ALGC PROJECTS

The shutter opens for an instant on a London Underground platform. An old Nikkormat film camera that has been dragged around four continents for more than fifty years, yet still dutifully winks it's 35mm eye wherever I point. The image this time captures a mess of wires and pipes, snaking up Victorian brickwork like unrestrained ivy. This metaphor might make sense for you later, dear reader, but it never quite sunk in for me.

It is best to start with the marbles. Even now, I think that's the most difficult part to explain. The Nikkormat has answers. It's eye opens for an instant looking up at the beautiful lofted ceiling of an Edwardian bookstore in Marylebone, and then again just moments later on the egg-shell-colored cover of a book adorned with cartoon marbles. Ribbons, Swirls, and Cat Eyes, the *click* of glass-on-glass-on-hardwood. These are the words and sensory details that came to me at first and ceased to matter later. If thoughts and mental connections are the byproduct of electrical signals carving and re-paving pathways through the brain, one road-less-traveled-by can send your whole system into disarray. I think this happens to people much more commonly than we realize.

The next image - not from the camera but my own recollection - is a frantic Apple Maps search on my phone as I'm once again swept off a platform beneath the city. I wanted to buy some marbles. As a souvenir, yes, but maybe also just as an exercise to see more of the city and prove that I could find some. It had already occurred to me, as it might be to you now, that I hadn't the faintest idea where marbles were sold. While perhaps a children's toy staple a century ago, it seemed unlikely that amidst Nerf Guns, Nintendo Switch Games, and Kinetic Sand they stood much of a chance in Toy Stores. Even still, that was my first search. I went back and forth between Maps and store websites to see what I could find, and at one point even stumbled into the Wikipedia page about marbles, where I learned that although marbles used to be made in many different countries using a wide range of artisan techniques, currently over 90% of the world's marbles are manufactured in an automated process by one Mexican company. In 2024, it turns out, one cannot even shop for marbles without running into late stage globalist capitalism. Eventually though, I found a shop online that advertised a specialty in old-fashioned toys, so despite its sparse and unhelpful website, I made for it.

Upon entering the store there was a moment I thought I had the wrong place. The small doorway that was crammed between two other stores in the outdoor mall led into an even more cramped little room, painted all in white and completely devoid of toys. In spite of this I followed the sign that pointed up spiral staircase into another slightly larger room which - finally - looked a bit more like a toy store. The woman at the front desk at the top of the stairs was young - early 30s at the oldest - and by my American estimation had a vaguely French but mostly Italian accent. This was how she greeted me;

"Hello! Do I know you?"

"I don't think so, no," was my reply.

"Are you Italian?"

"No, I'm not. I'm from Los Angeles."

I went on to ask about whether or not the store carried marbles.

"Most days, yes. But not today".

In order to clarify I asked her if they were out. She said she thought so but went through the motions of looking through some tiny drawers behind and under the desk to no avail. A few moments later, she looked back up at me and suggested that rather than spend a lot of time looking for marbles when she was pretty sure she didn't have any, she would instead direct me to someone she knew would have them. From a larger drawer or shelf under the desk she drew out a comically sized cartoon map of the mall and adjacent areas. She instructed me that if I exited the mall and followed a narrow alleyway that ran between another shopping center and a museum across the street, there would be a hot dog truck parked at the end of it. Just to the right of it, she said, would be a man who sold playing cards, toy soldiers, and best of all, marbles.

Unimaginably perplexed, but for some reason more determined, I left the store and followed the woman's directions. She offered to give me a copy of her large map on my way out the door, to make sure I didn't get lost, but I told her I would be ok. Across the street and down the alleyway I went, at the end of which, sure enough, was a hot dog truck. But no marble-vendor in sight. I looked around for a little bit, but then decided to head into the other shopping center and see if anyone knew his whereabouts. Near the entrance were a couple of guys selling earnings, necklaces, and other varieties of inexpensive jewelry. I asked them if they knew anyone who sold playing cards, toy soldiers, and marbles.

"Tony. You're looking for Tony," was the answer, "comes in on Saturdays. He's an old fossil. You'll meet him."

Some parts of this story have been altered for clarity, pacing, intrigue, and so forth. That is to be expected, I think. But mark me when I tell you that these exchanges were copied down word for word shortly after they happened, and that this one in particular, will haunt me a little bit forever. What makes this Tony so infamous that both of these jewelry vendors and also the toy store employee in the adjacent shopping mall know about him? More importantly, I wondered if not today, if not here in London, when and where will I meet him? I was leaving that night via sleeper train, and wouldn't be able to come back to see him the upcoming Saturday. This was what I was thinking as I careened down the street deeper into SoHo, and eventually into an 18th century pub where I sat down to get some rest. It was here where the camera clicked it's shutter once again.

Having spent some more time pouring over my map looking for other toy stores to try, I set off again with a direction in mind. I only had a few hours left in London, and I knew I couldn't live with myself if I didn't leave with some marbles. It was also around this time of my quest that I hatched scheme for my marble end-game. You see, I knew that my friend Matthew was also coming to London in a few days, and would be staying at a hotel in Westminster. I'd spent all week trying to come up with an idea for a gift I could leave for him there. Now I had my answer. A marble - all I needed was one! - for him to find waiting for him at the concierge desk at the end of almost 30 hours of no sleep. If I could pull that off - Tony be damned - I might finally be satisfied.

