Counter Culture Adam Matcho
My mother was confused when I came home that day with a My Little Pony, but I told her the story and she confirmed I did the right thing. Later that day, the doorbell rang and the boy who had originally received the My Little Pony was there with his mother. He must have told his mom the story and she went out and put together a gift basket for me.
I’m not sure if my intentions were as good as my mother liked to believe or if I just had a thing for ponies that came with brushes so you could comb their flowing lox, but I made the trade. And while my mother liked to share this story to anybody who would listen, she would still tearfully question her abilities as a competent mother if one of us would not scoop the dogshit in from the backyard on time.
Eventually, we would learn to deal with our mother’s employment of guilt, but this toy giveaway business was too much. How could my parents actually expect me to understand that they couldn’t afford to buy their own children presents, but we could go on a shopping spree for other kids? It seemed unfair and my brothers and I spent the days before Christmas exchanging hateful glances when we passed Salvation Army workers ringing their hollow bells outside grocery stores or when we rode by the local St. Vincent DePaul. There would be a mutual understanding between my brothers and myself that these places were nothing more than scam agencies designed to ruin the lives of children like us, by depriving us of our Christmas presents.
In 1987, during those years of charitable Christmases, my brothers and I were big fans of He-Man. We had seen the Masters of the Universe movie in the theater and the cartoon was watched with a religious zest in our household. That Christmas there was one character all three of us wanted. His name was Saurod, a gold and blue reptilian character whose helmeted head slightly resembled the tip of a penis. Homoerotic ambiguities aside, my brothers and I were collectors at a young age and we needed that figure. As a bonus, Saurod had a sliding lever on his back and when pressed down repeatedly, sparks shot out of his mouth. The possibility of arson quickly made Saurod the one thing each of us craved for Christmas that year.
“I’m going to burn down a soup kitchen,” I told my brothers, still angry at the imaginary children who would probably receive four Saurods this year.
“Yeah,” Carter said. “And when the kids try to escape we can light them on fire too.”
Christopher agreed, happy to hear he wouldn’t be our main target as, being the youngest, he usually was.
“We can practice by lighting Chris’ hair on fire first,” I said. Carter agreed and we high-fived while Christopher pulled on his winter hat.
As usual, my parents took us shopping with them and when we saw the aisle filled with He-Man toys, we all began proclaiming our dire need for that one figure.
“Seriously, mom, dad, that is the only thing I want this year,” I said.
“I’ve been good all year and I won’t light Chris’ hair on fire, I promise,” Carter said.
Christopher rubbed his bowl-cut hair through his hat and said, “Yes, mommy please.”
My father plucked three Saurod figures from a peg and dropped them into the cart. “I bet there are some homeless boys who will really like these,” he said to my mother, as if he had just thought of the idea right then. “You little bastards better be good and hope Santa decides to bring you them.”
“Yeah,” my mother said. “We’ll drop them off at Goodwill first thing in the morning.”
Christopher began to cry immediately. Carter and I looked at each other with narrowing eyes and gritted teeth.
“This is the worst Christmas ever,” Carter said and threw himself onto the tile floor. “I hate poor people. I hate them.” He was screaming and pounding his fists and kicking his feet, his voice loud enough for shoppers five aisles over had to hear his anti-poverty tirade.
My parents quickly pulled him from the floor and my father took him off into another aisle for a smack to the back of his head and a stern talking to. When they returned Carter had tears on his face and his stuttered breathing sounded like a dying lawnmower. We shopped the rest of the night in silence. I refused to point out any other gifts I wanted and Carter would randomly growl and mumble to himself.
On Christmas Day, all three of us were feverishly trying to light discarded wrapping paper on fire with our new spark-producing Saurod toys. Although the toy was not quite the flamethrower we imagined, we were happy. Even Christopher laughed when we took turns trying to use his hair for kindling.
We didn’t catch onto my parents yearly lie that year or the one after that. Even though we picked the exact toys we opened on Christmas Day, we ignorantly believed our parents every year when they said we were picking toys for charity. It may have been all the excitement of the day — all the presents and stockings and chocolate — we may have been over-stimulated and it just didn’t register. Maybe, on some level, we enjoyed helping children who didn’t have toys. Or maybe were just young and didn’t think our parents would lie to us; that we were good and Santa Claus knew it and brought all those toys just for us.
Adam Matcho write true stories for the New Yinzer. Names have not been changed and distinguishing characteristics have not been altered. They are all just as guilty as Adam.
