GI JOE
My guess would be that the term 'G.I. Joe' came from World War Two, I don't know but I think G.I.
stands for "Government Issue". To me, as a four year old, G.I Joe's were twelve inch tall plastic dolls.
They came with military fatigues and each one has a scare on his cheek. The hair was this thick, velvet
like fuzz, styled in a crew cut. The first G.I. Joe's that I remember had plastic hands and feet that you
could pull off at the wrists and ankles. A foot normally yanked out of the leg when you tried to change his
boots, leaving the foot inside the boot. On a daily bases I would run to the tool drawer to get a pair of
pliers so I could pull his foot out of the boot and snap it back into his leg. In the nineteen seventies the
toy company came out with a new G.I. Joe that had rubber hands that were formed so he could carry his
M-16 or whatever. They called this 'Kung Fu Grip'.
I used to put the Space Alien on top of the Black Nurse. Any doll about 12 inches tall was called a 'G.I.
Joe'. It didn't matter whether it was a Bikini'd woman with an exaggerated figure or a green man with big
eyes and his brain exposed. Just like all the second hand stores became 'Good Wills' and all soft drinks
became 'Cokes', these dolls were 'G.I. Joe's'. Q-tips are 'Q-tips'. Fuck Mattel.
Most of my outer space toys were hand me downs that came from the older kids up the street.
Astronauts with wire frame skeletons covered in rubber with accordion elbows and knees and a battery
powered moon vehicle with tractor threads that pulled a chair, like a ricksha, inside a clear plastic bubble (
I went away for a month and a bronze battery acid grew and corroded the red plastic inside the moon
vehicles D cell compartment). The sister gave me a pink and purple flying saucer with a soft little, pink
and purple space cupid.
The family across the street from them were having a yard sale. Their son was about 14 years old
and was trying to get rid of everything that he out grew. On the lawn was a orange scaffolding tower that
stood about a foot taller than me. A string could be attached to the top and G.I. Joe's 'Kung Fu Grip' held
him to a pulley that slide along this string and he would glide to the kitchen table leg or were ever else the
end of the string was attached. I think he wanted a buck for it. Maybe the alien and nurse could slide
down the string in unison. I asked my mom for money so I could buy the tower, she agreed and gave me
the dollar and she gave my older brother another dollar to get what ever he wanted.
I stood in the neighbors garage and in the smell of gasoline and oil and the sound of a heavy load
making the clothes dryer spin lop sided, I made the exchange of one US dollar for one orange G.I. Joe
tower. My brother bought the boxing gloves.
While other neighbors and passerbys walked through the yard sale I took the tower apart. I took my
time, being real careful not to damage the connecting plastic joints. The tower was divided in sections,
four sided, about I foot long. I had the upper part of the tower disassembled and I carried the pieces
across the street into my house and put them in my bedroom. I went back very excited, but calm, knowing
I had to be careful not to damage the tower. I took the last piece of scaffolding and laid it on my pile of
orange plastic and carried it across the lawn, over the gutter, across the street (I didn't look for traffic,
maybe I did? I didn't want anything to happen to the tower), over another gutter, across my mom's lawn ,
into the house, past my brothers bedroom, past the bathroom, past my mother's room, into my room. I
reassembled the tower.-
My brother's new boxing gloves were beautiful. They were half brown and half white leather with
strings that laced down rivited metal rings from the palm of the hand to the wrist. They were sturdy and
proud, they felt beyond me. My brother came into the room and had me put on one pair. He tugged the
laces tight almost pulling my arms out of their sockets. The smell of leather and old sweat from the gloves
added to my sensation of power. When the gloves were on my hands, they were too big, but they felt
powerful with the support they gave my wrists. My brother put on the other pair. I got into the pose, with
my glove palms aiming up, like the boxers from the nineteen twenties. I threw a punch and hit my brothers
shoulder, the next one hit him in the face, It felt like for the first time that the four years older he was
didn't make a difference and I could take him. Then he swung, connected with my jaw and lifted my body
off the ground. I flew through the air unconscious and landed on my carefully assembled, orange G.I. Joe
tower, shattering every panel of scaffolding.
Those boxing gloves were beautiful, I wonder what my brother did with them?
-Charlie McGovern
December 4, 2000
Silverlake, California