“Yes! They’ve got Sammy Skunk!” Albert shouted to his wife Louise, who was folding the laundry and didn’t care. “I’m going over there right now and get it..”
Louise folded Albert’s boxers. “Now, don’t get yourself all worked up again.“ They’re stuffed animals. Besides, collecting them’s just a little passé, wouldn’t you say.”
Usually, Albert would argue, but not today—Sammy was waiting. Albert huffed, sitting down to pull on his argyles and check for directions.
Albert thought as he drove his ‘92 Buick LeSabre into town how surprised he had been that The Old Tyme Toye Shoppe had a rare and precious commodity like Sammy Skunk. He stepped on the gas in hopes of beating his arch-nemesis, Mrs. Lavinia Brownsail, to the proverbial punch. She’d snatched away several prime specimens in the past, having better access to when and where collectors were cashing in on their beanie bag stashes. Maddening! Fortunately, Mrs. Brownsail was known to stay away from public establishments like toy stores, having an aversion to other people’s children and no great desire to be around her own for more than a week at a time.
The Brownsail woman preferred to deal with private collectors, with a cup of hot chamomile tea in hand and the Beanie Bags spread out before her on a glass-topped coffee table.
He had learned to avoid Lavinia, but his friends let him know of her movements. He suspected she hadn’t been near the Olde Tyme Toy Shoppe, and he began to think he might just get that Sammy Skunk after all.
Main Street was crowded, but a parking spot seemed about to open up just as he rounded the corner. He pulled his Buick to the side and waited, tapping on the steering wheel as a family of five piled into their Ford. Albert snorted and shook his head. So many children. Albert laid on the horn. The father looked up, smiled, and waved before backing the station wagon slowly, so slowly, out onto the street.
Albert pulled the Buick into its slot, applied the parking brake, folded his computer printouts, turned the radio and car off, checked the lights, adjusted the mirror, and wiped a stray crumb off the red leather seats. He locked the car, took a few steps, furrowed his brow, and walked back to check, just to make sure. As he suspected, it was truly locked, but no harm in checking twice.
With one last look at his car, Albert entered the Olde Tyme Toy Shoppe. He glanced around the room, scanning for the presence of Beanie Bags. Seeing none, he frowned and took another step into the room. The floors creaked. Albert looked down to see old hardwood, faded and worn.
Albert was beginning to think that perhaps he was in the wrong place when he saw a large bin full of small, loosely stuffed animals in the back. Above the bin on a hand-painted sign, the words: Barrel of Beanies. Albert humphed in disgust. How was he supposed to find Sammy Skunk in there? In the old days, the different items were clearly marked and stacked according to color or release date. Special, rare Beanies should be behind glass cases. But here, the Beanies were in no order at all—green Timmy Turtles, gray Binky Bats, red Car-Car Cardinals. What a mess!
But Albert was not so easily deterred. He would find that skunk if it were anywhere to be found. He began to rummage through the bin, his eyes seeming to sink even deeper into their sockets as he wrinkled his brow in concentration. Albert blocked his mind to all colors other than black and white, tossing aside three Wistful Whales, five Perky Penguins, and one Zany Zebra.
He stopped. Something was odd about this Zebra. He had one at home as it was passibly rare, but this one… What was it? He fingered the bright yellow circle-shaped card that held all vital information on Zany—its name and when it was produced. The Beanie had the essential tag; the thing would be worthless without it, but this Beanie was different—its tag was creased and worn, and on the inside, some child had written in a shaky hand—Agnes. Could it be that this was a used Beanie?
Albert raised himself to his full height of five-eight and three-quarters, sucking in his breath as he did. What kind of Beanie retailers were these people selling used Beanies along with new ones? Albert searched the room for a salesperson when behind him he heard a soft voice, “May I help you, sir?”
He whirled around. A small woman stood before him dressed in a gauzy purple dress that dropped to her ankles. Her delicate arms were clasped behind her. “You seem to like our Barrel of Beanies. Are you going to purchase that lovely Zebra?”
“Certainly not!”
Her laughter tinkled. “I hope there is nothing amiss.”
Albert thrust the zebra under her nose. “Did you realize that this…this Zany Zebra was in this bin with the new Beanies?”
She took the toy from him and gently opened the yellow card. “Oh, you’re right. This doesn’t belong here.”
Albert jutted out his chin. “I thought so.
“I’ll put it where it belongs.” She moved across the floor to a glass cabinet he hadn’t noticed before. Inside were all sorts of toys: baseballs with yellowed, muddy covers, their red strings frayed; Tonka shovels, battered and dented; porcelain and plastic-faced dolls beside Barbies of all ethnic variations and styles of clothing, a veritable toy museum.
Out of her pocket, somewhere in the folds of her skirt, she took out a large silver ring with one key and opened the cabinet.
Albert watched as she gently placed the Zebra beside other Beanie Bags. “How come you locked up all of these toys?”
“Because they are my most valuable commodities.”
“But they’re….” He swallowed hard. “pre-owned.”
She smiled. “I’m not familiar with that term. How can something be owned before it is owned?”
“What?” Albert was shocked. “It means something’s, you know, used, old, worn out, depreciated.”
She laughed for some reason. “Oh, I see.”
He frowned at her. Obviously, she did not see, but he decided not to argue. He was on a mission. “Never mind. I hear you have a Sammy Skunk. I haven’t seen one yet.”
“Sammy Skunk?”
“Yes, my sources say you have one. Very rare, very valuable.”
The tinkling laugh again. “I don’t remember a skunk, but I have a lovely-.”
