The representative of an architectural firm to the USPS Postmaster General’s underling’s underling:
“Since we’re in California, we’re thinking of a Spanish mission theme for the new post office?”
“Go on.”
“You know, a bell tower, curved arches, clay roof tiles, stucco. Something like that. Maybe call it Casa de Post Office or something.”
“Well, what about office space? Will there be room?”
“Yes, yes, we’ve thought about it but the mission theme would be too expensive for your budget. So we propose keeping the main area of the post office – the area where the public visits – mission themed, and the office area just a long rectangular block, attached to the main building. No bell tower, curved arches or clay tiles, but it would be stucco.”
“Will there be an architectural theme to the office space?”
“We’re thinking ‘80s corporate office park.”
Inside the Spanish mission corporate office park post office were Bob and Ken.
*
Gay Bob Doll didn’t go over well when it came out in 1978. Anti-gay organizations said it was a slippery slope that would lead to Priscilla the Prostitute and Danny the Dope Pusher dolls, two dolls that I would buy in a second. Anita Bryant and her orange empire said homosexuals would use drugs, money and alcohol to get what they want. I guess they used all that influence to produce Gay Bob.
The brainchild of an ex-advertising executive, Gay Bob was meant to look like a cross between Robert Redford and Paul Newman. In reality, he looked like Alex Baldwin and Elliot Gould, with a GI Joe body and haircut. Instead of going the nelly route, Bob was all man: tight jeans, flannel shirt, boots, one earring and a tight, blond perm, and came with a variety of outfits for his swinging lifestyle. Packaged in a box to look like a closet with cheeky copy on the back, Bob literally came out of the closet anytime you “played” with him. As a doll collector who never takes dolls out of the box, I wince every time he comes out of the closet.
Bob may have been the first Gay doll (I’m sure the first Ken in 1964 was gay, but let’s not argue), but Earring Magic Ken was the second and most popular doll. In fact, Earring Magic Ken was the most popular doll model of all Kens, establishing gay men and women as an economic force.
Earring Magic Ken lived in that wonderful space of unintended circumstance. Designed to be a “cooler” Ken, with an updated, modern face and fancy “club kid” clothes – lavender vest with mesh undershirt, tight jeans, highlights to his hair and an earring in his left ear -- he could’ve swung as an early metrosexual adopter, but his necklace said, “Nope, he’s one of ours.” A large, silver cock-ring hung from his neck. How the designer slipped that in and sold it to the higher-ups, I have no idea. With the success of Earring Magic Ken, you would think Mattel would’ve followed it up with Leather Ken, but they did the opposite – pulling Ken from stores when his cock-ring was outted. Anita and her gang were in power and cancelled Ken.
Gay Bob and Earring Magic Ken were bought separately on Ebay or at an early 90s toy show – before Ebay, AOL selling boards and the movie 40-year-old Virgin. The last sentence absolving me of any negative comparisons.
Bob and Ken were prominently displayed in our Mission flat, along with Bionic Bigfoot, Evel Knieval and 50 plus pop culture dolls form the 60s, 70s, 80s and early 90s. When we moved to a bigger place in Oakland a few years later, all the dolls and a box truck full of small kitsch items, were put in plastic bins, sealed and stacked in the basement. As the moving truck took off toward Oakland, I mouthed, “No more kitsch!”
They stayed in the dark for 19 years, replaced with pricey accent pieces and a mixture of fine and ironic art. We were adults, kinda. Near the end run of the 19 years, things started to fall apart: my marriage fell apart, I needed money and there was no sentimental value to keeping the dolls and pretty much everything we brought over from SF. It only took me(us) 19 years to realize this. So, everything went up on Ebay. I sold Earring Magic Ken and Gay Bob as a duo. It just seemed right.
The new owner of the Gay Bob Doll and Earring Magic Ken was a French national with little to no English skills living in Los Angeles. At the last minute, he swooped in on my EBay auction, beating out uncannyxjen64 at the last minute to become the new owners of Earring Magic Ken and Gay Bob. It was official, my doll days were over and everything was up for auction, except one Evel Knievel action figure. It was hard to part with him, but he was 1 of 5 identical Evel dolls, so it was it wasn’t that hard.
Along with a vintage Avon corn cob pipe soap dispenser, an Osmond concert program from 1978 in Allentown, PA. and vintage dead-stock Fonzie socks, I packaged all my winning Ebay items in separate used Amazon boxes, filled them with packing peanuts and sealed them with clear tape. After measuring and weighing the boxes, I took them upstairs and printed address labels.
The Spanish mission Post Office occupies a large parcel of land at E. 14th and 145th in San Leandro, CA. Labeled one of the most racist cities in America, realtors and elected officials from San Leandro once conspired to keep African-Americans out of their town, through real estate redlining and intimidation. They were successful until integration took over in the 1980s. Today, San Leandro touts a Cherry Festival, diversity and a couple of Chipotles. It has arrived.
The four Ebay boxes precariously leaned against the back of the passenger seat of my Prius. Traffic eased and I made the left turn into the post office, my right hand firmly pushing down on the end box, to keep them from spilling onto the floor. Across the street is a Latino-focused strip mall. There’s a small party store where I used to pay my PGE bill, when I lost privileges to pay online due my delinquent history, and a small guitar store where I buy picks and strings, only if I’m desperate.
To my immediate right is a short one-way road traversing the length of the property and running parallel to the E. 14th. 2 mailboxes are perch on the western outer edge of the median, dividing the drive-thru mailbox road and the post office parking lot. The lot is large – at least 16 spaces. I park nearest to the front door.
