Boy Meets Warrior

Angela and I parted at the door to Buster’s. I could already hear the clop-clop of skaters on the floor above. Mr. Gentry – no relation to the Buster family – lifted his eyes from his newspaper to flap his hand in greeting. For a Saturday morning, Buster’s seemed unusually empty.

My wife was dressed for a flea market deep-dive in khaki shorts, a purple tank top, and sandals. Her ponytail – braided to hold back her hair while she inspected merchandise – was threaded through the backstrap of her ballcap. For all her clothing choices, she might have been attending a baseball game.

“See ya,” she called over her shoulder, traipsing off toward the Depression glass. (We could find our way around Buster’s blindfolded.) “Text me if you run across anything.”

 “No problem,” I replied. I took flea markets far less seriously, but make no mistake – there were few places I would rather browse. Since childhood, I had been fascinated by the musty, secretive smells of antique stores. Buster’s was paradise. Located on the ground floor of a split-level complex, the emporium boasted 37 vendors, each focusing on different eras of nostalgia. I had my favorites; Angela had hers. Tolerance for one another’s (sometimes questionable) tastes probably accounted for our 25

years of marriage.

I watched her thread down the crowded center aisle, wondering how long it would take her to get distracted. It happened immediately – a rack of assorted scarves and purses caught her eye. With an “ooh,” she dove into the multi-colored wares. Grinning my bemusement, I crossed the store to my favorite vendor.

The stall specialized in vintage camping supplies. My dad used to take me and Mom hiking in the Wichita Mountains. Though I rarely go as an adult, I still like perusing the cookware and tents, the camp chairs and kerosene lanterns. (Angela isn’t real big on the outdoors, which suits me fine. I’m more of a comic-book geek.)

An old-fashioned key-ring compass caught my attention, and I thought of my grandson. Though only five, Galen had taken a healthy interest in adventure. (He must have gotten from it his dad’s side, as our daughter, Emily, has much the same attitude as her mom toward the Great Outdoors.) I picked up the compass, inspecting its lime-green shell and clean white markings. I would have liked it when I was a kid. Impulsively, I took the compass to Mr. Gentry and asked him to ring it up.

As I meandered deeper into the store, Angela texted me a photo of her impulse buy: a dented metal rooster, done up in psychedelic colors. Not my cup of tea, but she liked such gewgaws for her flower beds. How could I say no? Just last month, I’d purchased a collector’s case full of Star Wars action figures.

That’s great, I replied. Might keep the crows away.

Fun knee, came the reply. I knew she was already up front adding the rooster to Galen’s compass.

Clop-clop-clop. The skaters upstairs provided the ideal soundtrack to my browsing. I was sinking deeper into a nostalgic trance – set to the score of the Rainbow Rink – when I glimpsed a familiar strip of blue plastic.

I’m not sure how it caught my eye, yet there was no mistaking the sleek limbs or conical head of the giant robot. My legs rooted me to the spot. A Shogun Warrior? My pulse was all aflutter!

Shogun Warriors were a staple of my boyhood. My grandfather bought my first one for me when I was six years old. The toys put the “magic” in Magic Mart, where my grandparents often took me shopping. (They considered it their sacred duty to spoil their grandson rotten.) Though enamored of all things Star Wars, I fell desperately in love with the Shoguns. Staring now at my old pal Raideen, there was little wonder why.

He stood two feet tall (yes, Shoguns were inarguably male), built of hard blue plastic, and loaded with weapons. His crown was a nest of missiles; his battering-ram fist would shoot across the room. Small casters in his boots gave him full mobility. Raideen – and the other Shoguns – were the ultimate Japanese toys in the 1970s. I hadn’t seen one since I was 10.

Muscles acting independently of my brain, I snatched up the Shogun and gazed lovingly into its facial grille. I thought of that night decades ago, when my grandfather made the costly purchase. I remembered staging Shogun battles in my backyard after acquiring three more warriors. Their lumbering forms equaled death on some far-flung battlefield of my imagination.

No question: Raideen would be making the trip home.

My phone chimed again: Find anything?

I started to text my response, but decided a picture is worth a dozen misspelled words. I snapped a phone pic and hit SEND.

A moment later, Angela replied: What in the world is that??

I tucked the phone back in my pocket and gave the robot a quick onceover. Inked in neat black script on the heel of the left boot was the price. I had more than enough cash.

I started for the counter, whistling some tuneless ditty, and ran smack-dab into my wife. She was clutching something to her breast that looked like a Medieval weapon.

Her eyes widened as she took in the Shogun.

“What is that?”

I pointed to the weapon. “What is that?”

She regarded her find. “It’s a candelabra. I’ve always wanted one. Pretty, huh?”

