My Barbie’s Lonely

My Barbie’s Lonely

Week by week Ruth watches Barbie’s sales numbers increase. This success only makes her crave more, recalibrating her expectations. Not that long ago, she would have turned cartwheels if they moved 30,000 units a month; now she’s not satisfied with anything short of 65,000.

Together with Loomis, they visit stores, checking the girls’ toy aisles, where some have life-size cutouts of Barbie and everywhere you look there are Barbie clothes and accessories. Ruth tracks each style number and knows, for example, that #964 is lagging a bit behind #971 but that #911, #961 and #972 are flying off the shelves.

In light of Barbie’s sudden popularity, everyone wants to do business with her. Loomis has secured dozens of lucrative licensing agreements, and now there’s a series of Barbie lunch boxes and thermoses, wristwatches, hairbrushes, combs and hand mirrors, jewelry boxes, pajamas and even Barbie Halloween costumes. Each week Ruth sits through dozens of pitches.

Right now two bright-eyed, bow-tied salesmen from the Hoover Vacuum Company are in her office. The men are hoping to partner with Mattel, wanting to create a Barbie-sized vacuum cleaner.

At the mere mention of housekeeping, Ruth cuts them off. “And what exactly do you expect Barbie to do with a vacuum cleaner?”

“Well,” the first bow-tie chuckles, “now little girls can pretend their dolls are helping their mothers clean the house.”

“Doesn’t that sound like fun,” she says, running the pad of her thumb across her perfect red nails. “Listen, fellas, I’m not gonna waste your time and I prefer you don’t waste mine.”

“With all due respect, Mrs.Handler,” says the other man, “this is a terrific opportunity.”

“With all due respect ,” she fires back, “Barbie doesn’t vacuum. She doesn’t do rough housework. Ever.”

Moments after they leave, Jack comes to her office holding what she thinks is an oversized Bild Lilli doll. “Looks like we got competition,” he says.

“What are you talking about?” She sets her pen down on her desk blotter. “And what’s up with that Bild Lilli? She looks different.”

“That’s because this isn’t Bild Lilli. Louis Marx bought the licensing rights to her. This is their own knockoff—Miss Seventeen. And she’s going to go toe-to-toe with Barbie.”

The mail boy heads to the secretarial pool carrying yet another canvas bag with U.S. Post Office stenciled in gray letters down the front. It’s overflowing with mail for Barbie, who now has fan clubs springing up across the country. Actual fan clubs. Ruth still can’t get over the number of girls who write to Barbie, asking her for advice, sharing their deepest secrets, extolling their love for her. Ruth has the secretaries go through and answer the letters, but occasionally, when she has time, Ruth likes to read what Barbie’s fans have to say.

One day, a letter addressed to Barbara Millicent Roberts—the full name they cooked up for Barbie along with the fictitious hometown of Willows, Wisconsin—takes Ruth by surprise. It’s from a young girl in Barberton, Ohio, saying that her Barbie’s lonely and really, really, really wants a boyfriend .

A boyfriend? A boyfriend for Barbie? Ruth sits with this for a moment. On the one hand, it seems so obvious, but on the other, boy dolls are taboo. But then again, so was a doll with breasts. She reads the letter again. Could it work? Would little girls play with a boy doll? With Miss Seventeen nipping at Barbie’s high heels, Ruth has been contemplating ways to expand the line, and it looks like the answer just fell in her lap.

Tucking the letter back inside the envelope, she heads into Elliot’s office. He’s tinkering with an idea he’s calling V-RROOM, a battery-operated device that imitates a race car engine and fits on a tricycle. He checks the speed sounds, ramping it up from a rumble to a full-throttle roar. While he makes notations on a legal pad, Ruth waits patiently, watching the tropical zebra fish, mountain minnows, pea puffers and guppies swimming in his aquarium. Finally, Elliot looks up at her.

“I have an idea for a second doll in the Barbie line.”

“Okay, great.” He makes another notation and eyes something on the bottom of the device. “Let’s hear it.”

“Take a look—” She hands him the letter, and as he reads, she says, “I think it’s time we give Barbie a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend? For Barbie?” He leans back in his chair, letting it sink in. It’s risky, but if it works, well…He taps the envelope to his palm, pondering, and eventually smiles as he pushes the intercom button on his desk. “Jack? You got a minute?”

Jack has barely stepped inside when Elliot says, “Ruth just came up with a brilliant idea—we’re gonna give Barbie a boyfriend.”

“A boy doll?” Jack squints like he’s staring into a beam of sunlight.

“Here”—Ruth hands Jack the letter.

He glances at the handwritten words turning into symbols, all jumping around on the page. Nothing is staying within the lines. He gives the letter another penetrating look—faking it—before handing it back. “I’m still confused,” he says, which is an understatement. “We know boys won’t play with dolls.”

“It’s not a doll for boys,” says Ruth. “It’s for girls.”

