Action Figure
by Christopher Boucher
I guess I was honored that Sad Chris, an action figure version of me, was the big holiday seller that year. Sad Chrises, I should say, as there were several versions: Sad Chris in the Fetal Position; Sad Chris on a Bar Stool; Sad Chris in the Gastroenterologist’s Waiting Room; Sad Chris in the Rain. Then, in early November, a new Sad Chris was announced: Sad Chris Plus, who could weep real tears, gain weight over time, and gradually lose his hair.
I’m still not sure why I was chosen as the model for an action figure in the first place, but the company that made it — Soleil, Inc. — told me they compiled a list of the most depressing profiles they could find and chose mine from over a thousand finalists. Anyway, I was in no position to turn down their offer; they paid me well for the unlimited rights to my image, and even promised me a free box of Sad Chrises.
I never got that box, though; by the time it arrived, Sad Chrises were selling like hotcakes and my shipment was stolen right off my porch. I emailed my contact at Soleil to request a replacement, but she said they were on backorder. Sure enough, I looked online and couldn’t find a single Sad Chris anywhere. Then I heard about a flash sale at Amazing Ken’s in the mall, so I went (dressed in a hat and sunglasses, since I was recognized everywhere now) and waited in a long line of parents. A few people in the front got Sad Chrises — they passed me carrying purple boxes with my scowling face on them — but the store sold out before I could get mine. Amazing Ken’s announced that they’d be offering rainchecks, but I was too depressed to wait for one; I just stepped out of line and walked back to my car.
Not long after Christmas, though, there was a Sad Chris backlash. I saw some complaints online that the figures were too sad — unrealistically so. And I guess some of the Sad Chris Pluses malfunctioned: one viral video showed a SC+ that lost his hair all in one clump, another Chris that wouldn’t stop crying.
Instead of giving up on the Sad Chris, though, Soleil doubled down and debuted a new model: the Sentient Sad Chris, which they said was so lifelike that it breathed real air, spoke to you, and used the bathroom — the figure even had ulcerative colitis, like me. Since I never got my order of original Sad Chrises, I treated myself to one of the new models. It arrived by mail in an orange and grey box, and when I opened it the figure blinked his eyes and handed me a tiny oxygen tank. “Thanks!” he said. “It was getting stuffy in there.” Then the Sad Chris looked into my face. “Hey,” he said. “Are you — you’re not — ”
I nodded. “I am,” I said.
The Sad Chris let out a big breath. “Wow!” he said. “What can I say? I’m honored.”
Things went OK with the Sentient Sad Me at first; we watched TV together and went out for fast food a few times, and he even accompanied me to my psychiatrist’s appointment. When I lay down on my couch at night to read my phone, Sad Chris would flop down on the adjacent chair and read his own tiny phone.
Within a week or so, though, Sad Chris started complaining that he was bored. One morning, as the sun knifed its way through my kitchen window, Sad Chris suggested we call up some of my friends and get a beer downtown. “No thanks,” I said, opening up my laptop.
Sad Chris climbed up onto the kitchen table. “Do you have any friends, Chris?”
“I have an ex-wife,” I said.
“Is that it?”
“And I have you,” I said.
“What about your job? Any friends there?”
I could feel myself getting irritated. “I work from home,” I said.
Sad Chris made the sound of air leaving a balloon. “Well, I can certainly see why they chose you.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“If you want my opinion?”
“I don’t, actually,” I said.
“I’m just saying,” said the figure. “You might be happier if you got out of the house more oft-”
I jumped up from the table and grabbed the figure around the waist.
“Whoa!” he said. “What are you doing?”
I didn’t respond — I just silently stormed into the pantry and found the box for the Sentient Sad Chris.
“Chris!” said Sad Chris.
“I’m returning you,” I said.
“What?” he said. “You — you can’t do that. You already opened the box! I have to be in like-new condition!”
“You’re defective,” I said. “You’re not sad enough.”
“Wait a second,” shouted the Sad Chris as I shoved him into the box. “I’ll… listen, man! I’ll run out of air in there! Those tanks are almost empty. Please!” Then I closed the box, sealed it in the original mailer, and carried it out of my apartment and directly to the Post Office.
Sad Chris was right about the return; the box came back to me a week later with a notification that the product was not in resalable condition and couldn’t be returned. So I just put the box back in the pantry. As I placed it on the shelf, I could hear a banging coming from the box, and I think the sound of a distant voice as well. Two or three days later, I walked into the pantry to get something and I heard a furious scratching from the box. Within a few days, though, the scratching grew faint. Soon, I couldn’t hear myself at all.
Christopher Boucher is the author of the novels Big Giant Floating Head, Golden Delicious and How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive, all out from Melville House. He lives in western Massachusetts and teaches writing and literature at Boston College.
