J. Robert Oppenheimer, upon witnessing the Trinity nuclear explosion near New Mexico's Oscuro Mountains in July of 1945, paraphrased a quote by
The Bhagavad-Gita: “I have become Death," he said, "destroyer of worlds."
I had the exact same reaction the day I watched a pre-pubescent Ryan Olah trade his dignity for a small plastic action figure made deep in the interior of China.
It's a story so outlandish that I sometimes have trouble comprehending its mere existence on the time-space continuum (sort of like my three years at Bridgeton Middle School). This is a tale of high-stakes negotiation and
Lord of the Flies-like cruelty which took place during one sweltering summer afternoon many years ago. My best guess is that this occurred shortly before any of us had developed a conscience. Then again, this might have signaled the exact day when our moral compasses began pointing south. In any event, don't read this if you want to continue believing that children are God's sweet miracles. Only read this if you're willing to face the fact that children are the work of the Devil.
The Breaker Summit
by Kyle
This story is dedicated to Gordie. Thanks for reading.
Ryan (who you all remember from the sniper comedy "The Lake Street War of 1984") was one of those kids who was always---how should I put this---
militant for his years. Whether he was firing bottlerockets at the police in some sort of quasi-revolutionary protest of local zoning ordinances or using his sister's cans of Aquanet for the makeshift blowtorching of an invasive species of trees, Ryan was never afraid to shake his boyish clenched fist at the world.
One look at his military ensembles would leave little doubt about his convictions. Ryan wore camoflauge and combat boots, carried Rambo-like survival knives (the kind with a built-in compass on the end and a hollowed-out waterproof handle that held matches) and was prone to saying things like "C-4 would blow that place
sky high."
Remember, we're talking about an eleven-year old. Twelve, tops.
Today, Ryan is one of my closest friends. Yet this story took place during a time in Bridgeton history when he was my mortal enemy. My mortal enemy who happened to love
G.I. Joe.
My mortal enemy who owned every single
G.I. Joe action figure on the market.
Save one.
The only
G.I. Joe action figure that Ryan did not own was Breaker.
In typical Kyle fashion, I did own Breaker, and it turns out that Breaker was the one worldly possession that Ryan would stop at nothing to obtain. And what makes the dynamic here so particularly interesting is this---Breaker meant nothing to me. I hated
G.I. Joe. There's no real explanation for why I owned Breaker except that fate had decided to bestow me with the power to crush Ryan, thus cementing my place as the craftiest member of Lake Street's nine to fourteen demographic.
After all, Jared was the hot one, Zak was the adorable yet opportunistic one, and that left Ryan and I locked at the horns for the title of most skilled negotiator. It was a crown that Ryan had worn for all too long, but, like Little Mac after three rounds with Super Macho Man, I was ready to move on to Iron Mike.
It was time for a trade.
Sociological fact: some cities have skateboarders. Some have graffiti artists. I can't speak with much authority regarding other Bridgeton neighborhoods at that time, but "trading" was the lifeblood of Lake Street youth culture during the mid to late 1980s (also anything BMX-related---remember
Rad?).
It didn't take long for the neighborhood kids to pick up on the entrepreneurial charge lingering in the south Jersey breeze, and a summit was convened on my front porch. Austin mediated. The Nerd of All Nerds was there, as was Zak. Gurp may have been present, as well as various members of the Lake Street B-Squad, but I was too focused on emotionally disemboweling Ryan to pay much attention.
The trading started light. Knowing my love of baseball cards, Ryan offered me a 1986 Fleer Wade Boggs. Believe it or not, I didn't view this low-ball as a slap in the face---it was pure posturing. Ryan was testing me to see if I had brought my A-game. In a way, it was a sign of respect. "No thanks," I said. "I've got like three of those."
"I'll throw in an '86 Dwight Gooden," he said. Beat. "Donruss," he added, his voice brimming with confidence.
"Nah."
"Fine," Ryan said. "I'll give you money."
"How much are you offering?" I asked.
"How much do you want?" he replied.
"How much do you have?"
Ryan hesitated. "Five bucks," he said.
I knew Ryan was crafty. Having cut his teeth bartering in the backrooms of local card dealers, he was an expert negotiator by the age of ten. We're talking hostage-negotiator good. Clearly, his
first cash offer would not be his
best cash offer. Plus, he was a child with a dark heart: this was the same Ryan who dared me to bury a firecracker in the ashes of an old lady's smoldering ashtray. Also the same Ryan who concocted an elaborate plan (aborted, thank God) to push a local merchant to the brink of insanity. Knowing I had to tread carefully, I declined.
"Fine," he said. "Ten bucks."
Austin stepped in, noting that this would be more than a three-hundred percent return on my investment. Still, I wasn't persuaded.
Frustrated yet not defeated, Ryan offered me his Coca-Cola watch (these things were actually considered cool for a brief period in the late 1980s).
The offer was summarily rejected.
Clearly at his breaking point, he shrieked: "That watch is worth like forty-dollars!"
Didn't matter. This wasn't about money. This was about neighborhood domination.
A stalemate appeared inevitable. Ryan had nothing left to offer and, even if he did, nothing would ever be good enough to satisfy my blood craving. It looked like I was going to keep Breaker, and Ryan was going to keep all of his worldly possessions, as well as his self-respect.
Then Austin made a suggestion.
It started with some sort of meager offer for Breaker (probably baseball cards), yet included a provision that sent a surge of joy coursing up our spines…
"You give Breaker to me," Austin said, "and I'll throw Breaker into Jeddy's Pond right in front of Ryan." Turning to Ryan, Austin said, "That way, you'll never get to have Breaker. Ever."
Ryan squealed in agony.
It was cruel and diabolical and, in typical 1980s Lake Street fashion, we all loved it.
The ball was back in Ryan's court. His window of opportunity was quickly slamming shut and he needed to act fast. Negotiations reached a fever pitch. The more he squirmed, the more the screws were turned.
We had him cornered.
Which brings us to The Dare. For many years, I assumed that The Dare and the utter will that Ryan displayed in completing The Dare were purely figments of our collective imaginations---some sort of harsh emotional karma for what we allowed Ryan to do. But a recently unearthed photograph found deep in the recesses of a Lake Street closet shows the brutal reality of what occurred on that fateful day, and it's just as I remember it.
At the end of Stephen King's "It," the protagonists square-off against the evil entity that has terrorized them since childhood. What they see is a giant spider, not because "It" actually looks like a spider, but because "It's" true form is too horrible for the mind to comprehend. I wish my brain had been so kind. Yet our minds weren't playing tricks on us as we watched Ryan subject himself to one of the most humiliating acts of desperation known to human history, and the photo stands as proof.
It is at this point, dear reader, that I must apologize, for I will not say exactly what Ryan did in the hopes of obtaining a rare yet ultimately pointless action figure. I'll just say that we lost our childhoods that day as we watched one of our own tumble down the rabbit hole. I'm reminded of a quote by Nietzsche: "Insanity in individuals is something rare---but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule."
Yet there is a silver lining to this mushroom cloud---I still have Breaker. Somehow, someway, I still have Breaker. If that doesn't prove I'm one of life's winners, nothing will.
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