Apparently it’s the 30th anniversary of Pokémon, so here’s a little Pokémon story.
I moved to San Francisco in the mid-1990s, and I started to learn about Pokémon just because its existence was prominent at the various comic book shops I frequented, in particular one in the city’s Richmond District neighborhood, where I continue to live. Comic book shops got their new shipments on Wednesdays, and so when I dropped by on a Wednesday to pick up my latest issues, I asked the clerk for a Pokémon starter set (once it was available in the U.S.). I was informed that the store had sold out. This news didn’t surprise me.
The following Wednesday, the same thing happened, so I asked if the clerk had any suggestions since, unlike with comics, I couldn’t reserve Pokémon cards in advance. The clerk suggested I just try to get there earlier. Another week, another failure.
I arrived on the fourth or fifth week in a row, mostly to pick up my comics, but also to see about finally obtaining some of these elusive Pokémon cards. The clerk, who never seemed to actually recognize me, despite this repeat performance week after week, said the same thing: “We’re sold out. Try to get here earlier next time.”
I apparently harbored more frustration than I was conscious of, because I blurted out, without thinking or self-editing, “Look, this isn’t fair. These little kids get out of school before I even leave the office, let alone make my way back across town.” The clerk’s eyes went wide. Without looking down, he reached directly under the cash register and retrieved a single box of Pokémon cards, which he slid across the narrow glass counter toward me.
“Take these,” he said quietly, ringing up my purchase. His voice suddenly tinged with a newfound anxiety, he then added: “Don’t tell anyone this happened.”