Back when I was a wee lad, I was one of the millions of American children to fall prey to the Japanese phenomena known as Pokémon. From television, to video games, to cards, you were never far from an image of one of these “pocket monsters.” I was in the fifth grade when I started my fascination with those one hundred and fifty one battling creatures. As my parents never bought me a Gameboy for any occasion, I had to settle for the card game, which thankfully my compatriots also partook in. The simple joy that came when opening a booster pack of those vibrantly colored pieces of paper, it was like Christmas, only more disappointing. Though the thrill that came when I opened that cellophane package and saw that glittered sparkling of a holographic shinning light up at me, was far above any experience.
In fifth grade, my entire class was hit by the brutal force of Pokémon hit my classmates and myself in full. Within the halls, and cafeteria the adventures of one Mr. Ash Ketchum and his comrades; Brock a man who apparently stared into the sun until his eyelids welded shut, and his red-haired friend Misty were widely discussed. I remember one occasion when I brought my card collection to school to show my friends once recess time came around. Well around the time recess normally came, it did. As we all got up to go and play on the neon colored slides and, play kickball on heavily uneven teams, I grabbed my green photo album which I kept my cards in. “Why are you taking your binder to recess?” asked Mrs. Ansorge as I stopped to answer the question. I explained to her that I was going to show my collection of Pokémon to my chums in the school yard. She looked at me as though she just found me sitting on top of a pile of narcotics, with illegal fireworks in one hand, and pornography in the other. The punishment for the pseudo-offence was light admonishment, which left me feeling more confused than punished.
A year or so after the incident at school, a small shop had opened up downtown which contained exclusively Pokémon products. The store was run by a small Japanese woman, who from what I could tell was a frequent customer of the tobacco shop located next door, as she was never without a cigarette. In the front window was a sign telling anyone who cared to look that they could sell their memorabilia there for cash. So, with this news I gathered my cards and had my father drive myself and my brother to that particular mustard-yellow colored store.
Once inside my father and brother busied themselves by staring at different sizes of that particular electrified yellow rat, as I took my cards to Tokyo Rose for what I assumed was going to be a mountain of cash. While she flipped my card-binder with near apathy I twiddled my thumbs expecting to gain a large sum of dollars to which to by more useless crap with. After a few moments she closed my collection and looked at me though her tear-drop glasses, scheming of a way to crush my short-lived dreams of economic stability. She went on to explain that I did not have desirable cards, saying that what holographic cards I did have, she would put on display for a few dollars, and would not have any buyers. My heart sank, and as a topper after I took my cards back she decided to exhale her smoke into my face, as if to say “it’s a Squirtle eat Squirtle world kid.” A month or so later the store closed, I suppose kids aren’t willing to buy toys from some crotchety old woman who will give you second-hand smoke for free, and refuse to buy your pieces of paper with fire-breathing salamanders on them.
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