THE MAN WHO INVENTED THE STICKY POO DOLL, AND OTHER THINGS, John ANDREW DURLER Sr. [simple ebook reader .txt] 📗

THE MAN WHO INVENTED THE STICKY POOH DOLL, AND OTHER THINGS

He was bittersweet, like chocolate. With a little sugar, he would have gone a long way. As it was, he was more successful than most friends he grew up with and the teachers who taught him. He was never satisfied with each success. He always wanted more. He needed the high; the recognition and applause that went with it. He gravitated to uncommon things, some bordering the bizarre.

His name was Marty. I lived down the block from him in Coney Island. He always dressed neatly in clean clothes, needing a haircut, and almost always had a silly grin on his face. He was kind of odd, not a lot, but different, in a way. He never really fit in. I would say he was a loner, not lonely, but valued his privacy. He lived in a basement apartment sandwiched between a Kosher chicken market and a synagogue.

At twelve, he was emptying dumbwaiters for an apartment house superintendent who hurt his back. He made two dollars twice a week emptying them into eighteen garbage cans, pulling them up six steps to a courtyard where he lined them up.

He saved up, bought materials for a box scooter, and went through the neighborhood ringing doorbells in four story apartment houses. He asked each resident, who opened their door, addressing them. "Ma'am, do you have any old books or magazines you're going to throw out? If you do, I'll save you the trouble and I can make a little money for college--At the same time saving you the bother." I went with him once, intrigued. He always said the same thing, changing the salutation to fit the person. I asked, as I helped cart and bundle books separate from magazines, "Marty, what are you going to do with these?"

"I'm not sure. Keep some to read. Sell the rest, or junk them."

I would see him after school, carting bundles of them down the stairs of his father's basement apartment. I asked him one day, "Marty did you decide?"

He grinned, "I'm Going into business selling books and magazines." I didn't ask him how he would do that. I knew there were used book stores in Manhattan, but I didn't know of any in Coney Island. A week later, I saw him on Surf Ave. In front of the bank, pocket books and magazines, many in excellent condition, were stacked on top of the box scooter.

He grinned, "Hi Frances. I have regular customers already." He straightened a few, took one out, and said, "You like Mark Twain? Here's a copy of Huckleberry Finn."

"Marty, I already have it," I answered. "How much are you selling them for?"

"Fifty cents, to Seventy-five cents. I made eight dollars, so far today." He beamed.

I went through them, found nothing and went through magazines . I pulled out a Mad Magazine. "How much."

He laughed, almost a giggle. I read that lst night. Its on me."

I shook my head no and said firmly: "Marty, I want to pay you."
He looked at me, knew I would not take it until he agreed and said, a serious look on his face, "A nickel, then."

I gave him a dime and said, "It looks brand new."

"It is. A lady gave me that, saying she found it in her son's room, under the bed. She said it was trash, and he would be punished."

"Yeah," I said, "I'll have to hide it too. But mom never goes under my bed. I keep my undies there" He blushed. I bit my lip, thinking I said the wrong thing. “Marty, did I say something wrong?”
“Uh, uh,” he said shyly, I just pictured you in them.”
I blushed then, thinking of Marty seeing me in my underwear without a bra.

“I have to go Marty, thanks.” I brushed his cheek with my lips, turned and ran, yelling, “See you tomorrow,” feeling hot all over.

We didn't speak very much but when we did, he was always shy, except that time I went with him collecting books. I imagined he didn't have to think, rehearsing what he said over and over. I invited him over to my house a house a few times. He always declined, saying, "Fran, I got a lot of homework to do, or "I’d really like to, but I have to work.”

At Mark Twain Junior High, he took the homemaking class with me. I warned him it was all girls. Guys used to laugh at him as walked into that class; whispered he was queer, because he had long eyelashes, a pale complexion, and sat with his legs crossed. I'd tell them "You think Marty's queer? He's not. I live down the block from him. They'd sneer, and then I'd say, "I know for a fact he's not queer." That shut them up.
He was great at sewing. The girls in the class were all over him, always wanting him to taste something they cooked or made. I looked like it didn't bother me, but it did. He never went to the high school. He told me the night before they were moving. His father got a job out of town.

