The Toy Shoppe - A Midwinter's Tale
The letter seemed like a lifesaver. It was from my great-uncle Cyril, and it was the real thing, complete with ornate calligraphy (fancy handwriting for those of you who haven't got any snail-mail recently). He was Grandma's brother, and a bit of a black sheep, truth to tell. He was always turning up in odd places with goofy schemes. The family considered him loopy, but they liked him well enough, preferably far away. I'd only met him a few times, but I thought he was cool, if a bit eccentric. Now it seemed that he had recently bought a toy shop, in Victoria of all places; and did I want to come help with the Christmas rush?
Boy, did I ever – anything to get out of the little Kansas town I'd grown up in. It was a snowy mid-November and I'd been working as a waitress at that crummy coffee shop on Commercial Street for over four months. Ever since I graduated, in fact. It had been years since the last time I'd seen Uncle Cyril, so the letter was absolutely out of the blue. It was my ticket out into the wide world. Literally – there was bus and ferry fare tucked into the big envelope.
I was on a Greyhound bound for the Pacific Northwest in no time, with my lap full of maps. Having never been out of the county, even two days on the road didn't dampen my enthusiasm. By lunchtime on the third day I was getting off of a real ship, suitcase in hand, to explore a genuine foreign city. It was a sunny day (I hadn't seen any snow since I'd hit the coast), and warm enough that I didn't even need my coat. God, there were even a few flowers blooming. Uncle's shop, he'd written, was just off Shanghai Alley, near Chinatown. It had sounded perfectly quaint in the letter, but I got several strange looks when I asked for directions.
Soon I found myself on a quiet street lined with old brick buildings, near the docks. There were few stores, and fewer people. Lost, I approached a woman leaning on a lamppost to ask for directions. On the basis of her pose and her clothing - which consisted of fishnet stockings, a tube top and a wide belt that doubled as her skirt - I suspected that she was what, back home, they would have called a 'lady of the night' (Not that I was aware that we actually had any, of course.) And, given the hour, this woman was technically working the day shift.
Whatever, she looked friendly enough, and so I her asked if she knew whether "Ye Olde Toy Shoppe" was nearby. After looking my sensible Midwest wardrobe up and down, she smiled and answered, "Just around that corner – halfway up the street on your left. Hope they've got what you're after."
I continued on, regretting my choice in travelling clothes. Blue check pinafores and saddle-top shoes didn't seem to blend in around here. Luckily, back in Seattle I had combed out my pigtails, but still.
The street in question was even quieter than the last – there was no one around at all, now. When a bus came booming around the corner, it nearly scared the life out of me. I was so rattled that the next thing I knew, I was up the road staring down a barely noticeable narrow gap between two brick buildings – Shanghai Alley. Peering into the gloom, I wondered why on earth anybody would put a toy shop, or anything else, down there. Still, I'd been three days getting this far, so I plunged onward.
The alley was really just a footpath; so narrow I could nearly touch both grimy walls at once. After a ways, it widened slightly. There were now tiny shops on both sides, and it was very clear I wasn't in Kansas any more. For example, the tattoo shop to my right. On a stool in the doorway sat the young proprietor. He was reading a book and, shirt off, advertising his wares: he was covered with dragons and ships and pirates and maidens. Actually, I decided, unless he was amazingly flexible he was advertising for his competitor. Like when you pick a barber - you shouldn't pick the one that looks the best, because you'll be wanting the barber
he
used.
At any rate, this guy was well decorated. Extremely well, actually. What I'd taken for colourful trousers - weren't. He reminded me of a circus sideshow I'd seen as a little girl. Except
that
guy had worn shorts, whereas at close range it was clear that this one did not. While I had never actually seen a penis before, I was fairly certain that they did not ordinarily have green scales and bright red eyes. I was shocked, but even so the thought struck me that that must have really,
really
hurt.
The man glanced up from his book, eye contact was made, and he solemnly winked. I blushed to my toes, and dropped my eyes downward – which only brought his lap back into view. The trouser snake, which was draped across his left thigh, trembled slightly and gently lifted its head as though it, too, planned to give me a wink. Mortified, I tore my eyes away and looked back up. He was already reading his book again, and whistling something that sounded very much like "Follow the Yellow Brick Road". Right - time to move on. I wished yet again that I had not worn gingham.
With one last peek at his growing green willie, I turned away.
It's kind of funny
, I thought.
The first penis I've ever seen, and it's probably the most decorated I maybe ever will see.
Across the way was a full-service hemp shop. Not only coarse brown clothing hung in the window, but the stuff my guidance councillors used to call 'paraphernalia', and, to my surprise, the dried herb itself. There were more people around by now, not just the illustrated tattoo guy, but also other folks. Well, they weren't
just
folks, exactly. There was an old man on a red unicycle, and some Rasta twins, all bound for the head shop. Plus a head-banging rocker type coming out of a hole-in-the-wall used record store, and some cute navy boys in full shore-leave sailor suits.
