Rainbow Freaking Brite

It was 1986 and a warm summer day. Dad had on his EAT shirt. It always made me smile. It stood for Eastern Associated Terminals, the phosphate terminal on the Port of Tampa where he worked, but I would pat the belly he was growing right under the acronym, "You sure have, daddy! You're getting a food baby!" He laughed and pretended he was going to smack me one good, "This right here is relaxed muscle just waiting to spring into action, Catfish. Just you wait." I'd giggle, "I think I'll have to wait a long time."

The superintendent smiled a lot that day. He had always seemed surly, but all the corn on the cob, potato salad and ribs had greased the muscles that kept his face so taut. His daughters were a little older than me and I'd watch them as they finished the three legged race, their long legs and Jordache jeans seeming so worldly.

Dad kept nudging my shy legs forward toward the Egg and Spoon race. I saw all the sure-footed kids with the good clothes and Roos lining up. I couldn't do it. I was too embarrassed.

"C'mon, Catfish. You can do this one. You just have to keep the egg on the spoon."

"No. It's ok. Those kids are bigger than me." I didn't add that they also wore Roos which definitely gave them an advantage. Not only would they grip the grass better, but when they crossed the line they could pull quarters out of the zippered pockets and buy their own Sunkist sodas.

A woman with a bull horn announced the beginning of the race as she held up the prize.

Rainbow Freaking Brite.

I felt my heart start to race. There was no way we could ever afford a Rainbow Brite doll. I really, really wanted one. Really, really bad. So bad I could just die right there, fall apart, stitch myself back up and die again. Dad could see the ants in my pants, the adrenaline, "Go on, Catfish. You still have time."

I ran to the start and took a white plastic spoon from a woman with feathered hair. I thought it looked like she had a pigeon taped to each side of her head as she greased my spoon with Crisco and slowly placed an egg on top. I felt the egg cradled in the spoon, felt it tip forward and back, teetering to the brink of oblivion, the place where Rainbow Brite did not exist.

I lined up with the rest of them, nervous. They could never want a Rainbow Brite like I wanted a Rainbow Brite, those kids. They could never give her the love I could. Never. I had to make them eat my freaking dust.

On your mark. Get set. Go!

I concentrated so hard I could feel my own eye sockets. I watched that spoon, I walked quickly, letting my sneakers with the unfortunate orange laces blur in my field of vision as I stared at the egg that could change my life.

Suddenly dad started yelling. He was on the other side, waiting for me. It was clear from his tone that I was doing well. I looked up and saw his face, lit and excited. He wanted me to have that Rainbow Brite doll too! Much to my amazement I realized that there was no one between me and dad. I was in first place.

So I turned around to see how far away I was from the rest of my competitors.

I felt it before it happened.

The egg tilted, going unsteady in the cradle of the spoon and I watched as it tipped over the edge to crack on the ground. The superintendent's daughter passed me just then to the sound of shouts as I stared at the back of her stupid yellow head with all her dumb curls. She won. She took the Rainbow Brite and held it limply. She didn't even hug it to her or hold it above her head.

She probably already has one.

I never moved from my spot standing over the egg. Dad came over and hugged me. I'm sure he told me it was ok and just a game, but I couldn't muster enough words to tell him how disappointed I was in myself. I had it and I choked. Not only was I the poor girl there, the one with the unfortunate mullet and the ugly shoes, but I cracked like my egg.

It was a dark, dark day. My root beer lost it's flavor, the funnel cakes weren't as sweet.

I look back on that day when I was nine and I'm thrilled that I never got a Rainbow Brite doll. First, all the sluts that wear the costume on Halloween have marred my memory of sprites, Twink and anything with moon boots.

But, secondly?

Well, had I had the good clothes, won the races and ambivalently held my prizes I would never appreciate the fight that I learned that was deep inside me. It is the fight that makes victory sweeter, success well-earned and a Rainbow Brite doll, Cabbage Patch and even a Glo Worm within my reach.

And even if I never get to try on a pair of Roos, the Michael Kors make it all ok.