“I want that one,” Davey said, and pointed. Jeff followed his finger to a display of Dramco Field Marshall Ninja Elite BATTLEFROGS.
“Now Davey, is that a Wack-O! Toy?”
Davey took a closer look at the BATTLEFROG packaging. He had been raised to spot non-Wacko! labels like most children are taught to look for skull-and-crossbone stickers on bottles under the sink.
“No,” Davey admitted.
“Whose product is it?”
Even though he couldn’t read, Davey immediately recognized the bulbous blue letters of the logo.
“Dramco.”
“Who is our main…”
“Competitor.”
“Which means they are…”
“The Enemy,” Davey glumly finished.
“So are we going to buy it?”
Davey and Brian answered simultaneously, “Noooooooooo.”
Jeff ruffled their hair in approval. “That’s my boys. What about you, Brian? What do you want?”
Brian shrugged, and went back to doodling on his drawing pad.
“You’re pretty quiet.”
“He doesn’t want to go away to military school, Dad,” Davey said.
Jeff flinched, and looked down at Brian. If the boy had heard Davey above the din of the toy store, he gave no indication of it. Instead, he kept on drawing, eyes on his notebook, and shuffled off down the aisle. Totally engulfed in his fantasy world.
Jeff didn’t know what to do. He wanted to snatch that drawing pad away from Brian, make him see, make him react, make him do something, anything, as long as he would throw down that damn paper –
“Dad, me ‘n Pinky found what we want!”
Jeff looked over at Davey in a daze. His son was holding up his little finger. He must have borrowed one of Brian’s pens at some point, because now the finger had two little eyes and a mouth drawn on it.
“That’s just a finger, Davey,” Jeff pointed out wearily.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Davey bent down and struggled to pick up a box larger than he was. When he finally hoisted it to his chest, it covered his entire upper body, including his face. His disembodied voice spoke from behind the cardboard.
“See? Pinky picked it out!”
Lego’s. Ultra Space Exploration Moon Base Kit. 346 pieces, along with six Moon Base Crew figurines and two aliens. Jeff knew it well. Knew the designers. Knew it had ranked 25th in industry product sales since its introduction in September.
Bubble Babies he could stomach. They were the hottest thing around. They were a status symbol on the playground. It was the five year-old’s equivalent of driving a BMW or wearing a Rolex.
But this…his own kid had turned traitor on him, and for a toy that wasn’t even in the top ten.
“They’re a competitor, Davey.”
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Copyright © 2008 Darren Pillsbury. All rights reserved.
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