you ever hear your stuff talking to you? i mean, late at night, when they realize that no one else is around, do your various collections say things to you?
do your comics ever call out for attention? do your action figures ever wonder where you are when they need you? do your games question if they’ve been forgotten and left for dead?
well, it happened to me about a week ago.
i was sitting in my office, burning the midnight oil, trying to come up with something to write about when i heard a voice. “help me” it said quietly, the point of origin hard to define in the stillness of the darkened house, “it’s getting hard to breathe in here”.
i moved over to my shelf of action figures, closely looking for any sign of life. scanning past the dust covered green lanterns, seven in all, i saw the crew of the original starship enterprise, barely visible on the bridge of their vessel behind a layer of dusty packaging. rick hunter’s veritech fighter was in need of serious attention, next to another japanese mecha that i couldn’t even remember the name of. if the voice was here i couldn’t tell whose it was.
“help me”
the voice sounded more frail now, as if it was barely hanging on. i dashed over to my closet, as it sounded like it might be one of the games stored there meekly seeking attention. cobwebs flew as i threw open the doors, brushing aside the years of neglect to make sure all was right. the battlefleet gothic boxed set was right where i left it, it’s painted fleets a tribute to inactivity. the boxes of magic: the gathering cards that were purchased but never actually used in a game, the squadron of heroclix that were never able to fight their way out of their packaging. a copy of final fantasy tactics that never even got to experience the pale red laser light of the playstation one it was purchased for. and dice. boxes and boxes of dice.
“please, help me”
i knew i was closer now. i flipped on a light to gaze upon the longboxes in the rear of the house, frantically searching for the location of the voice beneath the sealed contents.
was it you, green lantern number forty four? you were the first comic i ever bought at a convention, for what at the time for me, was a lot of money. was it you, strange tales number one-hundred and eighty three? you completed my collection of brother voodoo comics. nobody else may have noticed you on the racks, but here you were among friends. was it you, wolverine number one? nope, the signed copy was quietly tucked into it’s bag, right where it was supposed to be.
or was it?
if all of these things meant so much to me, why were they stashed away in closets or hidden at the rear of a shelf? why weren’t they displayed proudly where they could enjoy being a part of my life? weren’t these things meant to be out in the sunlight? to be read, played and enjoyed?
“thank you” said the small voice, “you understand it now, don’t you?”
underneath the longboxes, sealed in a wrinkled mylar bag with a yellowing board i found it. the source of the voice. a holo-foil variant cover edition of ecto-kid number one, it’s metallic cover reflecting the light onto my face.
i grabbed the comic and shoved it back into a longbox.
“no, please, not the box again! i thought you understood!!!”
“i do understand”, i shot back as i turned off the light, “idiotic, overpriced holo-foil covered comics purchased during the mid-eighties speculator boom are not to be seen or heard until they double in value!”
you ever hear your stuff talking to you? don’t listen to it. good night.