A very particular type of candy arrived on the shelves of the local convenience store in the late nineties- a thick, sour sludge that could be purchased in mock test tubes and featured a gummy worm at the center. I was young, then, and the candy’s debut coincided with the release of a video game in which the protagonist chugs vials of green liquid to replenish his health. Though it’s hard to believe now, in an era of snack/game collaborations, I don’t believe the coincidence was planned. I think it was sheer luck that the two companies inspired the manic consumption of their products in a single mid-western child- a pleasant blip of demand that neither would ever fully understand.
The game has faded into obscurity but the candy has disappeared entirely. There are no pictures on the internet, no archived advertisements or retro-reviews. Nobody I speak to remembers it or, if they do, they remember it only vaguely and only in conjunction with myself as though the candy only existed in relation to me and my life. The candy was, seemingly, a failure. I have no doubt that my memory of the substance must be wildly out of sync with reality, colored as it is by time.
But I crave it.
I don’t think of it often, but when I do, there’s nothing I want more.
‘The universe resists perpetuality of any sort, skimming just enough energy off the top to maintain entropy. A wire will heat up and glow. A shaft will wear against the pump. A carefully-organized series of molecules will burst into atoms and re-form into something useless. Or dangerous.
In the process of stealing our energy, though, the universe is happy to leave us with the ‘detritus,’ be it the ashes of a fire, the congealed lubricant of the machine, or, in regards to the great American cycle of consumption, the items that sift through the filter of second-hand retail and into ‘The Nostalgia Vault.’ There, you will find what deserves forgetting.’
If the contents of a landfill were to be transported into a discontinued stretch of sewer and maintained such that a walkable path existed there, it would look exactly like ‘The Nostalgia Vault.’ Its entrance can be found in Southern California but the ‘Vault’ feels very much like a realm of its own. Having paid a small entry fee I was more or less given free reign to explore, the only rule being that items cannot be removed from what is optimistically called ‘the collection.’ Rearranging is fair play so, not unlike the French catacombs, several rooms in ‘The Nostalgia Vault’ now house morbid displays.
Several yards back, for instance, was a claustrophobic space filled entirely with common pieces of popular collectible card games- your basic lands, energies, and failed sports stars. Someone has created an intricate tiling pattern there and, even more impressive, glued thick stacks of the cards into two chairs and a table. Atop the table is a checker board, populated by pogs. Another room consists entirely of off-brand beanie babies, organized by color and staring straight ahead, their beady eyes reflecting rodent-like in the beam of my flashlight.
There are miles of garbage for every carefully curated room, however, and I find my patience with the experience shorter than I initially expected as someone who traditionally enjoys poking about pawn shops and thrift stores. ‘The Nostalgia Vault’ is honest in advertising itself as a collection of the millennium’s c-list items and even if I were to stumble upon a one-man’s-trash situation, nothing here is for sale. There is no point and, as if often the case, I wonder if that’s ‘The Nostalgia Vault’s’ intention after all.
Imagine, then, the sickening delight I feel upon entering a room full of old, garbage candy and spying, in the corner, a vial of green cornstarch. I hesitate before opening it, both because I see that the gummy worm is well on its way to dissolving inside and because I will be violating the sanctity of the place, lessening it for the next visitor who may fondly remember the same disgusting candy. The hesitation passes quickly, though.
This isn’t a museum.
This isn’t a goddamn national park.
I crack the seal on the vial and hold it to my mouth, savoring the smell in the time it takes for the thick candy to reach me.
When it does, I feel better than I have for a long, long time.
-traveler
