LEGO (12 page)

“The proportions are all wrong. They’re longer than regular minifigs and too skinny. Look at these arms,” he said as he affixed a sloped piece to the alien.

“So, Felix Greco and I were talking several years back. We decided that they’re aliens, aliens which live underwater as a race of sea monkeys and that led to building manta rays and attack crabs.” He pulled out his cell phone from the red LEGO brick case it is always inside, showing me a picture of a fierce tan creature with articulated LEGO claws.

He went on to describe the creation myth developed in a series of e-mails with Felix nearly six years ago. The sea monkeys apparently can communicate telepathically, yet they maintain a religion and a ruling caste—the Court of Great Minds. Originally they were discovered by Captain Nemo’s
Nautilus,
but their existence remained secret until a diary was discovered in the wreck of the doomed ship. Mixed within the fiction is an account of how LEGO sets might have factored into the evolving culture of the sea monkeys. Greco had focused on obscure kits like the Alpha Team, part of a series known as the Deep Sea Mission, drafting a story that the Alpha Team befriended the sea monkeys to fight the Forsaken—a faction of evil sea monkeys noted by their black helmets.

Recalling my conversation with Joe, I’m excited to have a direction and I think he will appreciate the joke. I have only one slight problem. The Mars Mission aliens aren’t included in the parts I have in front of me. So I can build a sea monkey vehicle or environment—it just wouldn’t feature sea monkeys. “Under the Sea” from
The Little Mermaid
is stuck on repeat inside my head.

Since I’m facing forward and there’s now nobody to talk to, I settle into the process of moving pieces around a small green baseplate. I grab a shiny 1 × 4 brown plate and begin to dance it up and down. I consider building a scene from
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,
but the color palette is wrong and that seems dreadfully complicated. Sebastian the crab is replaced by the classical tune that propels brooms to dance magically. I run my fingers through the front of my hair, twirling an errant curl. When I’m stuck for an idea, this usually helps me. I imagine it jump-starting my brain like the crank on a Model-T Ford. A conversation from two nights before in the hospitality suite pops into my head.

“You should do a ‘girls of LEGO’ issue,” Jeremy Spurgeon teased Joe Meno. Jeremy is the editor of
Railbricks,
an online magazine for LEGO train enthusiasts.

“A
Brickjournal
swimsuit issue,” Abner Finley said with a laugh, unaware that he would be in the Belville challenge just two days later.

“We have a female builder’s section. I mistakenly thought it had to be pink for the first few issues,” said Joe.

“That’s what I don’t get. Why does it always have to be pink for girls?” said Dave Sterling, the green beaded necklace he was wearing bouncing with his enthusiasm. “My wife, Stacy, would be fine with pink, but she wants pink skulls.”

“Really? Pink skulls?” I asked. I tried to picture Stacy, dressed in khakis and a green cardigan, playing with pink skulls.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t know it,” Dave replied. “But she’s a huge power metal and punk fan. She built an entire goth record store in our display.”

And that’s the spark.
Pink skulls.

I notice the white skeleton minifig, and the inklings of what I’m going to build begin to form. I grab his torso and wonder if I’ve got the right pieces to construct a grave. Gray pieces from the Castle and Aqua Raiders fit together to form a tombstone. My 1 × 4 brown plate becomes the dirt for a burial plot, and slick black plates frame the dirt.

I slide a set of fairy wings onto the skeleton torso and am pleased for the first time with what I’m building. It took me only twenty-two minutes to place the pink fabric wings on the skeleton. I separate out the Belville pieces to try to determine what I’m going to build around the grave of the figure that I am now thinking of as a dead fairy godmother. On some level, I register that people are actively watching us build, but I keep my eyes flashing between the time on my phone and the pieces I want to use.

I settle on a plastic pink girl, the original Blossom Fairy, who has a watering can. She’s going to be watering her garden and attempting to bring her fairy godmother back to life. I’m confident that nobody else will be working on this motif.

“Abner’s working on the Belville,” a voice calls out from a group of three guys, all of whom have cell phones clipped to their belts. Before he responds, they all laugh and keep on walking. It’s good-natured, and I half-expect them to high-five one another. I wish for friends who would make fun of me for building with a girl’s LEGO set.

The next ten minutes pass quickly as I struggle to build a tree trunk and break apart the flowers that come packaged in fours. Circular pieces don’t want to snap down on the green baseplate, and I find myself trying to force them down. My fingers have turned red with the effort. I think of my Grandpa Morty, who once offered a simple piece of home improvement (and life) advice.
Don’t force something. If it doesn’t want to go in easily, you might not be doing it right. So just take it easy and don’t force it.

I stop pushing hard and slowly turn the white, barrel-shaped brick. It quickly snaps into place. I silently thank my grandfather and realize that I have just experienced what Simba goes through when his ancestors impart wisdom from the clouds. God, I love
The Lion King.
I’m surprised to see that my hands have a slight tremor, and I make a mental note to find some manual dexterity exercises to practice.

“Five minutes to go,” Esther announces, and I panic. I quickly erect a white fence and some jewel-topped white sculptures, and I place flowers on the grave site. I can’t get a golden crown to sit on the top of the skeleton’s head. All LEGO minifigs come with knobs on the top of their heads to allow you to stick on hats or hairpieces. Unfortunately, the skeleton has a tiny thread of plastic running through the center, which prevents me from balancing the crown properly. When I can’t find the skeleton’s legs in the pile of bricks, I decide that those are still buried beneath the “ground,” as the fairy godmother hasn’t been brought back to life.

