Greg Goble: The Collected Works

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Feltrip had once been a boy: he was a grown man with a wife and child.
Once he had a room filled with toys: he worked in a nameless factory at the south end of town, earning his “trap you here forever” salary that managed to give them all a comfortable life without giving Feltrip too little to complain about.
He used to play all sorts of tags: he flipped from channel to channel; baseball, baseball, Sportscenter over and over until the rhythmic voices lulled him to sleep.
He had dreamed of being a super hero: Feltrip dreamt of playing tags.

* Freeze Tag *

He woke in the morning to the “meep-meep-meep” of the running alarm clock. He tapped the top of its head and it stopped, frozen in place. Just as he fell once more to rhythmic breathing it ran off “meep-meep-meep”, he tapped it, it froze. And as he fell to rhythmic breathing “meep-meep-meep” it ran. Feltrip eliminated the screeching box with the flip of a switch, three and you’re out. He froze to the bed, unable to move for any reason. His wife’s nails, delicately manicured at the mall, thumped against him; he heard her mumble to get up, that it was time. Immediately he was spurred to action, turning completely on his other side, where he was touched again by the cotton sheets and frozen into place. He was freed seconds later by an arm, which lazily draped across his shoulders and a voice telling him that he really needed to get up. Finally, he escaped the springs and cushions encased in a king size box and dragged himself to the bathroom. After completing his toiletries he set to brushing his teeth. He stood, attached to the sink when an excited banging touched him into action. A tiny voice filled with energy yelled to be let in; it pleaded to dad to use the “baffroom”. Feltrip moved into action once again and found himself dashing from place to place in a hurried effort to reach his place of employment at the proper time. He tapped the acceleration pedal on the car, setting it free to carry him to work.

* TV Tag *

He worked in a sea of social mayhem; the Reds, the Sox, Bronx Bombers, what clever thing did Stuart Scott say last night, who was eliminated on what reality TV show, did anybody see the guest on Letterman, did someone win a million dollars? He would go back and forth like this all day. He would run into Carl. Carl followed the Lakers and the Dodgers with unwavering enthusiasm. “So what did you think about that run the Dodgers made in the seventh? Almost brought them all the way back.” A shout of agreement and something about getting them next time and needing a pitcher followed him down the hall. Then there would be Darren, whose New York accent followed the Giants and the Rangers, with half an eye on primetime television. Feltrip didn’t particularly car for Darren very much, he wasn’t really sure why. Maybe it was the accent, maybe it was just the New York attitude bottled up in this small how town. Whatever it was, Feltrip would mention the heart breaking loss last night just to get his goat and be on his way. He would see Laurel because he looked for her. If only he wasn’t married… he caught a snip-it of the news last night, that’s the kind of girl she was. Then he would talk to Fred.
Feltrip felt that Fred was more on his level: Letterman, Sportscenter, the Sunday paper. Fred had a couple of kids and a wife that he felt fit him just right. But Fred was an older man with old man philosophies and a “take it in perspective” attitude. He didn’t feel trapped on the factory floor as Feltrip clearly saw they were. He felt that the salary he received and the work that he did was a blessing. Feltrip often heard him tell about the wages back in the day and how this job had put food on the table and allowed him to buy his children the toys they so desperately needed. It was on this subject that Fred laughed even now. “Crazy things children are.” He said. “Their needs and wants are the complete reverse or our own. Yeah kids are just crazy.” Kids, children, he even referred to his own children as the boy and his little girl. “Didja ever notice how they do that? We think; we need to eat. They think; they need to have toys that we need to buy for them.”
“Yeah, you know, Tyler’s been doing the same thing lately and I don’t think that I would mind it so much if I thought the toys were worth playing with. He’s got these Pokeman toys and video games and god knows what else. His room doesn’t even get messy the way that I remember having a messy room. Instead of action figures everywhere he’s got clothes and game controllers all over the place.”
“Well, you gotta let them kids be into whatever it is they want to be into.” Said Fred. “The Boy used to be into those action figures when he was just a small kid too. Me; I thought he should have been out playing stickball, but the wife insisted it was healthy for him. He always had his room so you couldn’t even walk through it.
Feltrip drove home from work remembering a mess that could only be appreciated by the youth who created it. Wild colors in plastics and Die Cast Metals decorated a boring brown carpet that was now a harsh rocky wilderness in which adventurers met and struggled against the unstoppable forces of evil. Autobots and Deceptecons waged war, battling for control of precious energon to get them back home. He-Man and the Masters of the Universe fought to stop Skeletor and his evil minions from controlling both halves of the Power Sword, gaining all the powers of Castle Grayskull, and ruling Eternia forever. Mere inches away GI Joe had once again forced the relentless terrorist organization known as Cobra to retreat. Directly behind them the Legion of Doom attempted to over-power the Super Friends and control the earth. All of it wonderfully disorganized, with shouts of “It ain’t dirty, I got everything right where I want it.” Resonating to a frustrated mother. All of these factions separated only by the imagination that never allowed them a moment of piece. Together they ruled the dainty steps of adults who threatened to destroy their very existence and place them neatly on shelves and bookcase tops.
He arrived home determined to show Tyler that there were so many more games and figures that he could have a lot more fun with rather than some electric-shooting, yellow rabbit. Those shows offered no moral lessons whatsoever and made an elaborate mockery of what Saturday morning used to mean to a child.

* Flashlight Tag *

He walked in the house looking for Tyler. “Tyler! Where are you son?”
“I think he’s upstairs in his room.” Feltrip’s wife said as she stepped around the corner with a smile.
“What’s he doing up there?” He asked.
“I don’t know. Probably watching Pokeman with his little Pikachu doll.”
Feltrip waved a finger at his wife. The beam from the point of his fingers stopped his wife. “You know, this is why he feels ok watching that garbage. You encourage it.”
She waved her beam right back at him, catching him immediately. “Don’t you blame how he spends his time on me. You haven’t exactly been around to play sports with him or even throw a ball around.”
I’m going outside mom.” Said the blur that was Tyler as he shot out the back door.
After a moments glance Feltrip took his turn to point. “I’m sorry if I’m away at work keeping a roof over our head and putting food on the table. Not to mention making enough for your little manicures and Tyler’s Pokeman everything. I swear he doesn’t know what real heroes are. If he’s outside for more than ten minutes I’ll be really surprised. He’s just out there playing with his dolls anyway.” Just to make his point he walked to the kitchen window that looked out on the backyard.
He had to do a double take. There was Tyler with four other young boys out in the backyard. They ran about, jucking and dodging, huffing and puffing. They dodged and ducked; jucked and ran. A small touch and they swerved in another direction, retreating from some unseen infection passed from one to another. Then they were more elaborate; the infected boy’s touch became one of petrification. The victim must remain frozen in place; saved only when purified by one untainted. Their pattern changed again. The youths slid to the ground, calling out in tongues; a language of titles: this show, that show; keep naming them to remain active, to stay alive. And later that night they might hide, targeted by the bright beam of a flashlight as it struck them down one by one in the unending pursuit of its next possessor. Feltrip thought, maybe there was hope for the next generation. There had to be hope, wherever boys played tag.

posted by David Fuchs (Greg Goble) @ 3:08 PM