In 1982, my Grandmother pulled her green 1966 AMC Rambler into the Gibson’s parking lot. The car was a behemoth piece of iron. The doors were heavy to pull closed. Well, to a 10 year old. It ran rough, had no air conditioning, unless you considered the windows, the driver side door had a big rusty dent and the radio only picked up the AM band, something with Paul Harvey.
I had moments earlier gotten off the 10:15 Greyhound from Roswell. After the visit to Yucca Newsstand, my Grandmother and I drove down 1st street in Alamogordo New Mexico to shop the Gibson’s. There was a Gibson’s in Roswell yet this one felt much much different. The building looked like two buildings merged into one. The one in Alamo stayed open long after the one in Roswell closed. Walking into the store via the automatic doors that required you to stand on the pressure pad before they swung open, I immediately bolted for the toy department. It was to the back and right. The store was dark and quiet. I looked over the games, puzzles, pushed my way past the display of Glo-worms, the stacks of Rubik’s Cubes and the hordes of E.T. shit. The toys I wanted to look at weren’t in the Toy Department at all.
I walked down a little ramp into the other part of Gibson’s. This section was the Home Improvement, Electronics and Outdoor items. Toward the front was Electronics. Behind the counter, next to portable cassette players and Atari cartridges were the Star Wars figures. All the figures were hanging on J-hooks behind a huge glass display case. I had to tippy-toe just to get a good look at them. If I wanted to look closer or actually touch the things, I would need a parent or guardian. Yet, that didn’t stop me from asking to look at them. Sometimes, the clerk would allow me to hold them. I’d ask to see the AT-AT Driver or Cloud Car Pilot. The zit faced punk behind the counter would hand them to me and then act annoyed. He’d stare at me as if I just farted and filled the area with noxious fumes and ask if I was going to buy it. I’d shake my head and hand them back. Of course I would go find my Grandmother and beg for one. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. I don’t recall if I was able to buy that AT-AT driver that day or another day, but it was exciting to look at the figures and envy them. I would point out the ones to my Grandmother that I really really needed and asked her to share the info with the family and Santa Claus.
Gibson’s wasn’t a kid friendly store, as I remember it. Even much later when I was older (12 or 14) if I wasn’t attended by an adult, the staff would watch you constantly. Follow you around. And sometimes stand in the isle, mere feet from you. I’m surprised I never saw them do a ninja roll or do one of those army man crawls to sneak up on me. Usually, they were sly about it, but mostly they didn’t care and wanted to make you feel like a fuckin thief as you picked up the 1982 G.I. Joe Mobile Missile System with Hawk and heaven forbid wanted to look at the box closer. (I know what you’re thinking. Earlier I stated I was not aware of GI Joe until Fall of 1983. Yet, while searching my memory banks proved I do remember looking at the toys. I just didn’t think they were as cool until I saw the G.I. Joe: An American Hero mini-series cartoon. So I wasn’t lying just hadn’t remembered it as clearly as I would have liked.) To this day, I wonder if Gibson’s spent hours training their employees on how to be douches. Were there slide shows of how to spot an innocent child and assume they would pocket everything in sight? Seminars on Customers are only over 47 and Children are a Nuisance. You might as well used the greeting, “Welcome to Gibson’s, you little thief!”
If my grandmother didn’t need any kitchen bags or laundry soap, we’d leave Gibson’s with little fuss and go back to her little apartment. Lunch would be an early afternoon affair. And if I was lucky, it would include a hot Steak-um sandwich!
Denver Comic Con
