Conversations with Slinky

Hello my name is Ebeneezer Smith
Thank you for staying with me.(mutters to himself)
All right. Let’s see what kind of neighbors I’ve got.
There is a set of plastic building bricks.
There is a board game whose box I remember arguing over with my cousins.
And in the “Comfort and Companions” section, a bear that looks suspiciously like something I once slept with every night until I was far too old to admit it.

[SOUND: Footsteps slow.] And I admit this is the kind of atmosphere that does make you want to talk to yourself

Well, hello there, middle-school emotional support system.

Footsteps

Everything is quiet.
Ordinary.
Almost disappointingly normal.

Let me see - here is a gallery labeled: “American Playthings: 1940s–1960s.”

A soft metallic… whisper.

[SOUND: Very faint first shhhink… shhhink…]

It has to be nothing.
The building settling.
A vent conductor rattling.
The ghost of a shopping cart from the discount store next door.

Transcript

George Bartley - plain text

Ebeneezer Smith - bold text

Slinky - italic text

Welcome to Celebrate Creativity. This series is called Conversations with Toys. And this specific episode is entitled Conversing with Slinky.

Before we begin, let me get the necessary disclaimer out-of-the-way.

“Just a quick heads-up before we start. This episode is about toys as stories and creativity, not about products. I’m not connected with, sponsored by, or endorsed by any toy company, and any brand names you hear are just there to help tell the story—not to sell anything.”

That said… toys do have histories.
They do carry memories.
And sometimes, at least in our imagination, they have a few things they’d like to say.

I’m George Bartley… now let’s have some fun.  And let's start with the night watchmen.

Hello my name is Ebeneezer Smith
Thank you for staying with me.(mutters to himself)
All right. Let’s see what kind of neighbors I’ve got.
There is a set of plastic building bricks.
There is a board game whose box I remember arguing over with my cousins.
And in the “Comfort and Companions” section, a bear that looks suspiciously like something I once slept with every night until I was far too old to admit it.

[SOUND: Footsteps slow.] And I admit this is the kind of atmosphere that does make you want to talk to yourself

Well, hello there, middle-school emotional support system.

Footsteps

Everything is quiet.
Ordinary.
Almost disappointingly normal.

Let me see - here is a gallery labeled: “American Playthings: 1940s–1960s.”

A soft metallic… whisper.

[SOUND: Very faint first shhhink… shhhink…]

It has to be nothing.
The building settling.
A vent conductor rattling.
The ghost of a shopping cart from the discount store next door.

[SOUND: Footstep. Then again, clearer: shhhink… shhhink… shhhink…]

Okay. That’s… less like pipes and more like…A sound effect from a kids’ show.

Why, it's a slinky

[SOUND: A slightly louder shhhink-shhhink, like the spring is walking a small distance, then stopping.]

That Slinky is not where it was a moment ago.

It’s moved several inches by itself down the tiny staircase.  There's gotta be a logical explanation for this - maybe a camera, some wires, anything that would explain this - things just don't move by themselves.

Boing Boing Boing Boing Boing Boing

Either I’m very tired, or the spring is… migrating by itself

Boing Boing Boing Boing Boing Boing

Okay. That’s definitely motion.

Hello?

You should see me when I’m really warmed up.

Who said that?

Down here, chief.
Front row, center shelf.
The coil with the good posture.

I could swear that I imagined …

You’re not imagining me.
Trust me, imagination doesn’t usually get my physics right.  They took months before my inventor got it right.

Name’s Slinky.
Officially, the walking spring.
Unofficially, the champion of falling down stairs with style.
Actually you might call me a super slinky. Your regular slinky goes Down the stairs - I can go both up and down the stairs - that's something hot wheels can't say!

You’re… talking.

I prefer “holding a conversation.”
Talking is what new toys do in commercials.
Conversation is what old toys do when the building’s closed.

I’m… Ebenezer Smith. New night watchman.
I probably should’ve asked more questions in the interview.

You were warned about unusual conditions.
We’re about as unusual as it gets.

So super slinky - if I wanna talk to you - excuse me - hold a conversation with you - do I need to say do anything special?

No, you just have to believe that there are no limits, and anything is possible.

