In June of 1985, just as Barry Roggebusch was about to turn nine whole years old, a new and ghastly deformed pop cultural phenomenon stamped its mangled foot in the complacent mire of the Reaganomic landscape: Garbage Pail Kids!
First of all, I'm sure you remember Cabbage Patch Dolls, right? Those tiny, innocent, sundae-skinned, Chia Pet-haired dollies who looked so much like real-life cuddly infants and, at the same time, looked like they'd ram their pacifier down your gullet and think nothing of it? No, really. Those things were creepy. If I had to guess where writer Don Mancini got the idea for that horror flick Child's Play? You know, the one about that adorable little doll that goes all cock diesel with a steak knife? I'd say he got it from the Cabbage Patch. Dude probably took one look at those dead-eyed little squirts and was like, "Holy shit! If that thing were alive right now, it'd find the nearest sharp object and tear out my ticker!" And so, a comic horror franchise was born, and actor Brad Dourif discovered his niche.
So anyway, the inimitable Garbage Pail Kids were a direct and overwhelming response to the Cabbage Patch. Some mad genius at the Topps trading card company, whose brain I'd pay top moolah to have in my skull right now, decided to go balls to the wall with the whole demonic infant thing. I mean really. Why make tiny guys and gals under the guise of cuddly innocence when even Helen Keller could see they were 100% guaranteed malevolence? And so was spawned a brand new breed of the foulest, most disgusting, most disturbing race of children this side of the Styx. But wait! The genius goes even further! Instead of actual dolls (Topps don't do dolls, man), they designed their characters as trading cards. That way, right? It's so much cheaper, and the mad genius could flex his wicked imagination to the max in nightmaring up as many hideous little hobgoblins his brain could spew out. But wait! The genius isn't done yet! Instead of just one name per Kid, he came up with two! That's right. So he'd design one Kid, and then produce two cards per, each with its own hilarious name. For instance, one pair of cards from series one had this little diaper-clad baby sitting on its pink blankie....puking up all of its toys. On the first one, its name was Up Chuck; on the other, Heavin' Steven. A series three Kid was a Venus fly trap in the process of snacking on someone, an arm dangling from the maws. This fly trap Kid was called Juicy Jessica on the first card, Green Dean 
on the other. See what I mean? Each series of Kids featured about forty such pairings, which meant that devotees such as Barry Roggebusch would have no less than eighty cards to collect per series. But wait! The genius still isn't done! Not only were these trading cards. They were stickers to boot/kick! So if you didn't care about preserving the cards in clear plastic until you were seventy, at which time you could cash in and create a double-named nest egg or something, you could peel some of these little deformed bad girls and boys and use them to deform the living shit out of every piece of furniture in your house. Indeed, the latter is what you'd probably do. It's what Barry did. Topps didn't create this miniature master race to cater to the crowd that cares about the condition of their friggin' cards decades after they've bought them. Barry didn't buy these things just to stick 'em in plastic and store 'em in the closet. He bought them to revel in them, just as much as Slobby Robbie and Fat Matt from series one reveled in gorging themselves on candy and ice cream until they crushed the weight scale.
on the other. See what I mean? Each series of Kids featured about forty such pairings, which meant that devotees such as Barry Roggebusch would have no less than eighty cards to collect per series. But wait! The genius still isn't done! Not only were these trading cards. They were stickers to boot/kick! So if you didn't care about preserving the cards in clear plastic until you were seventy, at which time you could cash in and create a double-named nest egg or something, you could peel some of these little deformed bad girls and boys and use them to deform the living shit out of every piece of furniture in your house. Indeed, the latter is what you'd probably do. It's what Barry did. Topps didn't create this miniature master race to cater to the crowd that cares about the condition of their friggin' cards decades after they've bought them. Barry didn't buy these things just to stick 'em in plastic and store 'em in the closet. He bought them to revel in them, just as much as Slobby Robbie and Fat Matt from series one reveled in gorging themselves on candy and ice cream until they crushed the weight scale.Ah yes, deforming the house with GPK stickers. If there was one house where such a task posed a challenge worthy of the Garbage Pail name, it would be the house at 48 Broad St. In the end, the house was far too big and too full of big people (from Barry's fourth grade point of view) to inflict much deformation on. Still, that didn't stop the boy from getting caught up in the Garbage Pail wave. Au contraire. The Garbage Pail Kids spawned an epidemic of card-purchasing frenzy. By the time Topps released series four in May of 1986, which is when the story collection 48 Broad takes place, the epidemic had ballooned into a pandemic, and Barry was but one of the innumerable victims.
