Yesterday mother came to me with an old dirty Cabbage Patch Kid doll of my sister's and asked me to throw it away for her. 'I have trouble with that sort of thing, too,' I replied.
Mannequins seem to be a recurring thing in my life these days. I've accepted it, though I don't know what it means. The corridors beneath the War Memorial are lately lined with very old ones; a gauntlet of decaying body parts and pretty faces which I must pass by to reach the golf cart which takes us down to Monument Circle in the morning.
Last year Macy's had me throw a long line of obsolete mannequins into the electric trash grinder. I fear a similar fate awaits these relics. So here is a waiting room for death, it seems. And they all have different faces:
The police captain tells me the mannequins are bound for the state police training grounds. He selects a few to take back with him whenever he works at the Memorial. You see, the new recruits use them as target practice. I thought maybe I could save just one, but we all know how that turns out... Captain says wool stocking caps are pulled over the dummies heads to minimize post-execution clean-up. Well, at least the poor things won't see what's coming.