Me and My Manny
Authors: M.A. MacAfee
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61914-168-1
Every time Harry, a naval enlistee, set out on a tour of duty aboard ship, I missed him with loneliness that all but consumed me. Each day, I wrote him long affectionate letters; each night, I spoke to his photograph propped on his pillow. In the picture, Harry looked spiffy in his dark sailor suit with the colorful bars on his chest and his white hat cocked just so. The hat, along with his pencil-line mustache, gave him a roguish air, a perfect expression that matched his playful personality.
And Harry was nothing if not playful. With that in mind, I assumed he’d understand my reasoning when he discovered that I’d commissioned a maker of manikins to construct a scaled-down replica of him. Not a plastic retailer’s manikin, but a flexible, large-sized imitation meant to capture handsome Harry’s essence.
Wrapped in my Windbreaker, I had been sitting on a bench across from Pike Place Market on the Seattle waterfront. Lonely hours had passed since Harry left the Everett Naval Station here in Washington on a guided missile destroyer to engage in military exercises scheduled from March through June.
The late afternoon sun sank into the haze above the ocean, and I had to get moving. Yet I couldn’t stop crying long enough to see the roadways that led back to our apartment in Redmond. As I rose to finally head for my car, I noticed a dim light in a small shop farther down the street. Through a blur of tears, I read the old-fashioned sign outside the shop: Gippo. Master Wood Carver. Unique Manikins Made to Order.
On a whim, I went in, smiling as the tiny bell above the door tinkled. The old white-haired man behind the workbench dipped his head and peered over his square-shaped eyeglasses. But of course he could duplicate the image of the sailor boy in the picture I handed him. It wouldn’t be quick; he’d have to order some materials from overseas. But a manikin sent to Judy Mason should arrive at Whitehall Apartments in about four weeks, shipping included in the affordable price of six hundred dollars to be collected COD.
I was elated the day the deliveryman accepted my payment in exchange for a five-foot long wooden crate covered with shipping labels from the world over. That made sense since, according to Mr. Gippo, some of the manikin’s parts came from overseas.
The crate was too heavy for me to haul up to my fourth-floor apartment. Rather than attempt to hoist it into the elevator, I dragged it around to the back alley where I pried it open with a claw hammer. The manikin was not at all what I’d expected—a close reproduction of the handsome Harry. It was instead a delightful caricature that, however much of a surprise, lifted my spirits and made me laugh.
From the moment I removed my manny from the cushy excelsior that lined his wooden crate, we hit it off. At first, I referred to the quaint little manikin as Harry. But, after dwelling on his peculiar distinctions, I thought it best to give him his own sobriquet. Having gone over a variety of possible forenames, I settled on Wolfgang, to which I added the surname Kin. Mr. Wolfgang Kin. Esquire. To me his new name sounded rather masculine, and Wolfgang needed a hefty dash of machismo. He was the economy model, constructed without certain apparent appendages. From head to toe, his body was carved out of the same type of smooth solid wood. His limbs were equipped with hinged joints and two larger pieces of wood, hollowed out and glued together from his shoulders to his hips, made up his torso.
Like a mother with a new baby, I examined every inch of him, thrilled that he had come through the delivery in good order. Though cartoonish, Wolfgang was quite good-looking. His face was painted a light shade of tan, and his slicked-back hair was done in a glossy black. Beneath his tiny turned-up nose, a thin mustache curled at the ends, and between his rosebud lips, a vacant circle made him appear to be blowing air-kisses. I was excited to discover that his head turned from side to side and that his big brown eyes opened and closed like a doll’s. I did, however, have a slight problem with the dopey way his large ears stuck out—too much artistic license on Mr. Gippo’s part.
According to the bathroom scale, Wolf weighed about sixty pounds, though the distribution of his weight made him feel much lighter; and, needing the exercise, I didn’t mind hefting him around the apartment.
“Well, Wolfgang, this is it,” I said, holding him by the waist, at times more dragging than carrying him. “What do you think?” I asked, knowing full well he’d voice no opinion.
The tour being over, we sat on the sofa, I sipping a light beer and Wolfgang, just staring off into space. I wasn’t in the least disappointed by Wolfgang’s lack of response; I expected he’d be taciturn. He was, after all, a dummy.