Actually, it might be more accurate to call Barry a beneficiary. After all, it wasn't his money being spent on the gobs of cards that slowly accumulated within the flimsy cardboard walls of the 
old Converse shoebox he'd gotten for the purpose from his half-brother Daniel, in his bedroom (the Blue Room) on the third floor. Frank gave his youngest an allowance same as the other six boys. Unfortunately not even those five weekly dollars could curtail the bind in which Barry found himself upon series four's release. GPK's most devoted deformity lovers greeted series four with nothing less than a fever pitch, but Barry was at a loss as to how he could get swept up in it. It was impossible if he didn't have any money, and by May he was still spending every penny he had on the first three series. He still hadn't gotten all 120 pairings. It wasn't from lack of trying. And in trying, he now had who knew how many copies of each pairing. If he opened another pack to find Horsey Henry (or his twin, Galloping Glen), he'd throw up. One more Slain Wayne (or Ventilated Vennie) and he'd march the three blocks to the Mount Holly Pharmacy, his home away from home, and demand a refund.
old Converse shoebox he'd gotten for the purpose from his half-brother Daniel, in his bedroom (the Blue Room) on the third floor. Frank gave his youngest an allowance same as the other six boys. Unfortunately not even those five weekly dollars could curtail the bind in which Barry found himself upon series four's release. GPK's most devoted deformity lovers greeted series four with nothing less than a fever pitch, but Barry was at a loss as to how he could get swept up in it. It was impossible if he didn't have any money, and by May he was still spending every penny he had on the first three series. He still hadn't gotten all 120 pairings. It wasn't from lack of trying. And in trying, he now had who knew how many copies of each pairing. If he opened another pack to find Horsey Henry (or his twin, Galloping Glen), he'd throw up. One more Slain Wayne (or Ventilated Vennie) and he'd march the three blocks to the Mount Holly Pharmacy, his home away from home, and demand a refund.Series four hadn't been out a week yet when Barry began drowning in desperation. His father may only have given him five smackers a week, but Barry knew there was oh so much more where that came from. What's more, he knew exactly where it came from. And so, on a quiet weekday afternoon on an otherwise pleasant, if a bit humid, Jersey spring day, Barry came home to find most of the house deserted. His father was teaching at Temple University today. Two or three days a week would see him do that. Otherwise his expanding cheese- and booze-fed ass would be parked in his office on the second floor. Barry's stepmom Faith was out s
omewhere with one of her two boys. And all the other boys? One or two were around the house somewhere. The rest were out with their pals or their girlfriends. Who knew and, more importantly, who cared? All Barry knew was that the avenue to salvation was wide and clear and no one would see him take it. The avenue in question was the second floor hallway, which ended at his father and stepmother's bedroom. And it was there, in the top drawer of his father's dresser, the sock drawer (why is it always the sock drawer?), where he'd find paper and plastic of the monetary variety. For reasons Barry still didn't get, his father had never used a wallet in his life. Ever. Frank would pronounce this once in a while with a note of pride. And then he'd explain why, but Barry never understood. Every other male adult used a wallet. Why couldn't his father? No matter. Frank's not doing so always meant there was an appreciable amount of cash in his sock drawer, as well as a credit card or two. The plastic meant nothing to Barry. He had no idea what they were for or what they meant. He was plenty old enough to understand the green paper with dead presidents on them, though. On the particular afternoon when he opened the drawer, he reached in, clutched the wad with his fat little fingers, closed the drawer, and calmly walked up to the Blue Room like everything was hunky dory. That single act, of course, is what precipitated everything going to shit for everyone at 48 Broad. More on that another time.
