Dracula – toy model or pain in the neck?

Of all the toys a boy could have growing up, one of the worst had to be the plastic model kit. This so-called toy seemed to exist solely to prepare kids for frustration later in life. If a man ever finds himself clinging to a dead-end job just long enough to land something better, maybe he should thank those model kits. Not that it did me much good at the time—because as an eleven year-old, all I wanted was to build a model of Dracula.

The first lesson a pre-adolescent learns about model kits is that looks can be deceiving, starting with the box. The Dracula package was incredible. It featured a lifelike, full-color illustration of the Lord of Transylvania, clearly preparing to bite the neck of some unsuspecting villager.

Then I opened the box.

Inside was a mishmash of pale gray plastic body parts, stacked haphazardly on top of one another. It looked like a miniature version of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. What a letdown. And no one told me I had to paint the stupid thing. That meant another trip to the store for tiny bottles of enamel paint and brushes—more than doubling the price I had already shelled out. 

The assembly instructions were apparently written by someone from Transylvania, too. Tiny, incomprehensible illustrations and text printed in a one point  font made it clear that this project was better suited to someone with a magnifying glass and a medical degree from Johns Hopkins than an eleven year old kid. 

One of my big problems with assembling a model was that, for the best results, you were supposed to:

1. Paint the parts first.

2. Let them dry thoroughly.

3. Then—and only then—apply the glue.

That was the recommended method. My method, on the other hand, was:

1. Paint the parts.

2. Immediately glue them together.

This is also a good time to mention that a tube of airplane glue wields a power that should never be underestimated. It might struggle to hold Dracula’s arm to his body, but it can instantly and almost  permanently fuse two human fingers together. For hours, I looked like I was making the “okay” sign.  When I finally mustered the courage to forcefully separate my thumb and index finger.  I succeeded; but thought I might need a skin graft.  I was definitely not okay.

As you might expect, my ADD-infused impatience led to a big mess. Within five minutes of painting Dracula, I started gluing. Within six minutes, there was smudged paint and glue everywhere—on my hands, my mom’s dining table, and, most catastrophically, the pant legs of my good jeans.

No wonder kids my age used to sniff this stuff. 

When I finally completed the model, it looked about as bad as you’d expect. I accidentally attached one of Dracula’s hands backwards, so instead of menacingly beckoning a victim, he appeared to be holding an invisible plate. I also swapped his shoes onto the wrong feet.  The paint job was splotchy and uneven, making the Lord of Transylvania look less like a fearsome vampire and more like a waiter at a cheap Italian restaurant. 

As a kid, I was lured to model kits because they promised me excitement and adventure, but all they ever delivered was a sticky mess, a ruined pair of jeans, an upset mom, and in this case, a Dracula who looked like he was about to serve me spaghetti. 

Not to mention another trip to the store to buy paint remover for the dining room table.