In time, I began to work out the details. Wolf made no conversation, but I assumed he enjoyed watching TV. Nightly, while I prepared my dinner, he’d take in the local news. As I ate, he’d view a national broadcast on a major network; and as I cleaned up, he’d watch a sitcom. Though hardly more than a humorous caricature, Wolf was in many ways a passable copy of Harry.
Our weekends were similar. Wolf and I maintained the same inequitable division of labor as I had with Harry: I did all the chores. My newfound friend simply sat with that silly expression fixed on his painted face. I felt contented with having him made; he was so like Harry.
In fairness to Wolfgang, as distinct from a real person, he had no obligation to pick up after himself. He never made a mess, though once out of sheer devilment, I tied him to the self-propelled vacuum cleaner to suck up the excelsior that flaked off his sailor suit.
All told, I never mistreated my manny. He was so pleasant, always willing to lend an ear. And I was always willing to bend it, all the more so these days since I lost my job earlier that spring. I had been a junior accountant for a Redmond-based financial firm, a boring occupation that I endured by watching episodes of
SpongeBob SquarePants
on my computer. Supervision prohibited online viewing, I found out later, when during a cutback brought on by corporate downsizing, I was summarily given the ax.
Through it all, the stalwart Wolfgang had proved himself a tireless sounding board. User friendly and low-maintenance, he provided much more gratification than a pet. He asked for nothing and in return offered unconditional love—no strings attached. Wolfgang’s selflessness made me feel downright exploitive. I had found a wonderful companion and all I did was complain. At that point in our relationship, I realized I had to be kinder and more considerate of my manny. For starters, I decided to take Wolfgang out, show him the city, and introduce him around.
Being a fairly intelligent person, I knew I couldn’t just haul my manny about for a night on the town. An almost life-sized, realistic-looking dummy, Wolfgang could easily be mistaken for a corpse. He was bound to attract attention, and I was bound to find myself under arrest for disrupting the peace or creating a public nuisance or some such thing. Aware that our forays into the real world had to be both inconspicuous and brief, I began by driving around in the dark of night…with Wolfgang in the passenger seat, of course.
So there we were, cruising up to a local fast-food joint where an artificial waiter with a speaker in its plastic gut took our order. “One Bulky Burger and a Raspberry Slushy to go,” I said, reading the menu aloud.
“How about your malnourished friend?” the waiter squawked over his microphone. “What would he like?”
I figured that if Wolf could have talked to anything, it would have been a fake waiter; but since he couldn’t, I answered for him. “Nothing, thanks. He’s on a hunger strike.”
Having gotten away with a few short expeditions, I became encouraged. Had we found a drive-in theater, taking in a movie would have been easy; but a walk-in presented more of a challenge. Still, I went for it. I lugged Wolfgang up to the ticket window behind another couple, and on my turn, requested a “single adult, please.”
The female ticket-seller asked for the price of two tickets. I explained that Wolfgang was not really a human being, just a replica. And she explained that the replica would occupy a seat whether he enjoyed the movie or not.
I paid the price of the tickets, hefted Wolfgang into his seat, and sat beside him, thinking about how my plan to ease loneliness was about to unfold. Wolfgang would draw some attention. But he’d cause little disruption, much less than a barking, urinating, potentially biting dog. He would, however, cost more than I had anticipated. Anywhere he took up space, be it a form of public transportation or a place of entertainment, Wolfgang would be charged the price of admission.
Since he was expected to shell out like a person, he should be treated like a person. Wolfgang was mute, but his money talked; it bought him rights and privileges. As the only one in Wolfie’s corner, I had to fend for him. That being the case, I could not continue the physical strain involved in either dragging him around like a drunk held by the waist or carrying him like a bride over the threshold.
So one day back at my apartment, I went down to the first floor and, from the widow Crumble, borrowed the old cane-backed wheelchair that had belonged to her late husband. In the wheelchair, Wolf either slipped down the front or fell over sideways; postures that made passers-by jokingly threaten to report me for the mistreatment of a helpless invalid.
Disliking the flack, I traded the wheelchair for a shopping cart with a child’s seat, though I would have preferred the red and yellow race car. And I would have gotten it, if a little girl hadn’t grabbed it first.
The regular pushcart worked out nicely inside a supermarket. Few people paid any mind to Wolf, unobtrusive as he was sitting in the basket with leafy vegetables and plump fruits on his lap. Nevertheless, a better form of conveyance seemed in order.