I don’t cry during visits to the doctor anymore. I hope my doctor appreciates that,  because as a little boy I was nimble and could really dodge a needle — that is, if curling up in a ball and crying counts as nimble. It is important for a child to have an aversion towards stab wounds, but vaccines are vaccines, and I would probably scream more if I had the mumps anyway. My mom needed a way to persuade me to accept healthful-injections, so that’s how I first experienced Toys-R-Us.

Oh toys. There is no feeling like shopping for toys inside of a giant warehouse devoted to toys. Previously, I had only browsed Lego catalogs and the paltry shelves of the local pharmacy chain. Entering through those quadruple-sliding automatic doors was a revelation. This was where presents were born! This was where rich kids got fancy shit! Maybe I could get some fancy shit!

Mom quickly established that there was a price limit on “being brave” which, honestly, was probably higher than I deserved. That didn’t matter much to me; the experience was worth more than any single toy. This place had child-sized cars that you could actually drive. There were toys that were just upgrades to other toys. There were lifelike characters from TV shows I had never been allowed to watch. Fortunately, there were branded gadgets from the most aptly named franchise possible: Toy Story.

By the time we got home I had entirely forgotten the medicinal assault from earlier in the day. My mind was on the prize: a full set of Buzz Lightyear gadgets. With this equipment I was going to be able to grappling-hook my way to the roof of our house and glide back down with the jetpack. It even had a wristband with fuel gauges and radio transmitter. I must have been very brave to be rewarded with this kind of technology. Mom helped me cut the zip ties with scissors.

The first order of business was strapping those sweet wings onto my back and feeling the power of the jets. The shoulder straps took some adjusting — in fact, the whole thing seemed a bit small — but soon I was equipped. I hit a button on the shoulder and a pair of stubby plastic wings popped out like switchblades. I could feel the power, at least, metaphorically. The wings felt good, but there didn’t seem to be any thrust.

Silly me, I thought, clearly I need the wristband to control it. The wristband was also plastic, which stretched to clamp weakly onto my forearm. I flipped open the control panel.

Ok, looks like the fuel gage it at max. So which of these buttons… Huh, those don’t seem to do anything. They don’t even feel like buttons…

It was a sticker. There were no controls. The realization made me freeze, then scramble to unpack the grappling hook. It was also plastic — a weak plastic hook propelled by a spring, dangling from an elastic string. I would never reach the roof with this… this… toy!

I can’t remember whether I cried. I probably didn’t, if dad was around. Mom didn’t understand that I didn’t understand I wouldn’t be able to fly. She recognized my disappointment, though. In that moment she helped me figure out the difference between playing Buzz Lightyear and being Buzz Lightyear. I was old enough to only want one of those things, but the toy store was only selling the other.

Some years later, my age has almost doubled, the Buzz toys have long since shambled off to a thrift store and then the great trash pile in the sky. Begrudgingly, Dad let me wear my Batman costume out of the house. This nylon, Batman-Returns-inspired suit came with no gadgets or frills, save the droopy cloth wrist-spikes. It was the perfect set of pajamas to wear while watching a little-league game in the middle of summer.

We arrived at the baseball fields and I went off to climb the backside of the bleachers while dad went looking for a place to sit. I bat-scaled the bat-structure with much bat-success, careful to keep my eyes off the baseball diamond for fear of learning something about the game. Instead I focused my bat-eyes on the crowd, trying to spot any criminals or people who were impressed by my climbing skills. What I saw instead was a boy half my size wearing a matching Batman costume.

The younger boy looked at me with confusion and horror. Don’t worry, I wanted to tell him, someday you’ll be able to climb like me. It’s okay for you to just pretend to be Batman, for now. But then I realized something: he didn’t know he was playing. In his mind, one of us must be an imposter, and it couldn’t be him. So, I called out to him “Thanks for letting me borrow your suit, Batman!” then threw a smoke bomb and disappeared into the mid-afternoon. That’s what a hero would do, and it helped me dodge embarrassment until dad mentioned seeing a kid half my age wearing the same costume.

After that, the bat-jammies went the way of Buzz Lightyear’s jetpack, Spiderman-themed Silly String, and Indiana Jones’s one-foot whip. Maybe each of those toys ended up with that little kid at some point. Hopefully he also picked up the lesson I learned: a costume doesn’t turn you into Batman. Anyone can be Batman, as long as you behave how Batman would behave. Also, gadgets are expensive as shit. Try to grow up quickly.