“What makes you think girls will play with a boy doll?”

“If he’s Barbie’s boyfriend, they’ll play with him. Oh, and I already have the perfect name.” She looks at Elliot and winks. “Let’s call him Ken.”

Ever since they started working on Barbie, Ruth and Elliot have wanted to create a toy they could name after their son. It’s only fair, and they sense that Ken feels left out of all the Barbie fanfare. His sister gets all the attention—not that Barbara wants it. God no. She hates when her girlfriends tease her, and anyone who dares to call her Barbie had best take cover.

Ruth and Elliot agree that naming the new doll Ken is a terrific idea, although when they share the news with their children, Barbara is mortified.

“Why would you do that?” Barbara lets her fork clank against her plate, calling attention to their table at the Hillcrest Country Club. “Now everybody’s gonna think I’m dating my brother—that’s gross.”

Ruth looks at her daughter. Barbara may have cut her long hair and traded in her saddle shoes for high heels, trying to look like a sophisticated married woman, but she still sounds like a child. “Don’t be silly,” says Ruth, offering a wave to friends across the room. “No one’s going to think that.”

“Yeah,” says Allen. “Only you would think like that, Barbara. They could name him Allen. I wouldn’t care.”

Barbara glares at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m just saying, it’s no big deal.” Allen has become more assertive since the couple married. Whereas once he was silent, letting Barbara do all the talking, he now feels the need to voice his opinions, which often contradict his wife’s.

“The Ken doll is not your brother and you’re not Barbie,” says Elliot. “They’re just names.”

“But they’re our names,” Barbara hisses.

“Ken, honey?” Ruth turns to her son. “Would it bother you if we named the doll Ken?”

He shrugs, more concerned by the people nearby staring at their table.

Barbara cannot accept her brother’s nonchalance. “You really don’t care if they name a doll after you?”

“Why would I care?” says Ken. “Nobody I know plays with dolls.”

He really doesn’t care. He’s aware of the phenomenon with this doll that bears his sister’s name, but Ken thinks Barbie is stupid and vapid. He’s much more focused on the piano, the downy fuzz that’s begun sprouting on his upper lip, and his new car. He recently turned sixteen and Ruth and Elliot surprised him with a brand-new Pontiac GTO. Ken hasn’t yet fully grasped that Barbie is really the one who bought him that car.

They have agreed to fast-track Ken and launch him at next year’s Toy Fair. Jack and Elliot are working nonstop, scrutinizing every detail: Ken’s hair and eye color, debating if he should be smiling, should we see his teeth? And then there’s Ken’s height.

“I don’t see why he has to be taller than Barbie,” says Jack, leaning back in his chair, tossing a rubber ball into the air.

“Because,” says Ruth, “boyfriends are supposed to be taller than their girlfriends. I can’t help it if you’re shorter than all the women you ogle.”

“I happen to like tall women,” he says, thinking of Stevie, which he’s been doing a lot of lately. “I’m not intimidated by taller women,” he says, giving the ball a rest and setting it on the table. “The point is that Barbie’s still the star. She should stand head and shoulders above any other doll. Boy or girl.”

They continue to bicker over it, and in the end, Ruth wins. Ken will stand twelve inches tall to Barbie’s eleven and a half inches. The next battle is over Ken’s anatomy. Or lack thereof.

“Where’s his penis?” Ruth asks when they present the prototype.

“He’s a boy,” says Charlotte. “His groin can’t look the same as Barbie’s.”

The roomful of men—grown men—are visibly uncomfortable now. Sure, they were happy to talk about Barbie’s tits till the cows came home, but one mention of Ken’s genitalia and they clam up, they even blush.

“The guy’s gotta have a schmekel ,” says Ruth.

Twist, Frankie, Lewis, even Elliot fidget. They pick up their pencils and pretend to scribble down notes.

It’s Jack who finally speaks up. “Look,” he says, “obviously we need to address the groin area. But why can’t we do it the same way we did for Barbie? We can allude to it.”

“Fine,” says Ruth. “Allude. I’m not asking for a set of balls here.”

“I agree,” says Charlotte. “Ken doesn’t need testicles any more than Barbie needed nipples.”

“But Ken still needs a penis or a bulge or something ,” says Ruth.

Jack picks up his sketchpad and begins drawing. “I’m way ahead of you,” he says, adding some quick brushstrokes. “Here. Take a look.”

Ruth glances at the sketch. “Jesus, Jack,” she says as she bursts out laughing. “Ken’s cock can’t be the first thing you notice when you look at him.” She remembers how large he initially made Barbie’s breasts. Why should she be surprised that Jack would make Ken so well-endowed?

“Okay,” says Jack. “I’ll tone it down a little.”

“Not a little,” says Ruth. “A lot. How in the hell are Charlotte and Stevie expected to design clothes for him if he’s got a goddamn salami in his pants?”

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