LEGO by Jonathan Bender

yellow LEGO T-shirt struggles to pick up six set boxes at once.
    “It’s like a shopping spree you always dreamed of as a kid,” I say to him, stepping aside as a pair of teenage boys walk past, excitedly pointing to the Indiana Jones sets.
    “Except you’ve got to pay for it when you get the bill next month,” he responds, laughing, and he walks toward the back of the store, where a LEGO employee has just emerged with an armful of Green Grocer sets in an attempt to restock. The employee won’t even reach the shelves in the front before he is empty-handed again.
    I’m experiencing stimulus overload, so I mostly stand in the middle of the store like a child hoping he isn’t really lost. I’m struck that, despite a lack of personal space, I don’t see one angry face or hear a terse word. This is what bliss feels like.
    Dave Sterling walks up to me, a big grin on his face.
    “I thought you might forget these.” He hands over two green brick separators. “You should have at least two.”
    “You weren’t making it up,” I say with a smile as he disappears into the crowd.
    I eventually settle on buying a Pick A Brick cup, an oversize clear cup you can fill for $15 with whatever loose bricks and pieces are available. A savvy LEGO collector can stock up on parts well below retail or aftermarket cost. I am not savvy, but I pretend. I marvel over bright orange 1 × 4s and translucent blue 2 × 2s. I load up on white plates, window frames, and 1 × 1 headlight bricks. To paraphrase Mr. Barnum, I’m the sucker born right this minute.
    An hour later, I’ve reached the front of the line. I place my Pick A Brick cup and two LEGO separators on the counter.
    “What do we have here?” says the guy working the counter.
    “That’s everything,” I shrug. The register reads $19.61.
    “This is kind of anticlimactic,” he says, gesturing to the two gargantuan sales bags that the person in front of me is still struggling to carry from the store.
    “I know,” I admit. “But we can pretend that I just helped you reach your sales goal for the quarter.”
    He half-laughs. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Okay. Have fun at the convention.” And he’s on to the next customer.
    On the ride home, I tell Dave a bit sheepishly that I wish I had bought more LEGO, I just wasn’t sure what I wanted. He tells me about how his mom used to put LEGO bricks in his Easter eggs instead of candy.
    “She thought it would be healthier than candy. She didn’t want me to have so many sweets. Little did she know.” He laughs before continuing: “But you have to careful. It’s like gambling once you start, because you just keep buying. You think about a LEGO piece and it’s just five cents. So you tell yourself, I’ll just buy a hundred and that’s only five dollars. But then you do that twenty times, and you’ve suddenly spent a hundred dollars.”
    I kind of want the rush that comes from spending a hundred dollars. I want my regret to be over credit card statements and embarrassing confessions to Kate. Because right now, I only regret that I haven’t bought more.

7
    Pink Skulls
    My effort in the Belville challenge, highlighted by the skeletal fairy godmother.

    It’s the second day of the convention, and the volume is beginning to rise in the Elm Room at the Westin Chicago North Shore. A LEGO conspiracy—I didn’t think such a thing existed. But I’m riveted as adult fans discuss the possibility that LEGO is leaking information about new sets. I turn my head to the back of the room to see who is talking, and I see the oversize figure of Bryan Bonahoom. With a mop of curly brown hair and a laugh like Chris Farley, he often can be heard before he is seen. But on this occasion, he just points to me and mouths one word: “Belville.”
    I nod my head and pack up my bag as my heart slowly begins to thud in my chest. I’ve been selected for one of the alternate build contests, the Belville challenge. The twenty other people in the room