Sitting in the far rear of the van, you start to pout. Frustration and anger push you to your boiling point. Your fists are clenched tight as you begin your furious attack and scream, “I want my G.I. Joes! I WANT ‘EM! I WANT ‘EM! I WANT EM!” Your little body starts to spaz out as you flail your little appendages this way and that, yelling for your demands to be met. You pound on the floor, the seats, the window. You lash out as hard you can in an effort to make those who deny you pay.

“THAT’S IT!”

The shout momentarily gives you pause. The van turns. You look out the window and see that you are arriving at some gas station. Everyone else in the vehicle seems to hold their breath, not making a sound, but sensing what is to come next. The van comes to a halt at the lot. The driver exits and stamps around to the passenger door, yanking it open, the loud rolling sound piercing your ears.

“GET OUT! NOW!”

You sit in your seat, trying to register what is going on. You look for aid from those around you, but none will come forward. You slowly unbuckle your seatbelt, your hands quiver at the sudden shift in the emotional atmosphere. You step down from the van and stand still for the next command.

None is given as the driver shuts the door, walks back to the front and starts up the van again. The tears start to come streaming out of your eyes when you begin to see what is going to happen to you. You begin to cry again, not out of frustration, but out of shear fear and the reaction to being ejected.

The van begins to pull away. You continue to stand there and wail, a sad sight with your little TMNT t-shirt, shorts, and tiny OshKosh B’Gosh shoes. You open your eyes to see the van continue on, hoping that they will immediately realize their mistake and turn around.

It goes down a block and then turns the corner, out of view, disappearing from the scene.