It wasn't a toy chest in the classic definition. The box was not adorned with clowns or balloons or colorful exploding confetti. We kept our toys in a clothes hamper, being practical-minded. The top is padded, so it's comfortable as I sit. The house is still. We're closing shop for good, my brothers and I. Our parents have gone to higher ground. I'll plant the for-sale sign in the front yard on my way out.
As a child, I was GI Joe. I’m pissing in the Rhine. Send diesel! I led grizzled, stubble-ridden, chain-smoking fighters from Normandy to Berlin, bayonets glistening. Scanning, constantly scanning for the enemy, my freedom eyes rarely rested. I gave my chocolate bars to the war-torn children that hugged us. I slept in the mud.
I was Major Matt Mason. I lost an arm to a foul-smelling Martian. The battle was horrific, but the red, white, and blue banner hung stiffly in zero gravity when it was over. My lunar rover is still intact, though. Despite incalculable tumbles down the stairs—my dog hated that thing—it still revs, all thrusters go, yearning to explore new vistas in the red radiance of the living room.
I was Speedy McNally steering my fireball red Indy car into the infield, sputtering, snorting, and choking. Three laps from the checkered flag, with second place in the bag, I lead-footed, caught the number one car, then ran…out…of…fuel, a lesson learned for the next race…maybe. Never. Second is the first loser, and I ain't one to lie.
I was Sigurd the Red, a ferocious Viking, my shield shattered, my sword fractured, my war face contorted, solitary, sprinting to the smoking ramparts, fury and glory screaming from my raging blue eyes. I slaughtered twenty-two Saxons that day before falling to a sword in the back; a warrior’s death was my reward. My queen still weeps as I thunder in Valhalla.
I was Major Tom Greene bivouacked at Fort Apache, hostile and beautiful in its brutal desert cloak. I’d fiddle with my magnificent, impossibly black handlebar mustache. My horse, which I named Horse to bewilder the fellas, was a steady companion on long, sun-drenched excursions, the sugar cactus waving as we passed. I rescued more than my fair share of bedraggled settlers and a parson once, his buggy with a busted axel. He was hard prayin’ for rain and Jesus when I found him. I had water to offer—the rest he'd have to work out on his own time.
I closed the lid and sat for a moment. I could hear my dear friends talking, swapping stories, comparing scars. In pain and ecstasy, they still lived and breathed. Buried in a box. Still, they yearned.
I squirreled that toy chest away in the attic for the next family. Hopefully, they'll have a boatload of kids, savage of mind, poetic of heart. We need heroes now more than ever.
And with that, I limped to the front door, closed it quietly, found a hammer and pounded that sonofabitch of a sign into the ground, and disappeared into the afterglow.