Deep down, I believe that I can handle that.    ……

So, Slinky…
How did you end up here, behind glass, in the Hall of Historic Fun?

Oh I like telling the story.  You see, Once upon a time, there was an engineer in a shipyard. He was playing with springs—not to entertain children, mind you, but to keep sensitive equipment from being damaged on rough seas. One day, one of those springs slipped off his workbench.
He could’ve just cursed, picked it up, and gone on with his day.
Instead, he watched.

He watched the spring tumble across the floor—
not in a heap, not in a sad clunk—
but in a kind of… organized tumble.

Step…
after step…
after step.

Like it was walking.

Exactly.
He saw that and thought,
“That’s not just a spring. That’s a toy.”

The night watchman pictured a shipyard, the clang of metal, the smell of oil… and in the middle of it, one little coil staging a jailbreak from engineering.

From there, it was development.
Finding just the right length, the right weight, the right number of coils so I could do my one trick with elegance and not just flop over like yesterday’s spaghetti.

Then, the big moment:
a department store demonstration.

I will never forget

THE DEPARTMENT STORE
[SOUND: Gently under Slinky’s voice, we hear a soft memory-bed: faint murmur of shoppers, an old-fashioned cash register ding, distant Christmas music—very soft.]

They cleared a staircase on the sales floor.
Children gathered.
Parents pretended they weren’t curious.

And then—down I went.
Step by step.
Clink… step… clink… all the way to the bottom.

No batteries.
No electricity.
No noise maker.
Just gravity and rhythm.

By the time I reached the floor, the crowd was hooked.
The kids were shouting,
“Do it again!”
The parents were calculating how many of me they needed to buy for stocking stuffers and which child would tangle me first.

And just like that, I was a star.
Well, I still had to survive the focus groups of the mid-twentieth century:
Dogs who thought I was prey.
Babies who thought I was jewelry.
Overenthusiastic uncles who thought I was an Olympic sport.

But yes. I got my moment.

I went down so many stairs.
Carpeted stairs.
Wooden stairs.
Stairs that had squeaks in the middle and loose nails at the bottom.

Sometimes, I made it all the way.
Sometimes, I lost my balance and ended up in a knot so tight it made adults swear with remarkable creativity.

I think I remember that.
My cousin and I spent an entire afternoon trying to untangle one.
It ended… badly.

I have a complicated relationship with gravity.
But for the children who got to see it work—
just once, just right—
I became magic.

A toy that didn’t just sit there.
Didn’t just beep or flash.
I moved.

And now you don’t.

Now I mostly pose.
I’m in my “museum era.”
Kids press their faces to the glass and say,
“Oh! We have one of those at home,”
or “Grandma had one of those,”
and the parents say, “Mine never worked,”
and I resist the urge to correct their technique.

How do you feel about it?
Being here instead of tumbling down some staircase?

Honestly?
It depends on the night.

Sometimes, I like it.
I like being part of a big story instead of just one child’s memory.
I like seeing field trips shuffle through, and watching kids try to figure out which old toys they recognize.

But other nights…

Other nights, I miss the feeling of being picked up by sticky hands.
I miss the moment right before the first step,
when everything could go right
or everything could go wrong
and either way, someone would yell.

Do you ever miss… falling?

All the time.
Falling was the point.

That’s the strange thing about being a Slinky in a museum:
My talent is motion…
and my job is to stand still.

So super slinky, at the risk of sounding philosophical,
what do you think makes a toy a toy?
Is it being played with?
Or is it enough just to be remembered?

(takes this seriously)
I’ve thought about that.
We have a doll across the hall that was never taken out of her original box.
She’s in perfect condition.
Never hugged, never dragged through the mud, never given a dramatic haircut.

Technically, she’s a toy.
But is she really?

Then you’ve got toys that are practically falling apart—
Missing wheels.
Worn paint.
Stuffing leaking out.

No collector would brag about them.
But they lived.
They were loved.
They did their job so intensely that they nearly disintegrated.

So… which is the “better” toy?

I’d pick the worn-out one.

So would I.
No offense to our mint-in-box friends.
But between existing to be perfect and existing to be loved,
I know which side of the glass I’d rather be on.

Even if it ends in a knot?

Especially if it ends in a knot.
Knots are proof someone cared enough to play too hard.

