See N Say

A little teaser, from a favorite A Fag for Her Fifties chapter, "Shitty, Shitty Bang Bang" -  featuring one of my favorite toys!

“I remember several years ago, cleaning out my mother’s house. I’d just moved her to the nursing home and was trying to get it ready to put on the market. There I was, sorting through her attic, just like we’re doing to mine now, wondering if I would ever find Mr. Purple Pony. Now, I found him, stored away with all of my other childhood toys. I can’t believe he survived all these years.”

You paused, gazing into the buttonhole eyes of Mr. Purple Pony. “Those years were particularly difficult. Watching my mother slowly forget all about me and my childhood. It was hard for me… not so much for her. Can’t miss what you forget.”

I pictured you in your mother’s house moving boxes of memories, sorting through everything important in your lives. I imagined how hard it had to have been to assess the world of souvenirs and junk, struggling to decide which ones to keep. Must have emotionally scarred you. The most difficult thing in the entire world, watching your childhood disappear before a mother’s eyes… alone. 

I suddenly wanted to kiss Mr. Purple Pony too. What a sad and painful thing for my dear friend to suffer through without the comfort of love shielding her. It must have been awful to see the only person who remembered your childhood simply forget. Underneath, you have to wonder: are you next? Will Al and his Heimers skip over you, or will they take you with them on their psychedelic ride of dementia? I’m glad you were there, Mr. Purple Pony. You were a rancid little trooper. 

“What other dead toys are in that cardboard casket?” I’m sorry. It was a mean thing to say, but I had to shock us back to the filthy reality of the task at hand. Sorry Mr. Purple Pony, but time to put the stale reminders of our past away. Time to get back to a Midwestern work ethic.

“I don’t know. Let’s see.” You flung open the box to explore the rest of your childhood. Layers of dust floated to the floor. Your eyes grew large, like a brooch on a queen mother. “Oh my!” squealing with delight. “It’s my See N Say.”

I gasped like a big ol’, giddy girl. “See N Say?! Oh my God! Which one?”

“The Bee.”

“The Alphabet!” I ran to it, knocking you over in the process and sending you tumbling to the side. By the way, sorry about the Super Bowl Sunday move, but girl, it was See N Say—a toy that’s all but left the planet. Once I had my tight little hands on the retro toy, I instantly positioned the pointer and pulled the Chatty Cathy string. “G… Girl.”

The toy read us.

I amused myself like it was the latest edition of a Blue Boy magazine. Meanwhile you continued digging through the dusty box. “Okay… so something besides the See N Say and Mr. Purple Pony. For future reference, he’s not really a pony. He started off as a unicorn but Skippy, our family dog, ate his horn off. We’re both a bit sensitive about it, aren’t we, Mr. Purple Pony?”

“V… Violin.” Fisher Price told you that we really didn’t care how Mr. Pony lost his phallic symbol. It eventually happens to us all. But I did like how Mr. See N Say Bee was able to carry on a very emotive and expressive, sarcastic gay conversation.

You fumbled through the worthless remains of your yesteryear. “Let’s see, Barbie dolls.” Pulled your head out of the allergen hive to look at me. “What? You’re not going to plow me over to get at my Barbie dolls?”

I pulled the string. “F… Fish.” Nothing more to say—was there?

“Just assumed all gay boys wanted to play with Barbie.”

Another pull of the string, “Q… Queen...”

“Not …” I had to speak. The See N Say Bee didn’t have the alphabetical vocabulary necessary to create conjunctions. Opting to reserve his vocabulary for nouns.

“B… Boy.” In other words, I was a queen, not a school yard boy. I grew out of my Barbie fetish a long time ago.

“Just because you’re older? That’s convenient. Age didn’t prevent you from bulldozing me over to get at my See N Say.” The Bee was silent, no embittered or cynical words in its alphabetic vocabulary to explain my rabid moment of nostalgia. Apparently, I struggled with separation anxiety over Fisher Price.

You returned to digging in the graveyard of abandoned childhood toys. Eventually, you withdrew a large wooden box. “That’s odd… what’s this?”

The box was ornately carved, fit for a princess with lots and lots of bling. “I wonder what’s in here. I don’t remember this at all.” You flipped the clasp on the box. It jiggled, wiggled and tumbled from your arms. A small black handgun fell out, hit the floor and discharged.

Envision, if you will, two screaming girls. First I screamed. Then you screamed. Then I screamed louder. Then you screamed, and we screamed some more. We stopped once we realized neither one of us were hurt by the stray bullet—approximately ten minutes later.