Time Travel
A memory, in honor of fathers day.
I was five, and my dad had just taken me to the Baltimore Aquarium. As we walked out of the dimly lit building, I squinted a little against the afternoon sun; it was late Spring, I believe, and just crisp enough that I was still wearing my jacket.
The paved pathway outside the pavilion reminded me of the Yellow Brick Road, and I remember placing each foot carefully in the middle of every brick, so as to avoid the cracks.
As we walked, we passed little stalls selling lemonade, ice cream, knick knacks, and toys. I was largely oblivious - too concentrated on my sidewalk game - until a tiny tent suddenly caught my eye. Under it were the most beautiful, perfect stuffed animals I had ever seen.
It wasn't normal for me to stop and look at toys, much less stuffed animals. I preferred to play outside, in the dirt, with the boys, or to bounce around an old rubber ball that we had gotten from a friend. Our family had immigrated from the U.S.S.R. two years earlier with almost nothing, and buying toys wasn't at the top of the priority list.
Still, something drew me, and I stepped into the shade, running my hands over the plush, silken toys. I moved past the teddy bears, the stuffed elephants, the floppy eared puppies, and stopped in front of a strange, hardly identifiable animal in the back: a platypus.
The platypus wasn't as shiny as the rest. It had cocoa fur, black beaded eyes, and a slightly darker brown, velveteen beak. But for some reason, I was fixated on it. Maybe because it was a little unconventional, a little less perfect. I picked it up and gave it a light squeeze. Its short fur was so soft... I had never felt anything like it before. How did they make it? I examined the label. It had a small yellow crown on it. King Platypus, I thought. Then I saw the price tag. I believe it was $20, or maybe $15. But even at that age, I knew it was far too much.
As we walked away from the toy stand, I didn't dare look back. I had taken a mental snapshot of Platypus and was now busy rotating him in my mind like a mannequin, delighting in the memory of the stitching along the webbed hands, the way he stood upright on his broad, brown feet.
Suddenly, I looked up, and my dad wasn't next to me anymore. I turned around, confused, surveying the length of the Yellow Brick Road, back towards the aquarium and up again. Slowly, I began retracing my steps. And as I approached the toy stand, I saw him emerging, Platypus in hand. He smiled, handed me the toy, and squeezed my shoulder. We resumed walking. I don't think I ever thanked him. Thank you wouldn't have cut it.
At least, that's how I remember that story.
Over the years, Platypus acquired an only slightly more original name: Plato. He traveled with me to college, then to law school. He has sat atop many a moving crate, and has been my ambassador in countless new apartments. Now, he sits on a small wood stand by my bed.
His fur is a little nappy now, and the crown on the label is more of a mustard than a canary. Yet, he has become an heirloom. My first.