Music

Not to change the subject, but is this something that happens every night?
Talking toys?
Moving springs?
Or am I just special?

You’re not special.
(little chuckle)
Well, you might be.
But this isn’t about you.

We wake up after closing.
Some of us talk.
Some of us just… shift a bit.
Some of us are shy.

And you?

I’m somewhere in the middle.
I don’t mind a chat.
Especially with someone on two legs who actually listens.

Are there rules?

A few.

Rule one:
We never move when the building is officially open.
Daytime is for the living.
We respect the illusion.

Rule two:
If something does move during the day, everyone pretends they didn’t see it.
Blame vibration.

Rule three: and this is the most important rule
We don’t speak to everyone.
Just the ones who are listening in the right way.

What does that mean?

You came down this gallery and you didn’t just see “old junk.”
You saw memories.
You saw possibilities.
You asked questions in your head.

That’s enough.
We’re picky, but not snobs.

I have somewhat of a confession to make

I used to have a Slinky when I was a kid.
For about five days, it worked perfectly.
I thought it was a miracle—a toy that followed some invisible script.

Then it got tangled.
Hopelessly.
I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor, convinced that if I just concentrated hard enough, I could undo it.

My father finally took it away and said,
“Some things don’t untangle, son. We’ll get you another.”

He never did. 

And you still remember.

Decades later, in a different building, staring at a different Slinky, you still remember.

That’s the power of a toy.
Not the plastic.
Not the coil.
The echo it leaves in your life.

And now I’m the one keeping watch over all of you.

Funny how that works.
You thought you were just getting a job.

So what happens now?
Do I… log this?
“Object Possibly Moved – Cause Unknown – Also Gave Me a Philosophy Lecture”?

(laughs)
If it makes you feel better, write it down.
Museums love paperwork.

But maybe keep the lecture part to yourself.
They’re not ready to file us under “Oral Histories” just yet.

Don’t worry.
If I told them the Slinky’s doing existentialism, they’d send someone to evaluate us both.

Do what you need to.
All I ask is…

When you walk these halls at night,
remember that everything behind this glass once had a life outside it.
A bedroom.
A playground.
A living room floor.

We may be on display now…
but we are not finished telling our stories.

Deal.

I turn to go, taking one last look at the Slinky on its little staircase.For all the world, it looks completely still.
Just another object behind glass.
But the night feels different now.

Footsteps fade as he walks away.]

(calls out softly)
Hey, night man?

(turns)
Yeah?

If you hear a soft humming from the teddy bear gallery later…
Don’t worry.
They like to sing lullabies when the alarm system’s armed.

Noted.

And that’s how my first shift at the toy museum began.

Not with a burglar.
Not with a broken window.
But with a spring.

A coil of metal that once danced down department store stairs,
made children gasp,
and drove adults to distraction trying to untangle it.

In the daylight, Slinkys look simple.
Almost silly.

But in the middle of the night, when the museum is quiet and one new guard is learning just how strange his job can be,
a simple toy becomes a guide.

A guide to a whole world of stories.

Me. In the weeks ahead, our night watchman will meet other residents of this collection:

A teddy for a president.
A Shakespeare action figure with very strong opinions about his own merchandise.
An Edgar Allan Poe bobble-head who is absolutely certain he belongs in the “serious literature” wing, not next to the novelty mugs.
And of course Lego and the ever popular Barbie

And through them, we’ll explore not just what toys are, but what they mean - not just in this century, but eventually throughout history

If you’ve ever kept a toy longer than made practical sense—
stuffed it in a drawer,
carried it from one apartment to another,
hidden it on a shelf where only you know it sits—
you’ve already created your own tiny museum.

In this series, we’re just turning the lights on after hours…
and listening to what the exhibits have to say.

Thank you for joining me for this first night at the toy museum.
I’m George Bartley, this is Celebrate Creativity… and join us for the following podcast as Ebenezer Smith finds him self talking to a rather articulate teddy bear.

[MUSIC swells, then gently fades out.]

Aquarium from Carnival of the Animals by composed by Camille Sans-Saen, Performed by the Seattle Youth Orchestra. Source: https://musopen.org/music/1454-the-carnival-of-the-animals/. License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording).