Dependence on Desire

If it had not been for the newly remodeled establishment adjoining it, then its standard shoebox architecture would have been largely ignored by an ordinary passerby. If it had not been for the unchoreographed signage adorning the graying walls of this structure, then it would have been ignored all together, dismissed as an industrial warehouse of little importance to the commonplace bystander. But the disorganized colors of the sign are no mistake: they drive herds of people into its generic parking corral, through its generic gates, and into a windowless cage of unnecessary plastic entities. This is Toys “R” Us, the American trademark of children’s toys, and the plastic capital of the world, conveniently located in an uninspired, rectangular building including free parking.

Free parking does not entitle what one should expect; the ability to claim one of the vaguely lined, identical rectangular spaces requires good luck similar to what is needed to win the lottery. The cars situated in the parking lot are not the same brand or color, but share similar stages of deterioration. Scratched bumpers, worn tires, trivial indents—minor imperfections reflect upon the busy lives and median incomes of the cars owners. Each row of cars is uniformly arranged in the direction of the industrial shrine, which is protected by a grandiloquent pavement path leading up to a highly sophisticated automatic door entrance. Once entry is permitted by nothing less than the supernatural powers of motion detectors, one enters a pandemonium of a failed attempt at organizing clutter.

Florescent lights accentuate the crevice-like isle ways which fade into complete darkness like the opening of a whale’s mouth dyed multiple neon colors. Discarded toys on the uniform white linoleum floor inhibit one from walking comfortably into one of these isles. Black scuff marks on the uniform white linoleum floor inhibit one from sensing any sense of luxury while walking into one of these isles. Abandoned crumbs of food on the uniform white linoleum floor inhibit one from feeling hygienically safe while walking into one of these isles. Yet, these flaws go greatly unnoticed because of the presence of obnoxiously vibrant, variously sized boxes occupying every square inch of shelf space: plastic encased Barbies and plastic encased Hot Wheels and plastic encased Pokémon figurines and plastic encased everything marketable to a child or one who wishes to encase themselves in the worlds of Strawberry Shortcake or Legos or Iron Man or Polly Pocket. Clumsily, these items are arranged so that they fit together like matching puzzle pieces, but when put together, do not make up a picture, and instead compose a jumble of contrasting colors and haphazard phrases. An ambitious attempt to stand out, the same “innovative ideas” have coincidently been applied to each and every item: bigger, better, and brand-new are clearly not unique phrases that distinguish one rectangular box from another.

Hanging signs—boldly obnoxious, vibrantly annoying, unintelligently simple—are attached to the metal rafters which also strategically support the geometrically positioned florescent lights that are perfectly aligned with the isles: a simple, innocent endeavor to avoid a completely chaotic atmosphere. Illustrated on each sign is an unrealistic depiction of what one could do with a specific toy. This act merely demonstrates to a prospective purchaser what exactly is supposed to be included inside of the similarly sized boxes stacked tightly on the shelves. Unfortunately, only a select group of toys are permitted to appear upon these highly informative signs, so a broad word—or in selective cases a phrase—is also situated on each sign, employed as an indicator for the entirety of the row’s contents, as well as being an expression decipherable for even the youngest of customers.

Although the isles are the established attribute of Toys “R” Us—considering that they accommodate the sole purpose of the store’s existence—twelve blue cubes are also prominently placed at the front of the store. Uniform in size, shape, and Thomas the Tank Engine blue, with a solitary distinguishing number obnoxiously displayed on a little light up lamp, these cubes are the source of the sound of clicking double digit integers, disputing incorrect digit integers, overspending unavailable digit integers. Robots, constructed with an endeavored attempt at a human figure, operate the clicking machines within the blue cube checkstands. Blank faces spit out “your total is…” and “thank you” with the audacity of the monotonous voice mail lady; red vests—a thoughtful color choice to compliment the blue cubes—organize the variously sized robot bodies so that they appear to collectively represent an association. Each automaton is given a nametag, printed with Arial Black font, but particularly underused since their preferred names are “sir” and “ma’am”. Only four of the twelve checkstands appear occupied, yet, four lines snake part way into the isles, obviously an inconvenience to the person fulfilling the last position in line. Nevertheless, the people do not abandon the line out of frustration, as if a magnetic force connecting them to the floor disables them from doing so.

The Toys “R” Us warehouse’s absence of exterior architectural detail, an interior sense of chaotic clutter, and impersonal, robotic personnel is merely a reflection of the brand itself. The brightly colored packaged toys are an attempt at unique persuasion. The narrowly designed isles are an attempt to overwhelm the customer. The nauseatingly dirtied white floor is an attempt at purity. The densely crammed shelves are an attempt at efficiency. The surly forced conformity of the employees is an attempt at a family-like staff. The unquestionably blinded dependency on desire over necessity is an attempt at something completely unobservable to an ordinary passerby.

-Ellorine (Zero Period)