Info Minister Alt lands in Boston for a tactical detente! Before picking him up, I charge the Dustbuster and stock the bar.
Logan Terminal B: as he slams the door on the Beetle, I pop the clutch. We squeal off towards the Ted Williams tunnel, in search of arms. Over the river at the Cambridgeside Galleria, we acquire the Fuji MX-1700 digital camera.
From there, a short hop to Porter Exchange for Katsu-don and Calpis. Finally, at my place, we make our first toast [Drambuie], accidentally smashing the snifters. Cinematic foreshadowing! The time is 14:03 EDT. Time to get to work
A necessary moment spent with SOC Grandizer. I have to slap Alt’s dirty fingers off my Jumbomachinder Astro Robo. We retire to the “GekiGo” G3 to study Igarashi’s Microman CD-ROM, then make some decisions on the website nav bar. Over the hours, plans of attack crystalize. Finally, the clock reads 16:15. Time to hit Day-Old Antiques!
My relationship with Day-Old thru the years has been rich. Highlights have included “going up the ladder” and “manning the counter.” I’ve answered the phones, and also seen Every Collector’s Nightmare : stray Valkyrie guns, Shogun fists, and Godaikin missiles left like gum-wrappers twisting in the mid-bay storage-room. But despite all I’ve been privileged to see and do, I have never, in all my four years as a customer, ever…been…to… THE BASEMENT.
The Basement! A collector nullspace: a mental construct of everything that’s been lost or misplaced throughout the dim years of youth. Ask Mike Z for a missing box, or an old accessory, or about a vaguely remembered toy, and invariably it’s been “in the Basement.” Or worse, he “used to have a case of those in the Basement.”
Enough. I am in the twilight of the Boston experience. I can take no more.
We negotiate for over an hour. Mike is merciful and agrees to a brief glimpse. No Cameras Allowed.
Like Orpheus down the fire-escape to Hades, we descend into the darkness. Sweet Mother of Nagai, it’s EVERYTHING I IMAGINED!!! Like Yin and Yang, the negative space of the parallel toy-buying universe upstairs unfolds! No counters, no shelves: only cardboard boxes and plastic bags, stacked Warren Schwartz-style and strung from the low beams. A single dim 60 watt bulb illuminates a Jersey-like landfill of mylar-bagged and carded toys. And while the glory days of diecast are over and tomb raiders have beaten us to the high-end loot, the real treasure reveals itself: a resonating faith in the unknown, in the power of crap, and its indelible ability to pile up in basements and attics across the universe, regardless of time or the political inclinations of man.
5 minutes later we emerge. In a daze, I begin to grab things from the normal store counters: a carded Popy Ground Zero vinyl with “obscuring eye” action. A Takatoku Gattiger plane in the weirdest “Generic-Gokin” style box. A Takara Diaclone robot with heavy metal limbs. And finally, one of the Chinese Mazinger Z GA-01s. I mutter something about the three major foodgroups (diecast, vinyl and plastic.)
Along the counter, Alt’s playing with his own stack. Piled with plastic bags, we tumble out into the sparkling lamplight of Mass Ave, looking like a few gals back from Bloomies’s.
Dusk descends. In a dream, we point northwest and walk, stumbling back to the homestead.
Back in reality, Alt “accidentally” pours himself three drinks — all at the same time. We carry his gin, his beer and his whiskey to the shelf, breaking out the Fuji and beginning to document the loot. But the metal and styrofoam have become secondary.
We have passed through the spirit of the desert — are filled with the wonder of the unknown…
