Toy Story

At the entrance they ask for a thousand won. She says to me, “You’ll see why,” and as my eyes slip inside, I do. Fighter jets fly by Astro Boy, Spiderman droops from the cobweb ceiling, and comics lay on all surfaces, tucked between old toy boxes emitting grandpa’s basement smell.

This is where old toys go to die. Lined up under glass cages and hidden behind do-not-cross lines of string, they find new life alongside two-dollar gifts and postcards of old and unforgotten pop culture relics: Bruce Lee, Wonderwoman, and the Sailor Scouts.

The children in the store are dragged along the arms of their parents, snapping photos and tugging at seven-year-old sleeves, saying, “See this?!” All our childhoods dance round us, Power Rangers, Pokemon, Transformers, and the whole Simpson Springfield city.

In the far corner I find a mirror and a stack of masks. I hold up Astro and through two plastic holes I’m impressed with what I see. Stuff a bag of postcards into backpack and say to no one: “This is why I came here. To find the Astro Boy inside.”