Putting Away Childish Things

MONDAY

Anyone could've started the final war; Fireman Geoff or Pullstring Pterodactyl or even one of the plastic pawns from the old Monster Attack boardgame. But of course it was Alligator. Alligator was the most unlucky of all toys, because he was fearsome and toothy and his mouth was painted on so he couldn't talk. He could only shake his head, and when he did, his tail wagged along in creaky plastic sync. It was an odd mix of movement, both yes and no, both puppydog wag and snarly headshake.

Alligator recognized his unluckiness, so he didn't leave the toy chest very often, just once in awhile for a swim. But Monday was special. Monday was parade day, and not just any parade day, either—it was the last one, ever, as non-optional an event as Alligator could imagine. Everyone from Robot down to the forgotten rubber bugs who lived under the folds at the bottom of the chest—everyone except for Alligator, of course—had been arranged in perfect formation and were standing by to march under Penguin's shelf.

So Alligator reluctantly trundled out of the empty toy chest and set out to find a place for himself. He wound up near the front, near Robot. Robot was the Parade Master. To show it, he had a little gold-speckled sash draped over his fishbowl head. He also had the Stanley Academy New Cadet's Orientation Manual spread out in front of him. The Orientation Manual was an inch-thick stack of poorly dittoed paper, wrapped in a vinyl cover. Robot had parked himself over the spine, holding it open to APPENDIX K: PARADES.

"Al-li-ga-tor-do-you-want-to-be-in-the-par-ade-to-day?" Robot asked.

Alligator shook his head and wagged his tail.

Robot wasn't sure what to do, so he consulted the Orientation Manual. "You-will-have-to-go-a-way-then," he said, after reading. "I-am-re-spon-si-ble-for-the-grounds-you-are-in-the-way." Springs creaked as Robot gestured over the assembled paraders. There was a circus train and an elephant and a fire engine and a big yellow steel bulldozer.

Alligator shook his head, more vigorously this time. His wagging tail slammed into a little green car, sending it flying. Alligator was much bigger than a little car.

Robot rolled over to the car and had a look at it. "The-wind-shi-eld-is-bro-ken," he announced. "You-broke-the-car. Are-you-sor-ry?"

Robot knew that neither the shaking head nor the wagging tail meant an apology.

"Well-go-a-way-then!"

Alligator turned away, but his wagging tail tickled old Elephant, who trumpeted and ran. Twenty little cars were in Elephant's path, bumper-to-bumper, unable to move. None of them escaped; they were all flattened to thin steel wafers, except for the wheels, which popped off and skittered away.

Alligator shook and wagged, hoping he could get Elephant's attention and calm the big animal down. He didn't. Robot had to shoot Elephant with his sparklegun. When Elephant fell, he landed on a tiny plastic girl from Traintown.

Alligator slunk back to the chest, chased away by Robot's monotone protests.

And high above, Porcelain Penguin growled.

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