It’s an unusual choice for the Fwoosh, I know, but if you’ve read this far then you’re obviously intrigued. I was too when I looked into the box of old toys my friend was taking to the curb. I caught his arm, plucking the colorful object free of the debris.
“Whoh, you can’t throw him away.”
My friend laughed.
“I’ve had that damn thing for years. I have no idea what he is, but I’m sick of looking at him.”
I studied the odd little totem, was struck its wry smile and knowing expression.
“Weird. It’s like he can see into my soul.”
The door opened and we stepped out into the summer night.
“Great. Take him home with you.”
Without a second thought I stuck the little guy in my pocket and was on my way. A careful examination of the hat brim revealed the name “Rex,” but that was the figure’s only identifying characteristic. On the surface there’s nothing special about this toy; it’s just another badly painted bendy, one of millions made over the years. Granted, some odd choices were made during the creation process — the whole cowboy motif, the jug ears, the eye shadow — but on the whole it’s nothing too extraordinary. Rex’s arms could be posed thanks to a thin length of wire that ran through them. Other than that, he was a lump. And yet there was something more to him — I just couldn’t put a finger on it.
Months later my friend found another Rex at a flea market but passed on him.
“The guy who was selling it wanted $5. He couldn’t even tell me what it was from.”
And so Rex remained a mystery. I felt he had to be some sort of fast-food mascot — he was certainly unnerving in the way fast-food mascots are. Eating that stuff is bad enough, do we really need to be seduced into it by bellicose Southern pseudo-colonels and sociopathic ginger clowns? All I knew for sure were two things: 1. The only cowboy who should ever be allowed to wear red is New Jersey and 2. Rex’s eyes followed me around the room.
Out of fear and reverence, Rex was given a position of prominence on my Shelf of Lost Toys, but it was clear he was destined for something greater. I didn’t know what that was until a year later, when I was looking for a new character for my Batman satire Just Bruce. The story I was telling needed an omnipotent alien-type in the classic Star Trek-vein, child-like and all-powerful. Rex’s snarky attitude and unlikely western garb were just the ticket. He made his first appearance in “Gorn To Be Wild.”
I enjoyed the dynamic between of Bruce and Rex. There was just something about the two of them together: a spark, a charge — what Hollywood agents of a bygone era called “star power.” A year later I brought the little bastard back in my most ambitious Just Bruce ever, Gorn To Run.
It proved to be an action-intensive episode. Rex did a lot of posing, and, sadly, the wire inside of his arms finally snapped. No longer could he hold his sides with laughter. No longer could he hide his blushing cheeks with his tiny hands. Arms hanging uselessly at his sides, he returned to the Shelf of Lost Toys. I moved on — at least, I thought I had.
This past weekend my wife and I were at the local flea market when something caught her eye.
“Look, it’s that little guy you have.”
And there, in a box underneath someone’s table was the answer to a decade-long-mystery, still sealed on the card.
“What the — Shining Time Station?”
If you don’t already know, Shining Time Station was the first exposure American children had to the now-universally popular Thomas the Tank Engine. The American version of the show had its traditional human hosts interacting with puppets a la Sesame Street. Rex and his twin, Tex, were the country music duo known as the Boy Brothers. Horrified yet? Then wait until you see this picture straight from the back of the card:
If one is creepy, then two are downright chilling. Reeling, I stared at the card-back.
“Oh, man. That’s too weird.”
Impulsively I put the figure down, stunned by my revelation.
“Don’t you want it?” my wife asked, sweetly. She looked concerned at my perplexed expression.
“It’s only a buck,” the guy running the table offered helpfully, hoping my over-the-top reaction translated into ready coin. Wife in the Anthill was already handing me a dollar and I watched almost helplessly as I handed the money over in exchange for this strange totem. The circle was now complete, the student had become the master, with six I got eggroll — but at what cost?
Today I find myself at a crossroads. Does knowing Rex’s origins diminish his unlikely charisma? Does having a Rex with functional arms mean I have to produce new Just Bruce episode for him to star in? And, worst of all, now that I have Rex, do I need to get Tex to complete the set?
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Jason R Mink is the Man in the Anthill!
