The Last Word On Nothing

When I turned 11, I wanted to have a blow-out party. My sweet, patient parents arranged for ten of my friends to show up at Mr. Gatti’s, a combination all-you-can-eat pizza buffet and arcade. (Southerners: IYKYK.) After bumper cars and skeeball, we all piled into a designated “party room” and sat at a long table drinking soda as I opened my presents: Bath and Body Works lotions, Claire’s jewelry, Sanrio knick knacks. As I pulled a gift out of one bag, I swear I remember friends actually gasping as I pulled it out of the bag: a tie-dyed bear.

Not just any tie-dyed bear, though. This was Peace, one of the vaunted rare Beanie Babies. Around my 11th brithday, the Beanie Babies craze was at its peak, a year or so before the bubble burst. Whereas Ty, Beanie Babies’ parent company, churned out a steady stream of adorable animal toys at $5 a pop, Peace was several hundred dollars at the time; it was the first kind Ty rolled out with an embroidered symbol (naturally, a peace sign), and the tie-dye pattern meant no two bears were exactly the same. I was shocked any of my friends sprung for such a nice gift, and later learned that the generous gifter was A, and that he blew his entire savings on it.

Also in attendance that day was my childhood best friend K, who bought hundreds of Beanie Babies with her allowance because it was a “good investment.” She also bought hundreds of little plastic tag protectors and a cloth tapestry with little pockets for each toy. Sometimes, she’d allow me to play with one, but only if I was really careful, because the Beanie Babies needed to be in “mint condition” for maximum resale value. She was always the entrepreneurial one, the Kristy to my Mary Anne. I looked at her collection and thought she was smart, that it was virtuous and responsible to keep amassing these $5 sacks of beans and put them on the shelf for the future.

It was already too late for most of my Beanies, whose tags I’d either cut off or carelessly creased by stuffing all my toys in a bag when going to a playdate. But when I got Peace, I saw a chance to channel my best friend’s business smarts. To protect my investment, I kept Peace in a clear box on display in my bedroom. I never took him out to play with, and only let my friends admire him from a distance. In fact, I stopped playing with Beanie Babies altogether and opted to play with off-brand toys, like an alien wearing a Dr. Seuss hat and a little stuffed beaver.

I had forgotten about this for a solid 20 years until last week, when my dad texted me a link to an article called “The 20 Most Expensive Beanie Babies in the World,” along with photos of four Beanie Babies I’d abandoned in my parents’ basement. “All the sudden, you are $30,000 richer,” he wrote. According to the article — published on Wealthy Gorilla dot com, a domain I am not familiar with — Peace is now worth five thousand dollars. (Apparently there are even counterfeits with the wrong head shape, smaller ears, and too much stuffing.)

With the return of flare jeans, Abercrombie & Fitch, and tie-dye making a comeback, why not Beanie Babies? I searched eBay for the going price of Peace. Five hundred, twelve hundred, eight-fifty, two hundred, ten — there were pages and pages of listings, all seemingly priced at random. And perhaps worst of all, none of the listings — even the one priced at $4.50 — had any bids.

All this time, my dad had held out hope. Back in 1997, the experts promised these things would pay out; why would they be wrong? But like any good millennial, I am not surprised. If I could do it all over again, Peace would’ve come out of that box and into my backpack for every grimy, messy adventure.

P.S. If you want to buy Peace for the market price of $5,000, please leave a comment below.