“No. Skunk or nothing.”
“Well, just let me check the back.” She locked the case and was gone.
Albert stood there for a moment, staring at the case. If this woman didn’t turn up a Sammy Skunk, he would be one unhappy customer. He tapped his foot on the old wooden floor and glanced around the room. He half-heartedly rifled through the “Barrel of Beanies” again and sighed. Everything was so old here—dinted tin tops, old dolls with faded dresses. A display of model cars looked more interesting, not worth collecting, but he had always been charmed by them. He was holding a miniature Ford Thunderbird when he saw it. In a corner, on one of the tall shelves, a hint of gold trim glinted beneath the lights. He was drawn to it, replacing the model car and moving to get a closer look. There behind an old-fashioned H-gauge model locomotive was a trolley. A green trolley. It seemed so familiar. Where could he possibly have seen it before? Suddenly, he remembered.
Once, long ago, his parents had taken the family to San Francisco. Albert had loved it, the Golden Gate Bridge, the bay, the stomach-churning hills, and curved brick roads. But his favorite thing of all had been the trolleys, slowly spinning trolleys painted green with gold trim. They were nothing like he had ever seen, magical and wonderful.
The shopkeeper’s voice brought him back to the present. “See something that interests you, sir?”
“Humph,” he scoffed but was unable to take his eyes of the trolley. “Just want to know about that Sammy Skunk.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have one.”
He whirled to face the woman, the trolley forgotten. “What! You mean I went to all this trouble for nothing?”
“I’m afraid your sources were incorrect. We have another Beanie Bag, a Slimy Skink, which is for sale. Skink, Skunk, I can see how they could have gotten those confused.”
“Slimy Skink!” Albert threw up his hands and turned his back on the woman, looking up to the top shelf again, to the gold trim again. “There must be thousands of Slimy Skinks. They’re no collectors’ items.”
“Those others are not like this one,” she said, taking out her key once again.
Albert turned to her, trying to be angry, knowing he should be. “Oh, no. I want something new, not one of those pre-owned things in there.” He waved a dismissive hand at the cabinet.
“But this little Beanie was loved…”
“You mean used,” he grumbled. He saw the trolley again out of the corner of his eye and turned to it again.
“This little toy was greatly loved by a boy who was extremely ill. He had to travel by plane to Maryland for treatments several times a year. He was frightened of planes, but this little skink would soothe him.”
Albert turned away from the gold and green trolley. He hadn’t realized that he was staring at it again. He glared at the little woman. She must be insane. “So not only do you ignore production rates, you seem oblivious to the depreciation of a toy pre-owned by a sick child.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you don’t seem to understand. My most valuable toys are all pre-owned, as you call it. That’s what gives them their value.”
Albert backed away from the woman. “You’re a con artist. You lure people in here with promises, and then you talk them into spending outrageous prices for used toys.”
“Some people call my toys heirlooms.”
“I’m getting out of here. You won’t con me.”
The little lady put the key back in her pocket. “Do as you wish. But I must tell you, no one has ever entered these doors to return a toy.” Albert continued staring at her as she stepped closer to him. “If you let me,” she said, “I bet I could help you find something…” she looked up at him, her violet eyes shimmering. “Something Wonderful.”
For some incomprehensible reason, Albert made no caustic reply. He simply turned and looked up. He could see the trolley and wanted to look at it closer to see if…
“No, nothing here I want,” he said. Nevertheless, he couldn’t take his eyes off the luminous green and gold. Just like all those years ago.
“I noticed you were looking at my trains.” The owner said. “Do you like trains?”
“Not especially, but I always have liked trolleys.”
“Oh, really? Me too. Don’t you have just a minute to see my marvelous trolley? I know you’ll love it as much as I do.”
“All right,” Albert found himself saying. “I’ll take a look at it. My wife won’t let me live it down if I come home empty-handed.”
She laughed.
He watched her as she moved a rolling ladder into position, as she climbed and stretched to reach the toy and bring it to him. “It’s a lovely toy, isn’t it? An exact replica of a San Francisco trolley. Have you ever seen anything like it?”
“Yes,” he breathed, remembering.
Quietly, she came down the ladder until she was even with him. She dropped soft fingers onto his shoulder. “Shall I wrap it up for you?”
He hadn’t looked at it, hadn’t examined it for signs of wear; he nodded, nevertheless.
~~~
Later, after the toy keeper had carefully wrapped the trolley in its package after he had paid an unbelievably low price and even favored the toy store’s owner with a smile and an “I suppose I’ll have to come back,” he went back to his car and sat there. He touched his package’s brown paper and cotton string with his callused fingers and wondered.
The honk of a car horn startled him, and he looked behind him to see the harassed face of an old woman pressing the horn. He almost laughed out loud. It was Lavinia, Lavinia Brownsail, right on time. No doubt the little lady inside had some chamomile tea brewing in the back and something, something wonderful, besides.
Lavinia honked again.
Albert smiled, lowered the window, and waved.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Katie Winkler’s fiction has appeared in numerous print and online publications, including Saturday Evening Post, SciPhi, Fabula Argentea, and in the anthology Unbroken Circle: Stories of Cultural Diversity in the South by Bottom Dog Press. Also a playwright, she has had three full-length plays produced and is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America and the North Carolina Writers Network. She lives happily with her husband John in the Blue Ridge Mountains south of Asheville, North Carolina where she edits the literary journal Teach. Write. (teachwritejournal.com) and blogs about higher education in the South at www.heymrswinkler.com.
About the Author
