Fake Plastic Youth

The dark button eyes stared into my soul. The faded packaging felt like sandpaper as I flipped the box around. My fingers drummed on the plastic window that let the light shine onto the figure. I think to myself about how I have a nephew younger than this figure. It was a Funko Pop, those hunks of ugly plastic that mostly occupy landfills nowadays. The figure I was holding was of Finn, the John Boyega portrayed male lead of the newer Star Wars films. I had this same type of figure eleven years ago when the films had first come out. I was ten then, on the eve of turning eleven in a month or so after. I was big into these movies then, now I only thought of them when thrust into moments like this. As I stand in this souvenir shop assessing the figure, I forget what brought me here in the first place. I’d gotten distracted by a few different things but none sent me down a portal of existentialism the way this symbol of childlike capitalism had.

I wonder if I should buy it, take it home and explain to my partner the humor and semi-ironic-sentimental nature the thing held. When I thought of it for more than two seconds I realized how confused they would be and how the box would go right back to where it was, collecting dust on a shelf. Surely that’s what it was made to do though, no? Sit on some dork with too much money’s shelf next to The Incredible Hulk and Donald Duck? I felt a weird empathy towards it, less so the physical toy but more so what the cheap plastic represented. The glimpse of being in the backseat on the way to the theater, kicking my feet, giddy to venture into a world far away. I was too cynical about the media I engaged with now, even the things I was excited for now didn’t ignite my passion the way things did then. I know it’s not unique to me but what is it about excitement that we have to outgrow? Why can’t I get myself to kick my feet and giggle at the thought of watching John Cassavetes or reading James Baldwin? The passive engagement of being alive today I found myself quite diseased by. Perhaps it was the overconsumption of information and media, or the amount of liquor swishing through my belly, but something in me has been dulled for quite some time.

I leave the figure on the shelf and shuffle home to collect dust myself. I order a fast food burger from a delivery app but the meat looks too gray so I request a refund. They have no problem coughing my money back out of their congested throat, they’re probably making more than my yearly salary in an hour from stoned teenagers ordering chicken nuggets and ice cream. My partner arrives after I’m already tucked into bed. I attempt to act as if I was already asleep and they had woken me up, but am unsure why I did that. I tell them about the figure, about the memories it invoked, they chuckle as if it was a humorous story. I debate telling them the weight I found the moment had, but it’s easier to just fake sleep until the real slumber washes over me.

I remember smearing my chubby preteen fingers on my new phone, ravaging the comment section of the trailer for this film it felt my all but short life had been leading up to. The digital war zone was so blurry through my naive, optimistic young eyes. Why would people care about the skin color of a stormtrooper? In a series with aliens and robots and incest, why is the skin color of one member of an almost entirely masked army be where the line is drawn? The notion of people my parent’s age getting red in the face over such a decision confounded me. Now that same character who such vitriol was targeted towards is sitting with cobwebs around it in a souvenir shift. My white guilt became very strong, it made me worry I had grown to be one of those basement dwelling commenters who had a problem with the existence of Finn. Surely I’m not as bad as them for not buying a Funko Pop right? Right? I don’t care about Star Wars, or those useless dolls, there was no sinister undertone guiding my lack of purchase. Right? I felt horrible. That naive kid would be so disappointed in me wouldn’t they? I’d become the very thing that confused him. All I wanted to do was go and find the figure, hug it and hug the confused child who wasn’t ready for how hateful the world around them was.

The next morning I slipped on a t-shirt and jeans and skipped breakfast. I darted through the streets on my mission into Times Square. I walk through an arena of advertisements in search of a shop full of advertisements to find the specific advertisement I needed to reclaim. The souvenir shop is smelly and grey. The president, the same one pushing the kind of hate I fear to be any way associated with is memorialized all across the shop. T-shirts, bobble heads, mugs with his face, decorate the building as if he’s Mickey Mouse. Corny postcards and shirts fill in the rest, with the random selection of pop culture trash shunned to the corner. I scan the shelf up and down, past characters I’ve maybe gotten too old to recognize, in search of my prized plastic garbage.

I think about why I came yesterday. The hacky gift I was hoping to find for my mom’s birthday. With each passing year I felt like I was closer to running out of gifts to get her. Surely flying down to see her would be enough of a gift, it was certainly enough of an expense. It seemed boastful, likely egotistical for me to pretend my mousy presence would be a gift to her, surely something material would be needed to cushion what could come off as an ego stroke. Nothing stuck out as personal, but the more I thought about it the more existential I felt about how well I knew her, if at all. I thought about the evolution of gifts I received. When I was younger gifts were so easy and personal; Star Wars, LEGOs, Toy Story, things she knew I would love. Now I only asked for clothes or money to go towards my rent.

Then I was reminded of the next existential crisis I had in this very store. The crisis caused by an item I can no longer find. The Finn Funko Pop is nowhere. I look behind other items, behind novelty tees, behind the counter. It’s nowhere. I ask the owner of the store who doesn’t understand what I’m asking. Either due to my voice trembling or the unusual nature of my request, perhaps a mix of both, he can only shake his head in confusion. I leave the store at a loss, I can only wonder who beat me to it. Another adult falling down a spiral? Or a young face I once saw in the mirror heading down the same street I’ve been speeding down. The bell rings as I leave the store and collapse onto a bench. I begin to cry, once again feeling like the kid in the backseat kicking his feet on the way to the movies.