I slapped him. "You tell me now! Oh! You and your secrets!"

"I didn't know." He said, holding his cheek.

He looked terribly sad. I hugged him. He felt hot, sweaty. I didn't want to lose him. We both were crying. "I'll never forget you Marty. Never."

"I'll write you Frances. I promise. I'll call you from where we wind up, and give you my address.
For the first time, we kissed on the lips. I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my body into his. My heart was racing. He held my face, gently, then moved a hand to my breast. I didn't care if he knew I wore falsies. I placed my hand on his and moved his hand under them to my nipple. He gasped. I was shaking, suddenly afraid we'd be seen on the sidewalk. I pulled away.
"I'm a good girl, Marty. I never allowed anyone to do that." His face blushed crimson.

"Frances. I never thought you weren't. I've always wanted to do that. From the first time I saw you. I didn't because I respect you and don't want to lose you. It's just that
I always thought you didn't like me enough to be more than friends. I promise. I'll never do anything like that again, unless I ask you."

"Ask me? Don't ever ask me. I wanted it more than you. Marty, I dream about you at night, with me, with our clothes off. Don't you understand. I love you."

"You...love me?"
"Yes! Yes...I love you."

Just then his father came out to the sidewalk and called, "Marty! Come home, we have to finish cleaning up."

"I'll be right in Dad."

His father looked our way, saw us together and called, "In a few minutes. Don't be too long."

"Okay, Dad. In a few minutes."

Marty held my hand. I grabbed it tight and drew him into the vestibule to the apartment house across the street. I wrapped my arms around him and said, “I love you so much, Marty. You’re breaking my heart. "I love you too Frances.” He said, pressing against me. “I'm coming back, and when I do, if you still love me, I'm gong to marry you."

We both sobbed and clutched one another. We kissed again, our faces wet with tears. A long, kiss moving our hands all over each other. I opened my eyes. Marty's brown eyes stared into mine, smoldering.

The next morning, the car was loaded up, behind it a pick-up truck with dilapidated furniture on it, and that was the last I saw of Marty for years. We wrote and kept in touch, talked on the phone, but not a lot, living in different parts of the country.
He was upstate for a while, then in the Carolinas, then Florida.
We never really got together. I was always busy, and so was he, but we kept in touch.
The passion slowly quieted down. I guess we put in on hold, or buried it, too hard to carry around. Every time he or I would get a new job or promotion, or on holidays, I'd call, or he would.

He won a needle point championship for small tapestries and country scenes. He started a business selling what he made, but had to charge too much to be very profitable.

He applied for a clerk's position in a small prison Just outside New Jersey. Six months later doing more than others, he got promoted to become the warden's assistant. The warden had a heart attack shortly after his training.

"Because bureaucracy is incompetent." He chuckled. "I am appointed warden." Realizing he knew little about running a prison, he read every book he could find on the subject. Before long, he was so organized, his secretary and assistant did most of the work. With a lot of spare time on his hands, he began to take an interest in the prisoners. He asked them about their lives, treated them with kindness, and offered them advice on a multitude of things including how to stay out of prison.

Being a warden did not satisfy his need for accomplishment. Something was missing. Six years later, watching television, he saw a commercial for a doll that wet itself. He bought one and took it apart. It was filled with foam and had a small tube inside that went from the mouth to its end. He put it down in the basement, his mind a whirl,
curious why the doll would create such a demand to be selling for more than advertised.

Knowing little of the likes and dislikes of children, he read all the books he could find on child psychology. He bought every doll he could find, even G. I. Joe. His basement was full of ripped apart doll stuffing, parts all over. He quit his prison job, built a shop in a spare bedroom, and started inventing a prototype.

"Frances." He called one Saturday. "I finished the doll and I'm in process of cross patenting it six ways from Sunday."