he Weekly Fare . . . December 2, 2004

Where Do All The Toys Go?

We have this fictitious character that lives at our house. He wears tennis shoes, jeans, a tee shirt and a Virginia Cavaliers baseball cap. In fact he kind of looks like me with one distinguishing feature: he has a large 40-gallon black plastic bag slung over his back.

He is, of course, the Anti-Clause.

Not to be confused with Santi-Clause . . .

The Anti-Clause almost always makes an appearance on the Friday after Thanksgiving - which apparently is now known in the popular press as "Black Friday." (The Friday during which all those "other people out there" seem to go shopping.) But "Black Friday" at our house means something entirely different . . . It means the Anti-Clause is coming to town.

He has no list.

He does not check it twice.

He does not care who's been naughty and nice.

In fact, it's completely immaterial, because the Anti-Clause makes the Grinch look like a pretty likable Joe. At least the Grinch dressed the part and gave little Cindy-Loo-Hoo a drink. The Anti-Clause, on the other hand, stops for nothing - he's been looking forward to this day for months, and he proceeds in his mission of scooping up seldom used toys and other household items with the ruthless efficiency of a nomadic Viking.

The "AC" is known to psyche himself up in order to get in the "throw-away" mode, often convincing himself that the work he does is to benefit the Rescue Mission who will ultimately receive his collection. But in reality, it is his own sense of cleanliness and order that is being satisfied, and any collateral benefit occurs simply by the Grace of God - certainly not by the constructs of his conniving and capricious heart.

The Anti-Clause simply does not have the luxury of being nice.

Games with lots of small pieces seem to be in the greatest danger of an early and swift demise, but obnoxious toys like plastic battery driven guitars that play some heinous faux-Rockabilly theme are in no less danger . . . Dented toy trucks, unused board games, balls that have some element of duplication relative to the balance of inventory - they disappear into the sack as though cast into a black hole, disappearing over the event horizon never, ever to return again . . . unless . . .

Unless Mrs. Clause (she's married to both) finds the bag and removes a few articles. Or worse yet, the Anti-Clause himself, falters at the dock as he is unloading and pulls some useless scrap of a toy out of the bag and places it back in the car as sentimentality overtakes his best (or worst as the case may be) intentions.

"I guess we can just keep this one . . .," he'll say to himself.

Somewhere a bell must ring and at that moment an angel "gets his wings . . ."

But this year it didn't and the AC has paid dearly for it. Because the AC picked up a couple of things he thought had been long since forgotten, when in fact they hadn't.
Namely one "Easy Bake Oven" belonging to child number two (a Ten-year-old by the name of Gussie). And one "Little Red Telescope" belonging to child number four. (A Five-year-old by the name of Rob.)

Whoever penned the phrase that, "Hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned," clearly did not have a child ever deprived of a toy that he or she thought they needed.

As "luck" would have it, Gussie received for her birthday (a mere two days after the AC's visit) an Easy Bake Oven "recipe pack" from her dear Grandmother. An item that, of course, reminded her of the toy she had not played with in years and would have never thought about again until she purchased one for her own child somewhere around 2030. (Thanks Mom.) This was not the AC's fault - sometimes fate simply steps in and deals you a bad hand and you simply have to play it. In this case it cost me $18.00 and some change at K-Mart. I probably won't toss this one until Gussie and Jane are in college.

The Little Red Telescope was / is another matter entirely. It would seem that when the Anti-Clause removed this particular unit (that had been sitting broken down by our front window for over six months without so much as a peep at a bird) he forgot a small, albeit critical little plastic lens case. This was promptly discovered by son Rob, who, inspired by the Holy Spirit himself, declared and I quote, "Has anyone seen my favorite little red telescope . . . I was planning on using it to see Mars tonight?"

See Mars tonight? Apparently the first week of December is space exploration week in First Grade. Even so, I'm convinced that without the lens case he never would have remembered it Mrs. Clause exhibited a visible wince. "Better ask your father," she said. She might give her life for Mr. Clause in innumerable ways, but no way was she going to take the heat on this one.

"I'm toast," thought the AC.

And he was. As soon as the words of truth hit Rob's ears (We have a "no lie" policy) he melted like wax on a hot-plate. Going . . . going . . . gone . . . He was crushed and so was I. I knew he didn't ever use the old telescope and so did he, but he now fancied it as something inextricably important to him and by virtue of its impossible return it became all the more unbearably so.

The big "E-2" on Dad.

But the tears quickly faded when I told him I would go down to the Mission the next day and see if I could find it. He seemed to think that such an effort would work, and I was of course hopeful. But alas, a few days had already passed and neither the scope nor the Easy-Bake oven were to be found. I did pick up a couple of really cool beach chairs for a buck a piece, however.

There was only one thing left to do.

I got online that afternoon.

Dick's Sporting Goods . . . $39.95.

It's been an expensive Christmas for the Anti-Clause.

And he doesn't even have a tree up yet.