which one) and begins rooting around inside of it. Dragging out the ultimate treasure, a tug of war ensues between the two dogs. The prize: bag of Quaker Steak & Lube Atomic Sh*t. They were each pulling with all their doggie might, growling between bared teeth, not taking their eyes off each other. Dr. Brown was leaning against the passenger side door, blowing smoke in my face, and ranting on about some inane New Age bullcrap. The attention of Steve and I was, of course, riveted on the dogs. Brown didn't seem to notice but I could hear Steve trying with amazing might to suppress his laughter. I was praying.

I'm sure the dogs ruptured that bag. I'm also sure the mangy things rolled around in it a bit, probably ate some, and most certainly tracked a good deal of it into the house. On the way home, I explained to Steve that seeing as the end result would likely be the same, I should've just crapped right there in the hallway. I mean, it nearly happened anyway.

Nowadays I'm not sh*tting in attics. I'm a respectable high school English teacher and see Steve only once in a while. As for Dr. Brown, I have no f***ing clue where he’s at. Possibly Thailand, possibly Indianapolis still. At any rate, thanks for the fond memories.