Act 2, Scene 29: “The Deal”

S regularly sifts through the deals on Craigslist looking for things that might be useful or fun for the boys. She missed out on a killer indoor/outdoor jungle gym: by the time she showed it to TRL, it had already been spoken for. So when she found a plastic play tunnel/slide that looked perfect for the basement play area, she had TRL send an email immediately. They were the first to respond, and for $50 it could be theirs.

S and TRL had been sprucing up the finished basement, getting it ready for the guys to play in, especially during the long, cold winter. It now had a couch, posters, lots of toys, a clean rug and bright lighting, and even a 25 year-old vintage table top video game – Time Pilot – that TRL had swiped from his college house senior year. Now C & E would presumably have little interest in the Time Pilot game, and when they were of the age to have an interest they would want an Xbox or the like, no doubt, but for TRL this piece of nostalgia made the basement his, also. And this was important. The hallmark of living in suburbia was having a finished basement. Nobody in the city had a finished basement. A city basement was a dark spider-ridden place for boilers, garbage, and occasionally laundry machines. But in suburbia it was an extension of the manly instinct to occupy a den, to embrace the safety of one’s cave. To have a second refrigerator, store additional food, create closets for extra boxes, make a work space. And, at some point, create a safe haven for one’s teenagers to play loud music, drink Jack Daniels, do bong hits and watch videos. At least that’s the teenage dream. TRL did not know how he would feel in 15 years, but for now the basement would be a safe and warm place for C & E to run around, ride their miniature bikes, do art projects, dance to music, and soon, slither through a tunnel and whip down a slide. And at night, it would be a place for TRL to come down, maybe play a game of Time Pilot, and reminisce. It would be his man cave.

The exchange was set: Saturday morning, 10 am, at a sporting goods store where the husband worked. Ask for Arthur.

TRL set out with directions and after some false turns found the strip mall with the laundry, Chinese restaurant, hair salon, deli, and the sports store. He walks in and scans the place for Arthur. He pictured him as 40, fat, with graying hair and an avuncular way about him. TRL didn’t know why, maybe he was looking for his own Uncle named Arthur, the 20 years-ago version.

A pimply kid with bad posture approaches.

Can I help you?

I’m looking for Arthur, replies TRL. He felt like a cop, a private eye, or a mobster.

The kid nods to a 30-something year-old wiry black-haired guy explaining how to choose a hockey stick to a mom and her three sons.

I’m TRL, he says. Here for the thing.

Right, replies Arthur. Why don’t you meet me out back, at the white Tahoe.

TRL nods knowingly. The deal was on.

He brings the Volvo around the back of the strip mall and pulls in-between the Tahoe and a dumpster. He gets out and waits. And then starts worrying.

Maybe he was going to be knocked off. Maybe this was some weird game these people played. Perhaps he was going to be kidnapped.

He looks in the back of the Tahoe and sure enough, there is the plastic tunnel/slide. It is smaller than in the photos.

TRL goes back and leans against his car. It is cold outside. He wishes he had a cigarette even though he doesn’t smoke: it just seemed like the thing to do.

Finally the back door opens and out comes Arthur. He pulls the tunnel/slide from his car.

It’s missing some of the things, Arthur says, pointing out where a play phone and blocks had been. We couldn’t find them.

How about I give you $40 then, TRL says, sensing an opportunity to prove to S that he could bargain with the best of them.

Arthur shrugs. That seems fair, he says.

They put the tunnel/slide into TRL's car and exchange the money. It felt like a drug deal. Which was thrilling for TRL. Which told him a lot about the level of excitement in his life.

He thanked Arthur and headed for home, excited about the prospect of putting the tunnel/slide into the basement as the crowning object to a fun space for the kids.

$40, OK, that’s OK, says S once she sees the tunnel/side. But without the other stuff, I would have talked him down to $25. I mean who knows how much this thing cost new, maybe less than $40 she says. It’s smaller than I expected.

All day, S makes fun of TRL for paying as much as he did. I would have talked him down to $25, she repeats on several occasions.

TRL goes from feeling like a player and mensch to a shmuck. Did he get ripped off? Was it a deal gone bad? Did he wind up with oregano instead of Thai Stick? Such are the emotional ups and downs on the baby toy buying circuit.