"Shisha" (the untypical nickname I gave my daughter, which, going forward, I will use to refer to her) was not happy nor satisfied with me as I put my phone up high on her diaper changing station turned stuffed animal shelf. At first, she cried, which she quickly realized got her no where. Then she took matters into her own hands. She pulled all her stuffed animals down, and with all the strength she had in her 23 pound body, she climbed onto the bed, reached her little arms up to the top of the shelf, and pulled her body up to the top. From there, she grabbed my phone and speed dialed her Nana.
I do admit, while I worried that this new found strength of hers was going to be a new issue going forward, I also had a sense of pride in her determination for something she really wanted. I let Shisha bask in the glory of her accomplishment for a small window of time (I stood close by for her safety), and then I calmly pulled her down while she screamed and possibly shouted obscenities in her native baby language.
It got me thinking. Have I ever been determined for any specific thing as much as she was for my phone? It took a few minutes, and then I looked to the living room and saw a very cherished object displayed on my entertainment center.
A little over ten years ago, two days before Christmas, I was wandering down the toy section of Wal-Mart. I passed by the Barbies and scanned over the "Special Edition" dolls from that year. There was Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, a couple of the less popular members of NSync (poor Joey Fatone), and...WHAT?!?!? There is was, glowing in the fluorescent lights overhead. It was James Dean.
As he leaned against the tiny cardboard bricks in the plastic box, he ever-so-coolly gestured me over and spoke to me in his calm and collected voice, "You need me. I belong on display in your home because I'm James Dean and you love me and must have me. And you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. If I wasn't dead and made into a 12 inch piece of plastic, I would take you out on the town..."
"You need me."
Unfortunately, the $50 price tag became the interference of our love connection since I was shopping for others that day. I did put him on my Christmas list; however, I never received him under the tree. I can't blame anyone. On top of the expense, I'm sure all my presents were purchased by the time I frantically added him to my list in serial killer handwriting.
The day after Christmas, I was on a mission. I called almost every toy store, Kmart, Wal-Mart, and Target that I knew I could drive to. Everyone said the same thing: "Sold out." Sold out? How could anyone else dare to buy my James Dean doll?
With a few places still on my list, I gave up. I was exhausted and couldn't do it anymore. If it wasn't meant to be, it wasn't meant to be.
That night, I had a dream. I was walking through an empty Wal-Mart, the same fluorescent lights blinding me as I dragged my feet from aisle to aisle in my flannel Old Navy pajamas and Sponge Bob slippers. On an otherwise empty shelf, my James Dean doll stood. His words echoed throughout the store: "Don't give up. Find me."
"Find me."
A woman picked up after being put on hold for 10 minutes. "Can I help you?"
"Um, yes, I'm hoping you can. You see," I explained, "I've been calling everywhere trying to find this James Dean doll. I was hoping-"
"Hey," she interrupted in a hushed tone, "hold on just a second, okay?" I waited, on hold, for a couple more minutes before she came back on the phone. "He's here."
I tried to hold in my excitement, but it was impossible. "He's there?" I screamed. "He's in your store?"
"Yes," she whispered. "I only have one left, okay? I can hide him for a day, but that's all I can promise."
"I'll be there in a half hour!" I told her. "My name is Brooke."
"Okay, ask for Jeri." Click.
Before I left, I explained to my mom and older sister that I was heading out to get my doll. My sister, bless her heart, logically tried to talk me out of it.
"You know it's there. Isn't that good enough?"
In her defense, I would say the same thing to my daughter if she went insane and was on the verge of making a $50 purchase when she didn't even pay her car insurance yet. But at that point, my mind was already lost. You couldn't stop me! I gave her a look that implied that she was the crazy one, then I grabbed my keys, jumped in my yellow pinto, and I turned a 45 minute drive into a half hour.
I went straight to the toy department where I found a stout middle aged lady stocking the board games. I told her I was looking for Jeri. She turned to me quickly, then looked around to see if anyone was watching.
"Are you Brooke?" she asked as she continued to look around.
"Um, yes. Do you have my doll?"
She gestured for me to follow her. "Come with me."
She led me across Wal-Mart to the "Home" section, and we walked down the bath towel aisle. She carefully pulled out a neatly folded stack of canary colored towels, and gently placed them on the shelf below. From the newly formed hole within the stacks of towels, she reached in and pulled out my James Dean doll.
It was a beautiful moment. As I looked down at him in the dented and torn up plastic box, the Hallelujah Chorus played from the Heavens. We were united...finally!
I thanked Jeri for seemingly risking her job (and possibly her life) for me. I went to the checkout and made my purchase. Then I walked back to my pinto and buckled James in the passenger seat next to me. I had my doll. My prized possession. And do I regret making that expensive purchase all those years ago?
No.
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