omewhere with one of her two boys. And all the other boys? One or two were around the house somewhere. The rest were out with their pals or their girlfriends. Who knew and, more importantly, who cared? All Barry knew was that the avenue to salvation was wide and clear and no one would see him take it. The avenue in question was the second floor hallway, which ended at his father and stepmother's bedroom. And it was there, in the top drawer of his father's dresser, the sock drawer (why is it always the sock drawer?), where he'd find paper and plastic of the monetary variety. For reasons Barry still didn't get, his father had never used a wallet in his life. Ever. Frank would pronounce this once in a while with a note of pride. And then he'd explain why, but Barry never understood. Every other male adult used a wallet. Why couldn't his father? No matter. Frank's not doing so always meant there was an appreciable amount of cash in his sock drawer, as well as a credit card or two. The plastic meant nothing to Barry. He had no idea what they were for or what they meant. He was plenty old enough to understand the green paper with dead presidents on them, though. On the particular afternoon when he opened the drawer, he reached in, clutched the wad with his fat little fingers, closed the drawer, and calmly walked up to the Blue Room like everything was hunky dory. That single act, of course, is what precipitated everything going to shit for everyone at 48 Broad. More on that another time.So what was it that drew Barry to the Garbage Pail Kids with so much fervor? What would make him risk getting into so much trouble just to continue his relationship with two-dimensional deformities? I don't want to get too analytical. Barry was hardly the only human under five feet who devoted so much time to the GPKs and to chewing that cardboard gum and to sniffing the wrapper for that ineffable scent of cards mixed with gum powder. Zillions of kiddies did so, but the vast majority of them weren't dumb enough to steal $500 from their parents. Yes, that's how much Barry ended up pilfering, although he didn't know the exact amount until much later. He didn't bother counting during the crime. The wad was too thick to worry with specifics. Still, he knew he was taking quite the sum. And he knew it was wrong. So why? Could it be that he could relate to these little felonies against nature better than he could to anyone three dimensional? After all, he was sort of deformed himself. The Bell's palsy that nearly killed him three years earlier had left the muscle tone on the left side of his face permanently damaged. That meant his left eyelid hung lower than the right. When he smiled, only the right side of his face would cooperate. The left would remain almost neutral. When he cried, once again, only his right side would have the strength to emote. It looked not unlike Rocky Balboa crying out for his beloved Adrian. Even when Barry wasn't showing any emotion, when you or I would have just a neutral look on our face, his countenance would appear locked in a scowl courtesy of the left side of his face having a slight sag, with a clear boundary between his cheek and the skin around his mouth, while the right side remained uniformly smooth. If you didn't know this was simply residue from a near-fatal illness, you might think the young lad was scowling at you, when in fact all he was doing was looking. Nothing more. Our poor Barry rubbed a lot of people the wrong way by just passing his eyes in their general direction. A lot of people thought he was giving them what in today's parlance is called the stink eye. Suffice it to say that Barry didn't have many friends. Coupled with his bed wetting, you might say Barry was a bit of a biological freak himself. If he were a Garbage Pail pairing, you might call one card Bed Wetting Barry, and the other, Wrong Eye Roggebusch. Maybe that's why he clung to the Garbage Pail Kids with white-knuckled fandom. I mean shit, look at these Kids. Ugly as cuss, and they could still make you laugh. Barry liked making people laugh too. Fourth grade was around the time he realized he might actually have a knack for it. Sometimes he felt he had no choice, what with the way he could piss people off without effort just by looking at them. But who would make Barry laugh? Perhaps that was another outlet the Kids provided. Most people at 48 Broad only opened their mouths in his direction if they wanted him to do something or reprimand him for doing something wrong.
And that, of course, has got to make you wonder what in Christ he was thinking when he grabbed all that cash from the proverbial sock drawer of his father Frank Roggebusch.