Unlike in the United States, where I suppose it would be a lot harder and more expensive to get swept off on a marble hunt burning gasoline the whole time, it's difficult to escape train stations in London. It was at yet another one of these that I eventually found my next toy store. No dice. Back underground and up again. Another toy store, this time inside a renovated narrowboat docked on the bank of a canal.  Nothing. The sun was only a few hours away from setting by the time I emerged onto the street again, hot in pursuit of yet another toy store, when I heard someone calling my name. I whipped around, dehydrated, running on fumes, and definitely more than a little paranoid, ready to shoot first at anyone who tried to take my marbles from me. Strangely enough, it wasn't Tony, it was my elementary school principle! Jesus, I thought, haven't thought of this person who knew me for six years in a really long time. I stopped and did my best to keep up appearances as we chatted on the sidewalk. I was conscious of every second that passed, and the potential marble-finding that was slipping through my fingers just a block or two away. She was in London with her parents and college-aged son, about to meet a friend for dinner. Somewhere along the way, my life had diverged from hers and led me to a very different state of mind. Where could that of been? Oh right. Middle school. Never mind, that explains everything.

As I approached what was to be the fourth toy store of the day, I grew increasingly perplexed. The building I was fast-approaching - now walking into - did not give off "contains toy store" vibes at all. There was a gold revolving door that led into a lobby with high ceilings and seemingly seldom-used furniture. In other words: an office building. I asked the clerk at the front desk if there was a toy store in the building, and he told me there wasn't, for the same reason I had just deduced: this was an office building. 

I thanked him, left, and after a little bit more looking around nearby concluded he was right. There was no toy store here. Not in that building, and not in any of the adjacent buildings either. At this point I hope you would have forgiven me if I'd stopped short a few paces up the street and turned around to look for a hidden camera or something even more sinister that might explain away all this strangeness. Suddenly nothing seemed certain and nothing appeared safe - not my phone not my map and certainly not the book still in my backpack that had sent me on this wild goose chase to begin with. The toy store woman had sent me astray, Tony had flaked on me, all the other toy stores I'd been to had let me down, and those remaining were now disappearing before my very eyes!

I remembered and took comfort in my Nikkormat. click! I took another frame of the sun going down behind some trees in St. James' park. As I walked now thoughts of preemptive distress and triumph raced through my mind. My imagination created scenes of what might happen when (there was no if that this point, it was a definitive when) I finally found my marbles. A van pulls up next to me as I'm running with them to the train station, and a group of armed thugs jumps out and kidnaps me, under the supervision of an aged yet imposing figure: Tony. Or maybe I get to the station intact with my prize, only to have to give them away as a bribe to make sure the conductor doesn't steal something from my luggage. I imagine the smug look on his face, "oh please, monsieur," (all conductors in my imagination are French), "you really expect me to think these silly toys are valuable?" "Jesus man what kind of lunatic do you think I am?", I ask him, "do you really think I walk around all day carrying marbles!? Sir, these were made in Constantinople in the late 18th century. They are the lionshare of my inheritance. Now, if you please return what is rightfully mine, I will give you but *one* of these precious orbs".  No, I think to myself, that's not right. I'm never good at keeping a straight face under pressure like that.

When I was younger I was fascinated and a little mortified by the story of the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand. The carefully planned attack had failed miserably. The bomb had bounced off the car, and the suicide pills were expired. Cut to Gavrilo Princip, disheartened but as of yet un-captured, eating a sandwich. Cut to the Archduke, shaken but emboldened, driving not to the safety of his home but instead to the hospital to visit those wounded in the explosion. Cut to the driver of his open-topped car that makes a wrong turn. Cut to the car stalling out in the middle of the road. Cut to Princip, looking up and seeing Ferdinand sitting in his car right in front of him. Two shots ring out. Cut to Franz Ferdinand holding his wife, "Sophie! Sophie! Don't die! Live for our children!" Cut to World War One. It would be incorrect for me to think and misleading for me to say that all things are dictated by chance events like this - they aren't - but the degree to which some things are is already scary enough.

Like Princip, I found myself sitting at a cafe by the side of the road, disheartened, eating a sandwich. Unlike Princip, I was not armed, and my motivations were not nationalistic anger and hatred but rather something I'd come to realize was much more dangerous and powerful: marbles. A loud truck drives past and I look up and notice a large antique shop across the street. I finish my food and walk in. The store closes in 15 minutes. I ask the man at the desk if, by any chance, they carry marbles.

"Third floor. Any size and color you could want." I sprang into action. Suck on this, Tony, you bastard! Finally there they were. Marbles. I bought about 30 quid worth, after careful consideration, and left in a blissful state of bewilderment. No time. One more train to catch.

To Westminster, then, in the early evening. There's a beautiful glow on Westminster Cathedral at that time of day in the summertime. I walked confidently into the lobby of Matthew's soon-to-be hotel, until I was face-to-face with the concierge.

"Hi there. My name is Alex, and I have a friend who will be checking in here on Monday morning. I was wondering if it would be possible for me to leave something for him for when he arrives?"

Certainly, was the answer. After confirming his information with what the hotel had on file, my wish was granted.

"Do you have an envelope that I could put it in?"

The concierge took one out from under the desk, opened it, and held it open in front of me.

"Um. I'm sorry. This is really weird."

I fished a marble out of the pouch I had put them all in my backpack. Large, off-white, with some beautiful rusty orange swirls around it. Reminded me of Jupiter minus the red dot in the middle. I placed it in the open envelope.

"Hm! That is weird," said the concierge.

After leaving the hotel and crossing the street, I paused, turned around, and took one last photo. The last photo from my London roll. A small bag of marbles sitting on the sidewalk, and behind it the hotel, the name just barely legible and out of focus.

I've never been more satisfied.

​

- ALGC