Rollin' with the Homies

A few years ago, in a bowling alley in Little Canada, I was introduced to Homies, a line of plastic miniatures sold in gumball machines (and, for the true collector, in full sets at shops like Urban Outfitters and through sellers on eBay and other merchant sites). My first Homie was Boxer, a guy apparently tough enough to wear a wife-beater and high-water Dockers without taking any flak for it. Boxer stood below my computer monitor at work and was eventually joined by a few other friends: Flygirl, Lizard, the troubled Teardrop, and my personal favorite, Shaneequa (who, admittedly, is my favorite soley because her name is my self-chosen "bowling name"--the name I punch into the computer at bowling alleys that offer automated scoring systems).

I feel compelled to mention that I didn't actually purchase any of these Homies myself. My ex-boyfriend built the collection for me, often by passing along the duplicates he acquired when plugging quarters into the machine outside Wal-Mart or Cub Foods. (I lived in an apartment at the time, so the concept of having excess quarters to waste in this manner was entirely foreign to me, but as a homeowner with free in-house laundry facilities, he apparently felt the momentary amusement of a new Homie was far more valuable than a stray quarter here and there.)

Last year, when said boyfriend and I were in Eau Claire for a wedding, we tried in vain to acquire Romo & Julia from a gumball machine at Embers. Naturally, the machine didn't cooperate, and we ended up with the decidedly less romantic Mad Bomber instead. It's probably just as well, as I'm pretty sure the bride and groom didn't share our interest in the Homies, and it therefore might not have been quite the excellent last-minute add-on wedding gift we'd envisioned.

I don't remember if it was me or my Homie-enthusiast boyfriend who first decided to start compiling a mental set of our own local Homies, but whoever first had the idea, building the list has been a repeated source of amusement to me for some time now. We both work at the same company in Stillwater, a community that's more Stars Hollow than Star City*, and therefore has its ample share of recurring characters (and in many cases, I do mean "characters") playing bit parts in my life. For a while now, I've had "Stillwater Homies" in the back of my mind as a future writing topic, but haven't yet gotten around to doing anything about it, primarily because I really wanted to attempt an illustration to accompany each Homie, and without a scanner at my disposal, that's tough to provide. So my verbal description will just have to do.

First up is Buster. I'm starting with him because, after observing Buster from a safe distance for a few years now, I suddenly had an unexpected, face-to-face Boo Radley moment with him outside the Post Office the other day. He may have said "Hi"; he may have mumbled some incoherent crazy talk. I was too thrown by the whole encounter to really tell for sure, so I just spun on my heel and rushed back to work.

Presumably, other Homies in the Stillwater series will follow on an undetermined schedule until I grow bored with the idea. I should note that some names and details have been verified by quasi-reliable sources, while others have been made up for my own amusement. I'm not saying which are which.

So here we go. The first of the Stillwater Homies... Meet Buster.


Buster
Buster was a star fighter on the Twin Cities boxing circuit years ago. Once a local hero, his picture still hangs in one of the many bars on Main Street. Like many boxers, Buster grew so addicted to the glory that he couldn't see when it was time to hang up the gloves. He took one too many hits late in his career and has been "punch drunk" ever since. Now he trolls the streets of town on his 10-speed, rummaging through dumpsters and recycling bins for reading material and other bits and pieces, which he typically stuffs in his waistband to keep his hands free for riding.

Whether it's 18 degrees or 80, the uniform on Buster's tall, lanky body never changes: lace-up boots, long pants, fleece jacket layered atop various t-shirts and flannels, work gloves, neck gator, and stocking cap. With the hat pulled down low and the gator stretched over his nose, all you can see of Buster is his eyes. If you catch his glance, it's hard to tell whether the vacant stare provides a window into his glory days or to an empty mind that's pondering nothing more than the next stop on his bike ride. Few people stick around him long enough to find out.


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* The Star City designation has something to do with meeting set goals for economic growth and development. Although cities throughout Minnesota received this label in the 80s or 90s, for me it's synonymous with "random homogeneous Twin Cities suburb." Years ago, as a new resident to the Twin Cities, I saw the "Star City" label on population signs along the freeways and thought it was just a meaningless attempt to differentiate one nearly identical, anonymous suburb from the next (a futile attempt, of course, since every single suburb held that same title). Stillwater may actually be a Star City as well, but for the purpose of finding a suitable phrase to contrast against Stars Hollow, I'm going to pretend that it's not.
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