As I attach the green fronds and try to keep the pink girl from tipping over from the weight of a watering can, I hear Esther’s voice.

“Bricks down; stop building. The judges are here and they will be judging what you’ve built based on the intricacy and creativity of what you’ve built,” says Esther.

I nervously fuss to make sure that everything will stay upright and then I step back.
Pencils down, the exam is over.
I look around for the first time at the other creations, and I’m glad to see that what I built at least belongs on the table.

The two entrants to my right are first to explain to the four judges what they’ve constructed. I feel good that I guessed correctly about people beginning with the oversize pink tower pieces from the Belville set. Both have elaborate pink castles presiding over pitched battles as part of a vignette based on traditional knight warfare. The sound of my heart pumping blood drowns out their explanations. I catch only bits of their explanations—“princess warrior,” “heat of the battle,” and “snakes attacking.”

Then the four judges are standing in front of me. The process is meant to be informal, and they simply ask if I can tell them about what I’ve built. Esther is joined by Tracy Dale and Chris Petrie, two women who run Brick-a-thon, a LEGO brick store in St. Petersburg, Florida. These are some of the most active women in the female fan community.

I smile, and as I exhale, I begin talking.

“This is essentially a garden scene. It’s a story of a girl and her fairy godmother, but with a twist. Sadly, this little girl’s fairy godmother has passed away and she is attempting to bring her back to life. You’ll notice the fairy godmother’s skeleton is half-raised from the grave, her legs are still buried.”

I’m proud that I didn’t mention that I couldn’t locate the skeleton’s legs, and that dictated my decision to stop building at the torso. The judges are smiling politely, but I have no idea if it’s because I’m talking at such a rapid pace or if they wonder whether I was drinking while building.

“She has fairy wings, a magic wand, and a crown, which unfortunately didn’t stay on her head—as she is a skeleton minifig.” I kick myself for sharing that detail, until one of them sympathetically chimes in and saves me from revealing more information about my building deficiencies.

“Oh that’s right,” says Chris, “those minifigs don’t have the hollow opening on the top of their heads.”

I silently thank her and rattle on for another thirty seconds. “The girl has actually filled her watering can with blood, which has come from this fountain over here.” I point to the corner of the vignette, where I have filled a gold-topped fountain with pink jewels meant to represent blood.

“Thank you,” says Esther, and we are all glad that I’m done talking. The judges smile, and I step back, running a hand through my hair.

“Dude, you’re pretty dark,” says Chris from Kentucky.

“I guess I am,” I respond.

Linda, the art historian whom I inadvertently tried to cheat with earlier, has constructed an impromptu art museum. She tells me later that she was inspired by the lecture on LEGO as an art medium that we both attended instead of going to lunch.

Meanwhile, Abner is the last to display what he has built. A customized chariot is rolling up to a castle where knights are preparing a feast for the arriving lady. He has managed to turn a barrel into an open oven, and the white kitten is upside down and being prepared for dinner. I laugh, and suddenly don’t feel so dark. But then, realizing I just laughed at a tableau that featured a cat being roasted, I feel even darker.

The judges thank all of us and explain that the results will be announced at the awards ceremony on Sunday night. We’re told that we can carry our creations into the ballroom where Brickworld is being held. Esther has written our names on scraps of paper, and each of us puts down our small scene on the table reserved for Belville creations.

My scene takes up five inches of a four-foot table, but I feel genuinely proud. In fifty-seven minutes, I have addressed my biggest regret and answered my biggest question.

I spent the first thirty-six hours at Brickworld upset that I hadn’t brought anything to display. A lot of the social scene revolves around talking about what you’ve built, how you’ve built it, and what you’re going to build. Without something you’ve created, you can’t have those discussions. When you go in empty-handed, it’s like walking into the executive washroom as an intern and striking up a conversation. It just feels like you’re asking too many questions in a place where you’re not quite ready to be just yet.

On the other hand, my biggest question was a simple one: “Can I build?” Not just stack bricks, but build something that would make people want to ask me questions about the choices I made and the pieces I used. In short, I want to become a builder whom other people talk about.

During the two days after the Belville challenge, I find myself lurking near the table where my creation is displayed. I’m hoping to overhear conversations about what I’ve built, and I’m curious to see if anyone will care.

My ears perk up when a six-year-old girl with blond pigtails pulls her father over late Saturday morning on the first day of the public exhibit.

“Look, Daddy, look,” she yells. I’m excited because she’s standing right in front of my scene.

“What honey?” he asks. I wait, involuntarily leaning forward.

“Pink. Pink LEGO,” she screams happily, and drags him toward the next table, which features hundreds of minifigs.

I haven’t won over the critics just yet.

One of the largest space displays anywhere, AFOL Brian Darrow’s thirty-four-foot long Blacktron Intelligence Agency is fully assembled only for shows like Brickworld.

A few hours later, and Saturday evening is getting close to Sunday morning. Kate has returned from visiting friends in Chicago. We’re in our hotel room, and I’m going to unveil a surprise. Earlier I bought a LEGO set at a charity auction. I hold it behind my back and tell her I have a present. She holds out her hands and closes her eyes, as is our custom.

“Oh man, we have to wait until Christmas!” she exclaims, quickly explaining to her Jewish husband the rudimentary steps involved in opening the 2007 LEGO City Advent calendar. The set is designed like a traditional Advent calendar, with twenty-four cut-out windows. The idea is to open one window each day, beginning on December 1, to count down the days until December 24, Christmas Eve.

“Nope, it’s from 2007.” I snatch away the briefcase-size box and begin to open window number 10.

“Wait.” She stops me. “You have to open them in order.”