To me, the thing looked like rusted metal. Angela, meanwhile, stretched out a finger to trace the Warrior's faceplate.

“Is this a toy?”

“Why, yes. Angela, meet Raideen. Shogun Warrior.”

 “Show-what?”

“Shogun Warrior. I got my first one when I was six. Grand Da Barnes bought it for me. It’s Japanese, and totally bad-ass. You like it?”

Her brow furrowed, as if she were examining some rare art. Indeed, the toy might have belonged in a museum. “I think it’s beautiful,” she said, “in a crazy kind of way.”

“Correction. It’s awesome.”

Angela laughed. “Well, are you buying it?”

“Absolutely. I know the perfect spot for it.” In truth, I was thinking of a few skirmishes with my Star Wars figures.

“Oh,” she said, somewhat doubtfully. I saw the confusion in her hazel eyes, felt it worm into my plans.

“What is it? Something on your mind?”

“No. It’s just … you’re keeping it for yourself?”

“For myself? Um … no.”

Angela arched one skeptical eyebrow.

“Of course not,” I said. “It’s for Galen. He’ll love it.”

She gave a slight nod, relieved her husband had not completely reverted to his childhood. (Angela had barely withheld comment on my action figures, perhaps in exchange for my silence on her Dr. Seuss glassware.)

 “You don’t think it's a little old for him? I mean, he’s still into coloring books.”

I scoffed. “The boy will eat it up. He’ll want them all!”

She nodded, laughing. “Okay, okay. Far be it from me to question the male psyche. Get him the Gun Show Warrior.”

I directed her toward Mr. Gentry. “I will,” I replied.

***

Galen is a unique individual; he likes knowing what’s around the next corner. Mindful of his cautious approach to life, I decided to simply present him with Raideen.

I phoned Emily from the car the next morning.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” She sounded typically busy. I could hear Donkey Kong playing in the background.

“I have a gift for Galen. Can you send him out?”

 “A gift? Three months before his birthday?”

“I know. Impulse buy.”

“Ho-kay.” I heard her muffle the phone and cry, “GAAA-LUN! Papaw is outside!”

After a moment, my tow-headed grandson rushed out wearing a bright-yellow T-shirt and jeans. He rarely went around informally dressed. I flung open the passenger door.

“Hey,” the boy said breathlessly. Suddenly, his eyes all but popped out. Strapped into the seat beside me was the Shogun. “What’s that?”

“An old friend of mine,” I replied. “Galen, meet Raideen.”

In that moment, I envied my grandson. His first Shogun! The surprise on his face made it clear the torch had been passed.

“Go ahead, take him,” I urged, unsnapping the seat belt. The Warrior was now free to roam.

Galen reached for the toy with both hands – then paused, his eyes flashing again. “Hey. What is that?” He jabbed a finger.

I glanced down at the console, where the lime-green compass was nestled among some coins.

“Oh,” I replied, “that’s for you, too. Ya like it?”

The boy snatched the tiny instrument. “Whoa! Is this a comp-nass?”

“A compass.”

“Does it tell you where you are?” He studied the dial in deep fascination.

“Yeah, sure. North, south, east, west.” I climbed out of the car, giving the Shogun one last, puzzled glance.

Galen pointed the compass toward the house. A bird twittered and flew off. “What way is that?” he asked.

“That’s north-east,” I told him. “It’s called an ordinal point.” I aimed my finger. “That is due north.”

Galen pivoted 90 degrees, his eyes glued to the dial. “What way is that?”

“Due east.”

He swiveled yet another 90 degrees. “And that?”

“Due south.” I suddenly recalled Dad teaching me the cardinal points one cold afternoon in the Wichitas. I might have been 5 or 6. I liked knowing where I stood in the world. I couldn't think of a thing I learned from Shoguns.

Galen aimed at his mailbox. “Is that an ordinal?”

I chuckled. “That is southwest, yes.”

“Sow-west.”

“You got it, kid.”

He clutched his compass to his chest. “Thanks, Papaw!”

I ruffled his bangs. “You’re welcome. Hey, you want Raideen?”

Galen stuck out his arms as if to catch a raindrop. The compass glinted in his fist. “What way is that?”

“You mean the sky?”

We giggled together. “Yeah, the sky!”

I wanted to hug him. “The sky is not on the compass!”

Galen took off with a peal of laughter. I watched him take readings on each item in the yard – the bird feeder, the tall tree, the fencepost. Laughter trailed behind him like a comic-strip balloon.

I glanced toward the house, where Emily stood watching. We locked eyes, and she nodded approvingly. Good job, Papaw.

I decided to save the Shogun for his birthday.