When I was a wee boy, I collected action figures. Ninja Turtles, Power Rangers, Batman, Superman, Star Wars. I had them all. Not to mention their vehicles - Turtle Van, Batmobile, Landspeeder - and accessories - Batcave, Megazord, Hoth Rebel Base.
Every time I got a new toy, unless it was Christmas, my birthday, or some other holiday involving the giving of gifts, I went through the same routine of acquiring them. The routine always began with me scurrying through the aisles of whatever store we were in - if memory serves correct, it was often the now-gone-and-dearly-missed Hills department store. I knew immediately where the toy aisle was, as I had visited it a hundred times before. I always passed the WWF action figures, and I faintly remember wondering whoever bought the Star Trek: The Next Generation action figures. I would head straight for the "superhero-type" figures, though this sometimes included Luke Skywalker or Han Solo, and I would find that one figure that my collection would be incomplete without.
Step Two of the routine would be opening the velcro flap of my junior wallet and counting the crinkled ones I had placed inside. Every dollar bill meant one completed week of chores, and as the dollars increased in my wallet week after week, it meant opportunity. Opportunity for something exciting.
After seven weeks, I was normally able to afford the basic action figure - solid plastic body, movable arms and legs, and usually an accessory of some kind, be it ray gun or missile launcher. After nine or ten weeks, I could afford a deluxe model action figure, which might include a more detailed body design, removable helmet or chest plate, and several accessories or weapons. Batmen came with removable cloth capes. Jedi knights came with blasters and lightsabers. The key was remembering which accessory went with which figure, though they all ended up sharing anyway.
The thing about my scrimping and saving was, I wasn't very good at it. I would save for maybe three or four weeks before the twitching in my leg kicked in. I would feel restless, and no amount of running and jumping outside would satisfy me. After another week, the dreams would start. I would see Hasbro commercials in my sleep. I could see myself playing with these new toys in some wonderland of soft carpet and multiple ledges, giving Arctic Chill Batman an advantageous jump on the Penguin.
If I was into this phase by the time I reached the department store, I knew I wouldn't be able to walk away from these wonderful toys that stared out at me from their cells of thin plastic and cardboard. I would have to rescue one of them, two if I could, and give them the freedom that only my toy box could provide.
Really, when I was looking at the toys on the shelf, and then counting my money, I was figuring out how much my mother would have to pay. I was figuring out the difference in my head, and hoping the remainder would not be too much. After ten minutes or so of staring at these toys, my mother would find me. As I think back on it, I'm pretty sure she knew the routine as well as I did, but never let on. She'd always ask the simple question, What do you have there? I'd look up at her, with the best puppy dog eyes I could muster, and reply, Nothing. I'd put the toy down and just stare at it for a moment.
Ten minutes later, I'd be walking out of that store with the toy already freed from its package and in my hands. Depending on how expensive the figure was, as well as how long it had been since I last got a toy using the same tactic, I might or might not owe my mother some of my future allowance money. But I didn't care, because I had acquired it. I had acquired the plastic.
I don't have these toys anymore. I wish I had kept one or two, just as reminders. I know I had about fifteen or so different versions of Batman, including one that changed color in water, and one that had a thick vinyl cape and a medieval mask, and one that shot a grappling hook from its back. I had a Robin with a karate chop, and a Superman with a magnet inside that repelled another magnet, hidden in a kryptonite ring. I know I had Tupperware bins filled with others, but I can't remember who they were or what vehicle they could fit into.
All I really remember is the plastic. The feel of a fresh figure's plastic body was a drug to me. It was smooth, clean of blemish, and bright. The deluxe figures always had the most detail inlaid in the plastic, like an insignia or control panel, and I felt like I was touching the work of a master craftsman. Even at that age, I knew these figures were made in factories, poured hot into molds and assembled with joints, but they still felt special.
Nowadays, I still have my love affair with plastic. When I purchased a Nintendo Wii several years ago, I held the remote in my hands and marveled at the pure white of it. I did the same with my iMac two years later. There's just something about plastic, how solid the color looks. It's not like wood that changes shades within the same piece. Plastic is pure. It's whole.
Maybe this is just a symptom of my generation. Maybe this is just a sign that I am defined by my stuff. Or maybe I still seek out those plastic treasures because they remind me of the one thing I held so dear as a wee boy, the one thing I sought out in those cloth capes and plastic missile launchers with missile-launching, spring-loaded action. Maybe it's all about adventure.
