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."

"What's it like, Marty? You've been so secretive?"

"Frances. You know better than to ask that? I have triple locks on every door in the house. The doll is locked in a safe. I promise, when the patent comes in, I'll show it to you."
“Marty. I want to see you. I haven’t seen you for years. So, you don’t show me the doll. I’d still like to see you. Wouldn’t you like to see me?”
I did know better, but the excitement in his voice made me forget his penchant for secrecy. "I'm, sorry. I got as excited as you did and forgot. You're right. I might have, if you told me, blabbed it to someone." At that time I was working at the New York Post as a reporter.

"Sure," he said, "and it would be on your front page." He laughed.

Two years later, he showed me the doll on his way to a doll manufacturer to present them with what he called his Sticky Pooh doll. I was flabbergasted. "Marty. You are a millionaire!"

He grinned that shy grin of his, "Well, we'll see, Frances." They started manufacturing Marty's modified prototype in a variety of boy and girl dolls, complete with enemas, with food that turned to a diarrhea, going through visible innards. If you left the doll overnight in that condition, it would groan and hold its stomach. Then your instructions were to pull out a glob of what appeared and smelled like, pooh, which you could break apart and investigate.

All ingredients were edible, tasting like varieties of chocolate moose. Don’t get me wrong, these toys were educational. A large market was schools, doctors and nurses. There were accessories, such as worms, tapeworms, telescopes, stethoscopes, etc., each, replicas of actual things. Nine months later Marty was he was elected corporate president of "All About Me" dolls.

He told me once, the diarrhea that transformed to constipation if left overnight, was just a fluke. They never imagined the stuff would do that, like a human. I wrote an inside track story in the doll and how Marty came to make it. It. The dolls were a phenomenal success. The company went public. After that, he was Director of the board. There was a lot of in fighting. He said, "I don't like working with layers, bankers, and brokers. I've made enough money to retire. Forty one is a great age to do it."

He sold out his shares and retired. The years of working long hours, constantly bearing down on himself, pushing himself to the limit, affected him. He burned out. A zombie at times, he'd shuffle around his house disheveled, unshaven, drinking too much. Looking in the mirror one day, he broke down. Enough. He called me, his only friend. His father, the only relative he talked of, dead twenty years.

When I got the phone call, he didn't make sense. He babbled and mixed up things so much, I barely got his address out of him. I had left the Post, and was working freelance, writing short stories. I was between assignments at the time, and had time on my hands. On the way, I wondered if I would have come in such haste if I was working against a deadline. Seeing him, I decided I would have, anyway.

I took him to a hospital, and stayed with him whenever they would allow it, sitting on a chair, sleeping there, only leaving when told to, drinking 7-11 coffee by the gallon.


Recovered, his old self, but still the same shy secretive Marty, he became one of those people who were afflicted with short term memory. Obsessed with the thought of getting Alzheimer's disease, he went to a doctor who sent him to an Herbal Healing Clinic. A health expert told him to take Gingko Biloba, an assortment of Gensing, and other Herb’s and minerals. He took a whole bottle, three times a day. His memory improved so dramatically, he not only remembered everything that he had a mind to, but also remembered other people’s forgotten things.

He became very popular in the memory set, mostly old people, and burnouts. His mind was soon stuffed with things to remember and one day he realized, he began to remember things before he had a chance to forget them, and then, even before he made a decision to do them. He became known as Mr. Spontaneous, which he wasn’t, but it seemed that way to many who knew him.

Since the thought prompted the action so quickly for him, he started doing two things at once to get a jump on it. It soon caught up to him, and he thought he was going to burn out again, but it adjusted itself. Then he started to do three then six. Before long he started to short circuit. He went into therapy. He started drinking St. John's wort. His life was a veritable whirlwind of conscious activity, but that something that was missing was being unbearable.
He started doing crossword puzzles, using both hands and two pens, finishing books of them in minutes, the pages smoldering. He would do them while reading schematics of motorized racing car kits, then put down the puzzles and build them in twenty minutes using quick drying epoxy he invented, because glues on the market were too slow.

He picked up the phone when I called. In the course of the conversation, he said, "Frances. I'm wasting my life. I don't know what to do?"
"Marty, what you need is a good woman to fall in love with, to get you excited."
"Frances. I never have luck with women. I'm not a disco person. I won't hang out in bars or lounges. I don't really need it. I always choke up around someone I don't know. You know that."

"Marty. Tell you what. I'll come over, pick you up and we'll go out. What do you say? We'll go to dinner, or drinks, or maybe dancing."

"I don't think so. I won't be good company."

"Marty? I haven't seen you since we foolishly promised our undying love to one another. Remember I hugged you and you put your hand on my falsies, and I moved it under them?"

He laughed. "And you walloped my face."

"I did not. I slapped you."

"Yeah, well if felt more than a slap, as I remember."

"See, Marty, you're getting out of that mood you're in. Start thinking about that long kiss we had after that."

"Yeah. That was the best kiss I ever had."

"I'm coming over Marty. Get dressed. I'll be there in an hour."


