Dec
19
Written by:
John Jackson Miller
12/19/2007 12:00 AM
Those who saw the Dark Horse presentation at Star Wars Celebration IV may recall that I brought a guest to the panel: Frankendroid. I told Frank’s story there — but there’s a second part now, so perhaps I should start at the beginning.
Where I’d gotten Star Wars comics right from the beginning, even reading the Marvel adaptation before I saw the movie, it took me a bit longer to get into the toys. The first thing I got was the Kenner X-Wing, some time in 1978 — still have it, of course. (Geez, where did all the stickers go?) But I didn’t have any action figures for what seemed like the longest time. All I had to use were those old green plastic army men. Not a good substitute. The crawling guy always got stuck in the ship’s nose!
OK, flash forward to Christmas 1979. Most of the army men were gone — lost in our intervening move, probably. Or maybe they’d run off to join the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan — I know that was all that was on TV that Christmas. At any rate, my grandparents dropped by with their gift: my first three action figures. Excellent, I thought: now, I could imagine some stories along with every other kid.
Of course, my grandparents, may they rest in peace, didn’t know Star Wars from the Star Spangled Banner — so the figure selection was entirely random. Darth Vader, R2-D2, and C-3PO. The preadolescent mind churned. “Well, we’ve got a couple of good guys here, and it beats the one army guy whose bazooka kept the cockpit window from closing.”
Still, there were serious storytelling challenges in this mix. Every adventure always had to do with Darth Vader stealing the X-Wing. Artoo, well, there was already an Artoo in the ship. Pressing him made the wings open. There were some identity-crisis psychodramas there. And Threepio? Well, Threepio wasn’t Threepio. He was more like the factory second droid they didn’t let out of the Sandcrawler.
That’s because for whatever reason, he emerged from the packaging (yes, kids, we opened the packaging) with his left leg frozen solidly in place. I don’t think it was the paint; looking at it, it’s like the plastic in the molds fused together into a single piece. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t walk — and with the leg stuck, I’d have to jam him into the X-Wing cockpit (as if he ought to be flying).
I limped along (sorry) like this for a while before finally, my father brought the droid into the workshop for reconstructive surgery. He severed the stuck leg cleanly with an Exacto knife and drove a pin through the hip of the leg. The joint held — that particular hip replacement work is intact to this day.
Of course, as soon as the leg ground on the pin for a while, the leg began to loosen up — and before long, Threepio was high-kicking to beat the Rockettes. He couldn’t stand up now, but at least he could more easily slide into the X-Wing and fly off with the fake Artoo, thus humiliating the real Artoo forever and putting the children of some droid therapist into an Ivy League school.
Eventually, more vehicles and figures came into the picture, making the fantasy galaxy a more interesting place. But that early time was my first exercise in Star Wars creativity — which is why I brought Frankendroid along to my first Celebration panel.
There at Celebration IV began, as Paul Harvey said, the rest of the story. Frankendroid: The Sequel.
I finally got around to shopping — and, after buying lots of British Star Wars comics and some die-casts for myself, I remembered I had children of my own. This realization combined with the weighty state of my luggage to form a serious quandary. I’d been on the coast for a week, after all; no small guilt presents were going to suffice. Fortunately, I discovered the USPS was shipping from the con — and immediately knew what must be done.
Old friend, sometime collaborator, and former Star Wars Galaxy Collector editor Marc Patten was set up in the hall with a massive retail booth. I beelined for there and immediately scanned the racks. “What do you want?” he asked.
“What’s the biggest thing you’ve got that you don’t want to take back?”
“That would be one of the giant Collectors’ Edition Han Solos With Tauntauns,” he said, pointing to a row of massive boxes on the highest rack.
“Are they going to sell?”
“Probably not,” he said.
“Then I’ll take it,” I said, pulling the monster off the shelf.
“You’re into Tauntauns now?”
“It’s my daughter,” I said. “She loves horses.”
“But this is a Tauntaun.”
“Do you see any horses in here?” I asked.
“It’s not really a child’s toy,” he said. “It’s more for display.”
“Should there be a lawyer present for this interview? Do you quiz all your customers about their intentions?”
“Not really,” he said. Toy buyers liked their privacy, he knew. “So, what’ll you give me for it?”
“The knowledge that you won’t have to take it back,” I said. “You were moaning yesterday about the seven large it cost you to ship all this stuff from the East Coast. I’m lightening the return load, and probably saving your marriage.”
“You have a point,” he said. “It’s not a good one, but it is a point.” He’d been stuck in the hall all Friday night during the bomb scare listening to the soundtrack on the PA — at this point, I knew he’d agree to anything. “You’re standing on an actual paying customer,” he growled. “Take the beast and leave.”
The expense, of course, was in shipping La Monstra — along with the other trinkets and incidentals I found for myself in my not-very-straight traverse of the hall. Building the gigantic box, the postal employee asked where she could get such a Tauntaun. I happily pointed out Marc’s booth. “They’re free, madam,” I said. “Be sure to tell the gentleman I sent you.” And with that, the giant Collectors’ Edition Han Solo with Tauntaun entered the postal stream.
Two thousand years passed.
Wait, that was the movie A/I. No, three weeks passed, but when it comes to kids wondering where the gifts are, the comparison’s about right. Sometimes one forgets with Priority Mail it’s important to ask whose priority is involved. Anyway, the boxes did eventually show up.
And little Josie loved the poseable Tauntaun so much she broke its poseable leg in less than a half hour.
The equine (for want of the proper Hothian term) autopsy will show that, in truth, it was not her fault. Like its diminutive cousin-by-Kenner, Frankendroid Threepio, One-Leg was doomed from its plastic birth. The grommet attaching its leg to the body was shoddily formed, disintegrating into little shards after minor use by a minor. Five years on the shelf; three weeks in the mail; twenty minutes on the floor.
After some choice words out of the child’s earshot, the first of a number of reconstructive surgeries ensued. But no cocktail of glues would get the leg joint to reset. After a few weeks, I thought about sending it to my dad, from whose workbench Frankendroid had high-stepped.
But, in a burst of paternal can-do-ism, I resorted to the most sophisticated and delicate instrument in my kit: The Phillips screwdriver.
Thus was born Spawn of Frankendroid. No, the Tauntaun’s leg doesn’t move any more — I’m a writer, not a plastic surgeon — but she sure as heck ain’t falling over. Han Solo has, if not a ride, a place to sit. A child is happy. And a strange tradition continues, to be taken up again in another twenty-eight years by the next generation, and their lunar-produced collectible figures.
Or perhaps sooner. It’s Christmas 2007, and she’s just broken the other leg…
Happy holidays — and keep the toolbox handy!
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