ALL YOUR HOUSEHOLD NEEDS
The boy wanted a Lucky the Dog but his dad said no. Lucky was a plush beagle who spoke when you pushed its paw. Lucky the Dog was a toy company’s Hail Mary before the company tanked. Lucky would become bigger than just a plush, the CEO said. He wore a suit. They all did, around an oval table filled with men.
A year after their decision, I was in a store that sold everything and they did not have what I wanted. So, I went looking for Lucky. Some kind of confirmation that I was some kind of something. That the superstores like this one all over the country had me, a piece of me in it and that would mean something. I was in one of the toy aisles when I heard the boy, when I heard his father, when I heard the familiar voice issuing from Lucky’s speaker tucked neatly into its belly.
“Easy come, easy go.” The boy had pushed at Lucky’s paw. Other things Lucky said, but only when you took it home, unwrapped the plastic noose, and took it off trial mode: I’m glad you took me home, Let’s be friends, You can talk to me.
I knew all this because I was Lucky. In the months after losing my baby at twenty-two weeks – the size of a spaghetti squash, an app told me – my agent called and said she had the best job for me. I mean the best, Laura. Things are looking up!
So I auditioned and got the job as the voice of Lucky the Dog. At the time it was only a doll, but there were promises of an animated TV show, a touring stage production.
I tapped my foot on the linoleum to Wham! issuing from the speakers of the superstore.
Lucky was supposed to be this year’s hit. The toy for which people would line up on Black Friday.
The father said “this is a girls’ doll. Are you a girl?” I didn’t hear the boy’s response, if there was one.
Lucky was green and white. Intended to evoke no gender or all of them. To vaguely suggest Christmas. At first I heard sniffles, then sobs that I could tell were escaping despite the child’s best efforts.
“Don’t you fucking start with that.”
The boy choked and coughed and said, “but dad.”
And the father said “don’t, but dad me. Put that piece of shit down.”
After several silent minutes, they entered my aisle. I pretended to look at a Barbie, tapered waist, blond. I looked at the boy who pulled his lips into a line.
“Can I look at these, dad?” he pointed to shelves of Star Wars LEGO sets.
“That’s more like it.” The man craned his neck toward the fishing supplies. “I’m going over there.”
“Okay,” the boy said with a catch in his voice.
I reshelved the Barbie back and turned. “You can talk to me,” I said, and the boy smiled in recognition.
Jennifer Fliss (she/her) is a Seattle-based writer whose writing has appeared in F(r)iction, The Rumpus, The Washington Post, and elsewhere, including the 2019 Best Short Fiction anthology. She can be found on Twitter at @writesforlife or via her website, www.jenniferflisscreative.com.