Monster Models

The fluorescent lamp poured its wan flicker over the workbench. The window looked out to our backyard at ground level. Its pane faded to black as we worked. Silhouettes of treetops and the slow blink of an occasional Cessna were all I could see from the angle of my four-foot vantage point.

A few incandescent bulbs lit the cavernous, L-shaped basement. The cedar closet and concrete floor, along with dope paint and airplane glue blended their fragrances into a sort of manly potpourri. This was my Dad’s space, and I was here by invitation.

His workbench was a converted ice-cream counter. Its wells were no longer filled with pistachio and chocolate swirl, but rather nuts and bolts, and salvaged bits of stuff that might prove useful someday. To the left was his gray-green toolbox, heavy with neatly ordered tools. The evening’s project was to assemble a monster model.

From time to time, my Grandmother would treat me to lunch at a place called The Bowery Dugout. Their shrimp cocktail was outstanding. The Dugout happened to be near Woolworth’s, where our lunch dates often culminated with the purchase of a new monster model to add to my collection.

My Dad showed me how to trim, glue and paint the molded plastic sections. Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolfman, Godzilla, King Kong, and the Mummy came to life in the basement. Once finished, each assumed a place of honor in my bedroom on shelves my Dad built. They were scary, but not too scary for sleeping.

Eventually, the monsters weren’t very scary at all. And as their terror faded, so did their appeal. They actually seemed to shrink. I was only partly aware that it was me that was changing, not them.

Other things were different too. I outgrew my Nehru jacket and tie-died bellbottoms and started wearing frayed jeans and gauze shirts instead. I listened less to my old Monkees records and more to The Association and Jesus Christ Superstar.

The monster models were artifacts of the little kid I didn’t want to be anymore. I wanted clear separation. So I sacrificed them at the altar of the teenager I hoped was inside me. It was time for differentiation, and I went at it with panache.

I drilled a hole in King Kong’s chest with a jackknife, inserted a Black Cat firecracker, and blew him to bits. Godzilla fell to my BB gun, and Dracula to a dowsing of lighter fluid and a match. One by one, the rest of the monster cadre met similar fates.

It was only recently that I stopped to consider the investment my Dad made into those projects. The monster collection was material evidence of his presence in my childhood. They were emblems of his genuine desire to spend time with me, teaching me things and having fun on my level.

Today there’s nothing left to touch – nothing wrapped in old newspaper, waiting to be lifted gingerly from a dusty cardboard box. I regret that. Thankfully, my memories didn’t perish in the plastic shrapnel; they remain vivid, painted in dope.