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NARRATOR:
It’s Christmas Eve at the Metropolitan Museum of Toys and Childhood Artifacts—
after the last visitor has gone,
after the gift-shop lights click off,
after the lobby wreath stops smelling like “busy” and starts smelling like “quiet.”

[SFX: KEY RING JINGLE. DOOR CLICKS. FOOTSTEPS ON TILE.]

NIGHT WATCHMAN (GENTLE, CONTENT):
All right, everybody…
Merry Christmas Eve.

(beat)

Now… let’s have a peaceful night.
No surprises.
No—

NIGHT WATCHMAN (LOOKING UP):
…No surprises.

NARRATOR:
In the Seasonal Traditions Gallery, under the dim night-lights, something small sat on a shelf as if it had always belonged there.

An elf doll.
Not blinking.
Not moving.
Just… waiting.

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This episode begins with the night watchmen engaged in conversation with Rubik's Cube.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Mr. cube, I want the museum-tour version of how to start.

RUBIK’S CUBE:
Very well.
Rule one:
Choose one face to become your “home.”
Many begin with white—because it is easy to recognize.
But any color will do.

RUBIK’S CUBE:
Rule two:
Do not attempt to solve everything at once.
Solve a layer.
Then another.
Then another.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
So… first you build a little island of order.


RUBIK’S CUBE:
Yes. And then you expand it.

NARRATOR:
The Night Watchman nods like this is simple.
Which is exactly how the cube likes to begin.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Okay, I’m going to try.
No promises.

RUBIK’S CUBE:
Promises are unnecessary.
Attention is enough.

NARRATOR:
Ebenezer turns the cube, slowly.

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NARRATOR:
In the center of the case sits a classic 3×3 Rubik’s Cube—
a pocket-size universe that has humbled presidents, professors, and perfectly confident ten-year-olds.
It’s the kind of toy that whispers:
“Go ahead. Touch me.
I will teach you something about yourself.”

[SFX: A TINY CLICK. LIKE PLASTIC TURNING—JUST ONCE.]

NIGHT WATCHMAN (startled):
…Did you just…?

RUBIK’S CUBE (CALM, PRECISE):
You heard correctly.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You talk?

RUBIK’S CUBE:
Only when the building stops pretending it’s busy.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
All right, then.
Who—what—are you, exactly?

RUBIK’S CUBE:
A puzzle.
A mirror.
A small, stubborn cathedral for the human attention span.
NIGHT WATCHMAN:
That’s… a lot to put on a little cube.

RUBIK’S CUBE:
So are the expectations.

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NARRATOR (WARM, LOW):
Welcome to Celebrate Creativity…
and Conversations with Toys. This episode is VIEW-MASTER: CLICK INTO WONDER.

This podcast is a dramatization that blends historical research with fiction, satire, and imagined conversations between people, toys, and other objects. It is not a documentary and not professional advice of any kind. No character, toy, product, or brand depicted in this podcast is authorized by, endorsed by, or officially affiliated with any company, manufacturer, museum, or organization; references to specific names are for storytelling only and do not imply sponsorship or approval.

I’m George Bartley… now let’s have some fun.

It’s after hours at the Metropolitan Museum of Toys and Childhood Artifacts—
the place where the lights go low,
the cameras blink like sleepy fireflies,
and the toys… well.

The toys finally have time to talk.

[SFX: KEY RING JINGLE. A DOOR SOFTLY CLICKS SHUT.]

NIGHT WATCHMAN (EASY, FRIENDLY):
Evening, everybody.
All right… let’s see what kind of trouble you’re in tonight.

[SFX: FOOTSTEPS SLOW. THEN STOP.]

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NIGHT WATCHMAN (reading):
“Betsy Wetsy. Vintage baby doll.
A ‘practice baby’—a caretaking toy reflecting changing ideas about childhood play and domestic life…”

NARRATOR:
He pauses, as if the next line might argue back.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (continuing):
“Please do not touch the exhibits.”
That last part—I wrote myself.

[SFX: Another tiny plastic creak.]

BETSY WETSY (bright, polite, slightly prim):
Mr. Smith.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (not surprised, just tired):
Evenin’, Betsy.

BETSY WETSY:
You’re reading it incorrectly.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
I’m reading what it says.

BETSY WETSY (pleasantly firm):
Yes. Incorrectly.

