I found Tickle Toes in the basement this week.
If you don’t know Tickle Toes, it’s a Hasbro toy—discontinued now—shaped like a left foot. Sort of like Simon, but you tap the toes in sequence instead of pressing colored buttons. I put fresh batteries in and scored 210 in a row before I stopped. Old habits.
I’d forgotten I had it. That happens sometimes with the things Ken left behind. They disappear into closets and cabinets and basement coffee tables, and then one day you find them again, and the memory comes back fast and whole.
When Ken and I were living in Los Angeles, and he was going out on auditions, he found Tickle Toes on Amazon. He ordered them by the dozen—anytime they appeared in stock, he’d grab a batch, because they were already hard to find and he knew they wouldn’t last. Then he’d tape his business card to the bottom of each one.
After every audition, he’d leave one with the casting director.
It’s a left foot. Same side as his amputation.
He never tried to hide the difference. He leaned into it, every time, with humor and complete confidence. That was the whole point. He wasn’t asking anyone to overlook what made him unusual. He was handing it to them directly and saying: remember me.
They did. Everyone always did.
I’ve been playing Tickle Toes at the kitchen table for two days now. My friends don’t know what’s waiting for them on their next visit.
Some things you just can’t give away.
Ken is the heart of my memoir, The Luck We Carry. If you’d like a signed copy, you can find it here. And if this kind of story resonates, I’d love for you to join my newsletter—you can sign up here.
