With all of the hoopla lately about the new Star Wars movie,
the seventh in the series, I can’t help but think back to when the first movie
came out, way back in 1977.
My husband and I really had been looking forward to seeing
it, mainly because of its enticing description: “A technologically advanced
science-fiction movie with never-before-seen special effects!” So on a Tuesday night during the first week
it was playing in Concord, we headed to the theater…and found a line of people
stretched all the way across the parking lot.
“I hate waiting in lines,” my husband groaned, ready to turn
the car around and head back home. “I had enough of it when I was in the
military.”
“Well, we’re here now,” I said. “We might as well go see the
movie.”
So we joined the line. When we finally got to the point
where only five people were ahead of us, an employee informed us that all of
the tickets had been sold out and the next showing would be in three
hours.
The look on my husband’s face told me the only movie we’d be
seeing in three hours would be at home and on TV.
Unfortunately, back then, no one had home computers or fancy
phones, so tickets couldn’t be purchased in advance. We had to keep returning
to the theater and waiting in line. And every time we did, we failed to get a
ticket. My husband became less and less enthusiastic about seeing the movie.
“Want to go see Star Wars tonight?” I asked him one Thursday
night, a few days after attempt number three had been yet another dismal
failure.
His expression told me he’d probably prefer to have an
appendectomy… performed with a potato peeler.
“I promise this will be the last time,” I said. “If we don’t
get in tonight, we won’t try again until at least a month from now, when we’ll
be sure to get a seat.”
He rolled his eyes. Finally, he said, “OK, but this is it.
I’m not standing in any more lines. I don’t care if the cast promises to show
up in person and reenact the entire movie live, onstage. This is the last time
I’m going to waste a night standing in the movie theater’s parking lot. I think
I’ve memorized every bump, crack and pot hole in it.”
So back to the theater we went, and took our places at the
end of yet another very long line.
“Time to spend another hour looking at the backs of people’s
heads,” my husband muttered.
When the line dwindled until there was only one person left
in front of us, we started to get nervous.
“Do you think we’ll actually make it this time?” I whispered to my husband, reaching for his
hand and clasping it in a death grip.
“Don’t be silly,” he answered. “You know what kind of luck
we have. Prepare to have the ticket window slammed shut in our faces.”
But to our shock, we finally got our tickets. I didn’t know
whether to use them to get into the theater…or have them bronzed.
After the movie, my husband and I, wide-eyed with awe, both
agreed it had been worth all of the time and trouble we’d gone through to see
it.
And on that night, two Star Wars fanatics were born.
The next day, we went shopping for Star Wars toys and
collectibles. We bought small action figures and large ones. We bought plastic
lightsabers and a huge model of the Millennium Falcon, Han Solo’s ship. We even
bought Star Wars sheets for the bed.
And over the next few years, our Star Wars buying frenzy
continued. We accumulated so much
stuff, we had to rent a storage unit to keep it in. And much too often, we’d
spend so much money shopping for additions to our Star Wars collection, we’d
end up having to eat peanut-butter sandwiches for a week.
Finally, my mother sat me down one day and said, “Look, this
Star Wars habit of yours has got to stop. You’re throwing your money away on
this junk! Be smart and put it into a
CD or a money-market account instead of wasting it on dumb toys.”
But my husband and I were too hooked on collecting to stop.
Our Saturday nights no longer were spent going to dinner and a movie. Instead
they were spent roaming through the aisles in Toys R Us and tossing Star Wars
items into our cart, and then heading over to Bradlees or K-Mart to do the same
thing.
By the time we finally decided to take a breather from our
collecting addiction, we’d spent over $2,000. Considering the fact that the
average price of a new car back then was about $4,000, our Star Wars spending
spree was no small matter.
And once again, my mother was more than eager to remind us
of that.
“You’re both supposed to be adults!” she said when she came
to visit and noticed bags of Star Wars toys on the kitchen table, before we’d
had the chance to take them to the storage unit and hide them. “Mark my words,
the day will come when you’ll regret not depositing your money in the bank and
having a nice nest egg instead of just a bunch of worthless Dark Vader dolls!”
“It’s Darth Vader, not Dark Vader, Mom” I said,
impressed she even knew that much about the movie.
“I don’t care what his name is!” she said. “I just hope
he’ll pay for your rent when you end up broke and homeless!”
Years later, in 1998, I bought a collectors’ price guide to
Star Wars toys and painstakingly looked up the value of each item in our
collection. Many of the little 3.5-inch action figures, which we’d paid $1.99
each for, were listed as worth between $100 and $300 each. The 12-inch action
figures, which we’d paid $11.95 each
for at K-Mart, were worth up to $500 each, depending on the character. The grand total for our original $2,000
collection, according the guide, was about $70,000.
With a smug sense of victory, I couldn’t wait to show the
guide and my calculations to my mother. Her expression couldn’t have looked
more shocked if I had shown her a photo of a naked man.
“Are you serious?” she asked. “All of that junk you bought
is actually worth good money?”
I nodded. “Much more than any money-market account would
have been.”
So after that, whenever our birthdays or Christmas rolled
around, my mom would gift us with Star War toys. We were happy we finally had
won her over from the Dark Side.
When I was wandering through Wal-Mart the other day, I
happened to see an entire aisle of new Star Wars toys. I felt myself being drawn to it, just like
back in 1977, and I had to resist the sudden urge to run down the aisle and
wildly fling action figures into my cart.
But what stopped me was the realization that for $2,000
nowadays, I’d probably be able to buy only about 20 toys.
OK, so maybe I did give in and buy just a couple action
figures – Captain Phasma and Kylo Ren – even though I have no clue yet who they
are.
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