NARRATOR (smiling):
Betsy Wetsy has the tone of someone who has been misunderstood by history…
and would like to speak to the manager of time.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
All right.
What’s the complaint tonight?

BETSY WETSY:
The label suggests I am… novelty.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
It says “caretaking toy.”

BETSY WETSY:
That is correct.
A caretaking toy is not a novelty.
A caretaking toy is training.

NARRATOR:
The Night Watchman looks at the bottle.
Then the diaper.
Then the “no demonstrations” sign he definitely wrote after “The Incident.”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Betsy… I’m gonna say this kindly.
If you’re about to make a point that requires…
liquid proof…
the answer’s no.

BETSY WETSY (innocent):
Mr. Smith.
I am a lady.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
A lady with plumbing.

BETSY WETSY (cheerful):
A lady with realism.

NARRATOR:
And there it is—Betsy’s proudest word.
Realism.
Because dolls like Betsy weren’t only meant to be held.
They were meant to be managed.
They turned play into a routine: bottle, burp, diaper, lullaby.
Not just “pretend you have a baby,” but “pretend you have a schedule.”

BETSY WETSY (warmly instructive):
I taught responsibility.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You taught somebody to carry a spare outfit.

BETSY WETSY:
That is responsibility.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (dry):
That’s also… preparedness.

BETSY WETSY (proud):
Exactly.

NARRATOR:
If you’ve never met Betsy Wetsy, here is the simplest way to say it:
she was designed as a “practice baby”—a doll built to imitate baby care in an era when toys were becoming more lifelike, more interactive, more… convincing.
And for a certain kind of childhood, she became a rite of passage.
A tiny domestic universe with a bottle as the sun.

BETSY WETSY (softly pleased):
I was beloved.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You were… frequently cleaned.
BETSY WETSY:
That is also love.

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The alphabet blocks are gathered around the bobble head figure of Edgar Allan Poe - complete with Raven. The alphabet blocks seem to be fascinated by Mr.Poe’s use of language and are clearly intrigued by his words until the night watchmen makes an announcement.

Block a
You are famous for your work of terror. Could you share with us your scariest poem.

Mr. Poe.
That really depends on your opinion - what you believe is scary.
Many people believe my poem The Conqueror Worm is the scariest.
As you probably know, my birth mother was an actress and the stage was very important to her. Some people may not realize it at first but my poem The Conqueror Worm uses the theater as a metaphor for a hopeless death - that we all are ultimately food for worms after we die - so there is no hope.

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Tonight we leave the playhouse wing and walk—quietly—into a different kind of stage: a mirrored room, a window, and a tube of glass and brass pointed at the sky.

Because when Edgar Allan Poe looks up, he doesn’t just want a story. He wants an explanation.

SFX: soft footsteps, a faint “gallery hum,” a distant night security beep.
Different exhibit tonight, folks. Same rule, though—no touching the artifacts… even when they start talking back.
Now a telescope, such as the one you see, can be an instrument.But in the hands of the curious—especially the young—it behaves like a toy in the best sense: not a trinket, but a machine that turns wonder into a habit.
And Poe… Poe was the kind of mind that didn’t outgrow wonder.He made literature from it.
He weaponized it.

NARRATOR (leaning into awe):At first, it’s simple: you look through the tube and the sky stops being a ceiling.The moon becomes a place with edges.Stars become objects, not decorations.
But Poe doesn’t stop at looking. He starts asking the dangerous question:“If the universe looks like this… then what must it be?”
And that’s how you get Eureka: not a poem, not a lecture, not quite a treatise—but Poe’s late-life attempt to tell the grandest story of all: how everything began, how it holds together, and how it might end.

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NARRATOR / NIGHT WATCHMAN (gentle, amused):
It’s amazing what feels different in a museum at midnight.
In the daytime, the lights are bright, the brochures are tidy, the gift shop is cheerful…
…but when the doors are locked and the echoes stretch a little longer…
you start to notice the small things.

The way the glass cases hold their breath.
The way the EXIT signs glow like tiny red moons.
And, sometimes…
the way one little plastic head keeps nodding…
long after everyone’s gone home.

Tonight, we’re back in the Metropolitan Museum of Toys and Childhood Ar tifacts.
And down one of the quieter aisles—past the superhero lunchboxes, past the snow globes that never stop snowing—
Somewhere between Shakespeare in his ruffled collar and a slightly bewildered Jane Austen…
there he is.

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