It must have been on his mind, because one day in a book store, wandering down the aisles, he picked up a book of poetry.
That was the beginning of a new Marty. Slowly, Lisa managed to open him up for the first time in his life. As a couple they made numerous friends. We doubled for dinner a few times. Marty slowed down. When he slipped into high gear, she would hold him and kiss him, fondle him and read him a new poem she wrote.
Lisa's poetry inspired him and he would calm down, make love and write a poem in his head, not missing a beat at either, then read it to her and make love again. He asked her to marry him, which she agreed to.
After he asked her and she said yes, Marty began fretting that being married to one woman would not be enough marriage for him. He thought about marrying her sister too, who he met, and liked immensely. In his mind he could see a double wedding, two chapels, two receptions with different guests, and of course she would be at both. He decided to talk to her about it, one night, after making love.
He didn't tell Lisa her sister had called him a few times, alluding to a clandestine meeting, and instead, told her about a dream he had of the double wedding. She roared when he was talking, doubled over holding her sides, tears in her eyes, laughing uncontrollably.
She straddled him when he was done, kissed his eyes, forehead, and lips, and from that day Marty refused all phone calls from her sister, his attraction waning.
After the wedding, Marty swept Lisa off to a deserted tropical island and they ran around in the nude all day, except for when ships or helicopters passed by. Loved each other each night, regardless of passing traffic. They wrote volumes of poetry, coming back when it warm back in New York.
We got together. He had changed. They invited me down to his island. I went and became a yearly visitor. Last time, a year ago, when I was at sitting in their thatched cottage, I asked him why they dropped out.
He said, "We dropped in."
I said, “Yes, you dropped in on a deserted Island, but dropped out of society.”
He rolled the biggest joint I ever saw, as big as a Havana cigar, Breathed it in and passed it around, first to Lisa, his Gorgeous wife, and then to me. It was a first time for me, and I coughed. My eyes teared and my throat burned. I reached for the first thing I saw which was a big pitcher filled with ice cubes. It was so bitter my cheeks pulled in past my teeth. They both roared with laughs that boomed out over the island.
“Your face looks like Gumby after a five year old hit it with his father’s hammer.” Marty sputtered, his face red. He jumped up and pounded my back.
“What was that?” I asked when I caught my breath.
“Marijuana,” He said. “Leary's answer to society.”
"I won’t drink that again.” I said.
“That was our lemonade you drank, to soothe your throat, you fucking yo-yo. You smoke Camels. Why did you choke?”
“I haven’t smoked Camels for twenty years. I smoke 1% or 1.5% nicotine cigarettes, with less than 1% tar, anything on sale, and I keep nicorette gum for when they’re not.”
“Kind of half assed way of trying to stop,” Lisa giggled. “Why don’t you just cold turkey and get it over with?”
“I tried. I try all the time. I guess I really like it.”
Marty said, “Hey, whatever you do you do.”
Marty reminded me of the suits I ruined, the tables I burned, the carpets, sheets, pillowcases, car seats, front and back, I burned.
I said. "I’ll give it another shot after I finish the pack I have in my pocket, and the carton I have in my luggage."
They both smiled knowingly. We got high, silly, sang old songs and pretty soon the conversation drifted to poetry and writing.
Marty said, "I can’t wait for the millennium. I want to see all the shit the editors and educators come out with. The big, six syllable words on sterile pages so I can puke.”
“Why do you think that’s the way it’s going?” I asked. “There’s a lot of good writers out there, fresh language, green language.”
“They won’t get any grants.” Marty said. “They won’t be published in the slicks.
They will read and write the finest, most shining texts, and will lead the young poets, who will follow in their footsteps. They will die trying to write the great poem.
"The world will revere Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, William Carlos Williams, Pablo Neruda, etc., etc. Literature will Make icons of Danielle Steel and Stephen King. The formula will be the only way to publication.
Editors and Publishers do not take chances. Judy Bloom can write anything, anything, and thousands of stories better than hers will never see print. The world is a testing ground where intellect and ignorance clash. Humanity can never see itself and if it did it would die in its own denial.”
“Marty,” I said, “you really have a hard on for Publishers and editors. I’m a publisher and editor.”
“Yes, but do not control the publication. You publish and edit what is already selected.”
“That’s true, Marty. No one ever published anything of mine except some poems, one in a prestigious quarterly. I published my books myself.”
“OK, you bastards,” Lisa said, feeling neglected. “Cut the bullshit depressing me to death with millennium portends of demised poets and writers and let’s get to goddamn doing something enjoyable and uplifting to joyous and revolutionary to change the fucking world you don’t fucking like.”
Her eyes blazed. Her hair, I swear electrified. She was pissed.
"That's going to take time." I said, "Right now, I'm sweating. Is the water swim-able. Any sharks, moray ells, poisonous starfish, or jellyfish, because it looks so good and beautifully refreshing."
"We can all cool off and relax and do a beach thing afterward, and talk about the state of things." Lisa said.
All agreed. I assumed it was safe in the water. The beach was red and white sandy powder. It did not burn the feet, was warm enough to stand or sit. We three agreed naked was OK, but I still wore a bathing suit, feeling insecure, and found I could look at both without embarrassment or erection. They both jeered me for my shyness, but didn’t pursue it. We swam, played water ball, floated, drifted, built lopsided, ever crumbling castles in the sand, drank lemonade with pineapple juice sparked with Russian Vodka, sunbathed and munched on fruit. Marty said, "Don't go in the water at night. Sharks and poisonous creatures swim in close."
I was getting antsy and wanted to do something with adventure. I said so and they both jumped at it. We sat in the sand and thought and thought, but didn’t come up with anything agreeable to us all. I finally said I’d turn in and get some sleep.
Marty showed me to a room in the back of their cottage, a huge palm tree growing in the middle. A fairly large hammock was roped to it and to a wooden pole at the other end, which had a towel and bag full of bathroom stuff hanging from it. In the corner was a pool about eight feet round which was fed by a stream that flowed down from the mountain behind the house. I stayed for two weeks, and went back home. Three weeks later, I opened the New York Times and saw their faces. They were smiling, getting on a plane. The six passenger Lear Jet never made it. They never found it, or them. Three days later, I received a postcard, saying they were going to a Poet and Writing Symposium and would be in New York to pick me up to "Give them hell!" I still wonder how they died, or if they died.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 04.04.2010

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