THAT NIGHT I KEEP TRYING TO think of solutions even though, right after our talk about money, Mom told me I shouldn’t worry about money. “I only told you because I want you to know the truth, but you’ve already got enough worries on your plate. You don’t need to add this one, too. Please, Benny. I mean it.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” I said.
Then I spend most of the night sorting through my Lego bins, separating out the smaller items that are sellable on eBay. If you want to get the highest price, the trick is to sell everything individually. After I’ve collected what I’d consider twenty minifigures with the highest resale value, I take them into Martin’s room to get his advice. He knows eBay selling better than I do, but he might point out that most of these were his once, which means he should get all the money.
When I show him the box, I explain it the best I can. “We have to do something, Martin. Mom doesn’t have the money to pay all these hospital bills.”
Maybe I’ve told Martin so he’ll start thinking of some ways he can pitch in, too. I already know that whatever I make won’t be enough. Maybe I also want him to tell me that I shouldn’t have to worry about this. Instead he reaches over to the shoe box I’ve filled with the most valuable pieces I could find. He stirs through the box with his finger. There’s a lot in there. Minifigs I bought whole sets to get. Minifigs that have starred or played a role in all of my movies. Minifigs I used to put in my pocket and bring to school back in first and second grade, before I had any friends to eat lunch with or talk to at recess.
“You’re really gonna sell these guys?” Martin says.
“I think we have to. We don’t have much choice.”
I want him to say, Of course we do. You need these people to make your movies. You shouldn’t sell them. Instead he says, “You can get twenty dollars apiece for some of these.”
“More for a few of them. The original Spider-Man is very rare. One just sold on eBay for forty-five dollars.”
He picks it up and turns it over. It doesn’t look much different from all the other minifigs, but he’s one of the older ones so he’s worth more
I care about Spidey. Even though he wasn’t in my latest movie, he’s always been my favorite. There was a time when I was young that I couldn’t sleep unless he was tucked in my hand. He mattered to me a lot, which made me play weird games with myself. I’d wake up in the morning and hide him somewhere upstairs so I’d have to remember and find him later in the day before I went to bed. It was always a little scary, thinking maybe this time I’d forget where I’d hidden him.
I was that kind of kid, I guess. Before I had real problems, I created some of my own.
Martin’s got six guys in one hand, too many to keep looking, so he lays them out on the bed. Penguin, Count Dooku, Princess Leia, two Yodas.
“The Yodas are not as rare as some of the others. They came in too many sets.”
He nods. He used to know all this stuff. He was obsessed with Lego for years before I was. He finds more and lays them out. By a generous estimate we could sell all my future cast members and get two hundred dollars.
“That’s pretty good, right?”
Martin shakes his head. If making money on these old Lego sets was our end goal, we’ve made terrible mistakes over the years, throwing away our boxes and all our instruction booklets. We’ve played too hard with them. We’ve broken apart every original spaceship and battle tank to make forts and bunkers. We’ve mixed sets so much that Han Solo and Chewbacca sleep in twin beds from a police headquarters, with a coffeemaker between them.
Now that I look at them lying on Martin’s bed, it’s hard to imagine putting them into envelopes and sending them off to strangers. I’ve never told anyone this, but I think of my minifigs as my oldest, truest friends. Because of this, I also think of them as pretty happy time travelers. Han Solo doesn’t mind eating medieval food. He’s told me, sort of. Or he’s given me that impression. I’ve never told anyone how much I care about them, but all of the sudden, it’s like Martin knows.
“You shouldn’t sell these, dude.” He puts them all back in the shoe box. “That’s not how we’re going to do this. Two hundred dollars is chump change. I’ve got a better idea.”
He’s moving around his room getting a piece of paper. I follow him, hugging my shoe box because I’ll love Martin forever if he can think of a way to spare this box of little plastic best friends.