I continued on, past a sword-and-sorcery shop, which was kind of interesting. My hometown has three gun stores, but nowhere to buy a throwing axe. Inside, the clerk was dressed like Xena – in spite of being a guy. Next along was a magic shop, with a notice in the window ominously stating: 'Only Open Dusk to Dawn'. Then the alley turned and narrowed again, so much so I had to press myself sideways against the wall to let a guy get past me. He had an eye-patch and a scar on his cheek, and he looked like a pirate, complete with a big red sash around his waist. He only needed a parrot.
I kept moving - just ahead a painted door and window were let into the brickwork. This being the last shop along the alley, I stepped inside. No Uncle Cyril here, either. It was a Chinese herbal shop, in what looked like a converted opium den (not to say I'd ever seen one). The place was all cluttered up with creepy dried things in glass jars, and clay pots sealed with wax and string, and –
Jesus
, I thought,
is that a stuffed alligator hanging from the ceiling?
The signs on the walls were all in Chinese lettering, and I expected a hundred-year-old oriental guy behind the counter, too. There wasn't. Instead, there was a pretty young girl, about the same age as me – but at least she was
Chinese. I asked my question.
"Ye Olde Toy Shoppe?" The girl's English accent seemed to enunciate the silent extra letters. "Oh, yes. It is in a passageway on your left, at the far end of the courtyard."
So I doubled back, planning to sneak another peek at that tattooed guy's cock on the way past. No luck with that, on account of there was now a pretty blond girl sitting astride his lap, with her back to his colourful chest and her hands on his knees. She was wearing a tight white bodysuit with a fancy lace collar.
Except, when I got closer, she leaned right back and put an arm behind tattoo-guy's head – and then I could see from her taut nipples and her belly button that I had been wrong about the bodysuit. The lace collar and cuffs were simply painted on her shockingly pale flesh. Even her areolas only showed as faint smudges on her white breasts.
She was squirming around in a way that suggested serious hanky-panky was going on underneath her. The two of them obviously didn't care who knew about it, either. I joined the sailors to watch in slack-jawed silence. When she noticed me, she looked startled, then tilted her head onto her shoulder and stared at me like she was sizing me up. Geez - I couldn't imagine why these people thought
I
stood out. Finally she relaxed and smiled, and slowly lifted her bottom. This served to expose her bald mound and, gradually, the fat green serpent that had been hidden inside of her. It was much bigger than when I had seen it last.
I was clearly in a seriously weird place. These people were doing it right out in the street – well, out in the alley, anyway. Resuming my quest, I turned away and hustled past the mesmerized sailors (OK, I shuffled off after I had taken in a proper eyeful). Only a little further along, in a dark alcove, I saw a sign. A sandwich board, actually, which read: "Ye Olde Toy Shoppe - this way". Underneath, a painted hand pointed down a low-arched side passage. Not far in, this pathway abruptly dropped down a flight of stone stairs. There was an eerie reddish glow coming from below.
Great. Just great
, I thought.
Again, I forced my feet to carry me forward. At the bottom was a brick-walled hall, more a grotto, really, which held exactly one store – a toy store. At last! The cave-like room was warmly lit by a myriad of red and green lights that surrounded the shop's long, low front window. Like in a Dickens story, the window had those little diamond panes, only with fake snow painted on. I peeked inside.
In some ways, it looked a lot like the Christmas display in the front window of Bill's Department Store, back home. There were sprigs of plastic holly, billowing drifts of cotton batting snow and a toy train. There were even the little elves hauling ribbon-wrapped presents, although these ones looked suspiciously like painted plaster garden gnomes wearing toques.
On the other hand - where shall I start? You will of course have guessed what kind of toys were in the little wheelbarrows, but it was news to me. Even with the goings-on I had just seen, I still had this fixed idea in my head from when I'd first read dear old Great-Uncle Cyril's letter – you know, a Santa's workshop sort of thing. "Gawd!" I blurted. There were piles of stuff, and I didn't even know what some of it was, but I was blushing on the strength of what I did recognize.
In the middle was a display of phallic objects – dildos, that is – all laid out symmetrically in a big arrowhead pattern: little ones in the middle, then bigger and bigger to the sides, like those Air Force pictures you see of a jet with all its missiles spread on the ground on either side. Some were flesh coloured, both pink and black; others were green or red or icy crystal or silver (to go with the Christmas theme). The biggest ones definitely looked like rockets.
Over to one side was a collection of less sleek variations on the same theme. These objects were still basically dick-like, but they all seemed to sport attachments, or protruding knobs and fingers. They stood propped on their bases, a tiny Stonehenge of twaddlers, surrounded by billows of cotton snow. Framing them were short strings of fat, colourful beads, each string with a big ring on one end. They looked innocent enough, but the company they kept suggested otherwise.
