The best toy store in Cleveland, perhaps in the whole world, was a little shop on Lee Road called Sanford’s Library. I don’t know why it was named that—it’s not like they lent out books—I just knew was there was no place on Earth I would rather be. It was a few blocks west of Fairfax Elementary and any time I had an extra dime or quarter in my pocket I would swing by there on the way home. Of course, home was in the opposite direction.
It was one of those narrow shops, the kind with the little bell that jingles when you open the door. The woman who ran it was a grandmother type with sad ey
es and a kindly smile. She was probably only in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, but this was before people were determined to appear young and “sexually viable” right up to the day they’re stuffed into a coffin. The Sanford’s Library Lady—I wish I knew her name—was very much in the old spinster mold; bun in her hair, broach on her blouse, reading glasses dangling from a small gold chain around her neck. You would think that with all those children in there, hopped up on toys, she would occasionally lose it and say “Hands off the merchandise!” or “Despite the name this isn’t a goddamn library, if you’re not going to buy anything scram!” But in a sense it was a library, and not just in name. “Browse all you want, stay as long as you like,” that patient smile seemed to say.
I don’t think I ever saw another adult in Sanford’s Library besides the Sanford’s Library Lady. This was before parents accompanied their children everywhere (most of us didn’t know a thing about soccer, let alone what a soccer mom was), before grown-ups became convinced there were child molesters lurking around every corner. As far as our parents were concerned you couldn’t have asked for a better babysitter than the Sandford’s Library Lady.
Though small, Sanford’s Library was bursting with goodies, not just toys but candy. Jars and jars of it—licorice, Atomic Fireballs, Smarties, Pixie Sticks, Baseball Cards, and those little pastel dots that came on rolls of paper. But mostly it was toys, lots and lots of toys. Open the front door and the wall on the left was covered with dozens of them wrapped in celophane, hanging from pegs. These were the relatively inexpensive toys: jacks, army men, balsa wood gliders with wind-up propellers. The best thing on that wall though were the bags of airplanes that sold for a dollar. A hundred planes at a penny a piece! They were made of the same soft molded plastic army men were made of only they came in a variety of colors—red, yellow, blue, and green—and ranged from the size of a nickel to slightly bigger than a quarter, depending on the type of plane. And that was the really cool part; each was a specific make and model: the ME262, a Messerschmidt jet that was one of my favorites, “Jap Zeroes,” P-38 Lightnings, P-57 Mustangs, B-17 Flying Fortresses, U2 spy planes, and, perhaps the best and rarest of them all, the X-15 rocket plane. Basically, every military plane from World War II to the present (they also offered a bag of civilian aircraft—Boeings, Cesnas, Lear Jets—but who would want an airplane that couldn’t shoot or bomb stuff?). I still can’t believe you could get all that for a dollar.
“Only a dollar” was a relative term though. My allowance was twenty cents a week (a dime per grade) and what kid could go five weeks without a trip to Sanford’s Library? My brother could, even though he didn’t have to (he got sixty cents a week), which was why he was the one with the bag of planes, not me. Every now and then he let me play with them (dogfights on the living room rug) though never without close supervision (he would count every plane before putting them back in a metal box). John didn’t bother with Sanford’s Library anymore though, he said it was for “little kids.” You were more likely to find him up on South Taylor at Sports and Crafts, which sold big kid stuff: models, gas engine planes, Estes rockets—that sort of thing. And you better not call them toys though, they’re “hobbies” (which made my brother a “hobbyist”—pretty fancy word for a sixth grader).
So, due to my financial circumstances, I usually averted my eyes when I passed the expensive toys up front. I was headed straight for the dime bins in the back.
The dime bins were a great source of joy in my life. There were two of them sitting side by side on a low table against the back wall, each about a foot wide, a foot and a half tall, and maybe three feet deep. Each bin contained a dozen or so sheets of cardboard on which were stapled little toys in plastic bags. You flipped through them the way you would albums in a record store. There were small plastic gliders and golf ball-sized rubber balls, derringers that fired darts tipped with suction cups, snap-together cars, minature superheroes, x-ray glasses, and even a wind-up hand buzzer (it was made of metal!) designed to startle people gullible enough to shake your hand. Each for only a dime!
I used to pour over those bins for hours, weighing the pros and cons of each toy. Some, like the hand buzzer, were so good (it was made of metal!) I bought two or three of them over the course of a year. Others were a closer call. Did I really need a miniature deck of cards? How about a whoopie cushion? When I finally settled on something I would run to the counter with the old fashioned brass cash register on it, and, a warm dime in my hot little hand, I would show the Sanford’s Library Lady what I’d found. She would always beam and praise me for the wise choice I’d made. It almost seemed like she was reluctant to take my money, as if she were doing this for the sheer joy of bringing happiness to the children of the world.
Then one day, late in the second grade, I blew it. That was the day my best friend Oliver and I stole the squirt guns. Did we plan the heist in advance? Or was it a spur-of-the-moment decision? I can’t remember. The only thing I remember is the squirt guns. They weren’t your typical squirt guns, the kind made of clear blue or red or yellow plastic. These were larger and shaped like the upper body of a tiger, its shoulders sprouting just above the trigger, its snarling head surrounding the muzzle. The stream of water, which was a lot more powerful than that of a typical squirt gun, shot out through a hole between the tiger’s fearsome teeth. It was a popular item, much talked about on the playgrounds, though at a dollar ten it was out of the reach of most of the younger kids. The moment I laid eyes on it I had to have it.
Oliver was the one who got caught. Not by the Sanford’s Library Lady—she was far too trusting to watch us that closely—but by his mother. He’d left it sitting out on his dresser and when questioned about it—Where did he get it? How could he afford a toy like that? —he cracked immediately. Now, no second grader is a particularly good liar—it’s a skill that requires time to master—but for goodness sake, at least make an attempt! I knew the jig was up the instant my mother answered the phone. “Oliver told you this?” When I heard her say that I decided to take a stroll upstairs. I was barely in my bedroom before she cornered me.
Deny everything, that was my strategy. Deny no matter how many threats are leveled at you. Deny no matter how overwhelming the evidence. Deny, deny, deny. This became more difficult after my mother found the squirt gun in my closet—unlike my brother, hiding places weren’t my strong suit. Still, I continued with my preposterous claims—someone had lent it to me, somehow it had fallen into my book bag—“I was framed!!!”—each lie becoming less and less plausible. Finally I just threw myself on the bed and cried “I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t!” Pretty lame, huh?
Our punishment was the worst imaginable: we were dragged to Sanford’s Library, forced to hand over the squirt guns, and apologize to the Sanford’s Library Lady. We stood there with our heads down, crying. The worst part was the way Sandford’s Library Lady responded, she gave us that same kindly smile and told us we could keep the squirt guns (our mothers would have none of that). But I sensed a new, deeper sadness in those eyes.
Things were never the same after that. Oliver and I went back to Sanford’s Library a few weeks later, back to the dime bins. There were no accusatory stares, no close monitoring, no evidence of any change whatsoever, just those sad eyes. After that we stopped going altogether. I missed the sound of that little bell when you opened the door, missed rushing back to the dime bins to see what new treasures had arrived. I never went back though, the shame of it kept me away, shame I feel even today. I wish I’d spoken to the Sanford’s Library Lady, said I was sorry, not because my mother was standing over me but because I really was sorry. A few years ago I thought about trying to track her down to say to her what I couldn’t bring myself to say back then. But Sanford’s Library was gone, replaced by a card shop. Anyway, by then I’m sure she was long since dead.
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