Curse of the Claw Machine
My mother has been bringing our little man a number of stuffed animals lately. It’s a troubling development because it can only mean one thing. Her addiction to the Claw Machine is back. It was an obsession that started out small—a few bears here, a duck or indistinguishable animal there. But by the time I was a junior in high school, she had had she amassed a collection so large that no one in our family could open the downstairs closet without buckling under the weight of beady eyes and plushy critter parts. But then one day, the stockpiling stopped. I didn’t know why, and because she had taken to storing them under my bathroom sink, I never bothered to ask. So here we are 15 years later and now the lucky recipient of her Claw Machine winnings is no longer a charity, landfill, or unsuspecting Jehovah Witness ringing our doorbell. No, it is my child, who at the sight of my mother’s last gift, a deformed effigy of the “The Hulk,” screamed so loudly and for so long, I can only hope she now has the perfect reason to say goodbye to her beloved Claw Machine.