The box containing the dolls – the largest – anchors the bunch. I walk around the car and grab the boxes, my outstretched arms balancing the boxes against my chest, my chin pressing against the top box. Before passing through the yellow stucco archway, through the motion sensor doors and into the lobby of the post office, I look up at the bell-less bell tower. At one point, there must’ve been a working bell. It had to be the selling point. Now, the bell tower and every ledge of the building are fortified with anti-pigeon spikes. What was once a building to repel invading Gringos, now focuses on the war on pigeons. Pigeons are winning. Because of the spikes, the building is like an inanimate Hellraiser.
The lobby is spacious -- why I like this post office – and there’s a drop-leaf countertop next to the clerks that they use for pre-paid boxes. I place the box on the countertop, pushing it back as far as possible to avoid theft, and mumble “thank you” to the teller. She gives me a no-look, limp wave behind her mask. I’ll take it.
When I arrive home, I find boxes and pack-up a few items that will go out the door in a few days: 1984 Levi Olympic tracksuit, complete set of Menudo dolls and 12 Partridge Family paperbacks sold in a lot. They all have bids, oddly.
A few days later, I check on all the shipments of the past week. All were scanned into the USPS website except Ken and Bob. Not a big deal. A few days later I check again and no mention of the dolls. Two weeks later, I regrettably look again and the Kens are not registering – probably lost, maybe stolen or, more likely, some error on my part. However, since I hadn’t heard from the French national – the new owner of the dolls – I held out hope. Either way, I sent a short message to the buyer: Did the package arrive? A few days later, when I thought I was in the clear, I received a message from the French national saying, “Where my doll” I responded with an elaborately worded paragraph explaining the journey of the dolls. Of course, I didn’t take into account the French national’s command of English was poor and my French was worse. “Where my doll” arrived again a few days later. This time, I utilized the many powers of the internet: I took my finely worded paragraph and let the internet translate it into French. Viola!! Problem solved. Unfortunately, I had no idea if the translation was accurate.
A few days later I received the same email: “Where my doll.” Except this time, it included three new words: “Where my money.” It was time for a refund. The dolls were gone. I sent a terse note to the French national: “Dolls. Lost. Refund. Paypal. Sorry.” It was the best I could do.
It would be easy to blame the post office, pointing the finger at the dark years of “postal rage” and, personally, receiving our mail as late as midnight, to justify their incompetence. But I didn’t feel that way. A stamped letter that costs 49 cents gets to my friend in NYC in 3 days; a priority box to NYC in two days and a next day envelope to NYC by 5 pm the next day. That’s incredible.
That said, I’m not going to blame the post office. It was my fault. I must’ve forgot to address the package. After this epiphany, I thought about calling the post office or stopping by, inquiring about the dolls. But what would I say?
“Hi, I dropped off a package here a week ago,” pointing to the drop-leaf counter, “and the package was never entered into the system. Did you find any boxes that weren’t addressed or lost?”
“What was in the box?”
“Um, two action figures?”
“You mean dolls?”
“Well, yeah, kinda. Action figure dolls.”
“Hey Dennis, do we still have that box with the two gay dolls in it?” yelling to the backroom.
“Nope.”
Sorry, honey.”
The pain of that perceived conversation outweighed the financial lost. I gladly ate the loss and accepted negative feedback from the French national.
Four months later, I received a text from soon-to-be ex-wife regarding the dolls. In the four months, I had moved from our family house to a studio above a Supercuts in a small commercial district in Oakland. The luxury of having space to source, post and ship EBay items was over. I wouldn’t be taking a tape gun, scale or USPS Priority boxes. Like Noah’s Ark, I would take two of everything: 2 spoons, knives, etc. Not two TVs, though. My EBay selling days were officially over, and any enthusiasm for what I collected 30 years ago was finally over.
The text said a person named Chris in J. Crew’s return department had received a box that contained vintage Barbies and he wanted to get them back to us. At first, I was appalled. J. Crew? Huh? If there was no address, how did they get it? It was supposed to go to the French national. As I sat with it I realized what happened: The J. Crew box most likely came from something my ex-wife ordered. I saw the empty box and thought it would be a perfect fit for the two Kens. The French national bid and won, and I dropped it at the USPS with no label and it somehow got to Chris at J. Crew from using the original label that it was shipped in. A bit convoluted but it’s close to the truth. The problems I have with this theory is where it was shipped (why not use the original label and ship it back to our home address?) and who paid for it to be returned? Regarding the former, I assume J. Crew footed the return bill. I felt a little bad.
As any isolationist, shut-in or the gentler “private person” would do, I waited until I knew Chris would not be at work: Sunday after 7 pm. While 60 Minutes broadcasted across America, signaling school age children that the weekend was over and 5 days of misery lay ahead, I called Chris.
One ring, two rings…thank God. No Answer. Chris’ voicemail kicked in and I rambled:
“Yeah, hi Chris, my name is Greg and you may have received two Barbies…Kens in a return box” I corrected Chris about the contents of the box. Even though I was out of the doll game, I was a tad offended that he called Kens Barbies. A big faux pas in the doll world.
“Yeah, um, thank you for contacting us. The dolls are most likely ours…mine.” I took ownership of the dolls. It surprised me. “If it’s ok, I don’t want the dolls back. Feel free to give them away – maybe a vintage or thrift store, or throw them away or, do whatever you want with them.” I hesitated before the last comment. It sounded flippant. At this point, I was pacing back and forth, spewing whatever into the phone. My face was pink, blood rushing to my lips -- the source of the blabbering to put the fire out. I finally stopped.
“Thanks again, it was very kind of you. Have a good weekend and holiday.”
