Or more like, mills around. Hangs out. I’m not stuck here or anything, it’s not like that. I watch the lady who comes in and restocks the machine, observe the people patiently lining up behind her; I hear Labubus aren’t even cool anymore, yet there’s still a cohort of die-hards, resellers, and hopeless romantics waiting at each restock. There was even a fistfight the other day. People gossiping about that reignited them discussing the story of how I died, but the details are never right. Sometimes they make the story sadder than it is, though usually I’m reduced to a punchline. And that’s okay. It brings them joy, like the Labubu. And that’s important—increasingly rare—because I know my murder was desperate, needy. It was done by kids unable to cope with the unfairness of a world that showed them war and genocide more easily than it would let them buy a Labubu. I heard them behind me in line at the Popmart vending machine: the girl was on her phone, talking about the news—we had just bombed someone, or paid for the bombing, or possibly gotten bombed; I didn’t quite hear—while the boy was grumbling that they only had cash and it looked like the machine didn’t take cash. It was true, the machine didn’t take cash. Their cash was useless. Insult to injury, their cash didn’t matter either way when I got the last Labubu in the machine. That’s what broke them, I think. The convenience of buying something that they couldn’t even buy anymore had been stripped away. They had nothing to look forward to.
Everyone else left when they realized I’d gotten the last Labubu, but the kids stayed behind. As I held my box proudly, they looked devastated. There were no words between them, just a tired, hungry stare that fulminated into righteous rage. The boy jumped on me, and the girl kicked my legs until I fell over. There were grunts through gritted teeth. The boy ripped the box away from me, his eyes closed as if he wanted no part of what was happening; he was an unwilling witness to his own actions. In shock, I went into cardiac arrest. The girl knew this was happening, but the boy convinced her it was just a panic attack. He had them all the time; he would know. I believed him. He said I would be fine. I didn’t believe him. He unclenched his fist and placed a few crinkled dollars near my hand as I squeezed my left arm. Between shallow gasps, my last words were, “Which one is it?”
They didn’t hear me, or tried not to, and ran away. I hope they got a good one. Something that would make this worthwhile. It’s better they didn’t open it in front of me. Now that blind box gets to hold whatever I imagine. If they ever did come back, I decided to stick around so I could see it. Because I know what I was about to receive could only be better. In my dying moments, it could be a secret one! That 1-in-72 shot I’d never have a chance of getting in my life. Or maybe something even better; who knows?
As my eyes close, Schrodinger's Labubu dances.
