The Battle of Desk Ridge

I only wanted to paint some toy soldiers. That’s how all good wars start, I guess, with somebody meaning well.

When I left them, they were quiet, still as saints in formation.

I stepped out for a cup of coffee. That’s all it took, five minutes, maybe six, and when I came back, my office looked like Gettysburg met Normandy. My plastic army men, all shades of olive green and dusty with age, had apparently declared war on a dozen shiny newcomers, fresh recruits made of metal.

See, I’d ordered those little metal soldiers with the idea that I’d paint them this week. Something relaxing, I thought.

I’d put on some Hank Williams, pour a cup of coffee, and spend an afternoon detailing tiny buttons and belts. What I didn’t account for was the jealousy of my old green platoon, who’d held the high ground of my bookshelf for over two decades.

I figured they could all get along. Maybe even share stories about the good ol’ days of sandbox warfare, but it turns out, I was wrong.

When I returned, chaos had erupted.

The coffee can that I’d kept the green soldiers in had toppled over. A platoon of them lay face down in a drift of printer paper.

My mousepad looked like a minefield. The new metal soldiers, scattered across the desk like shrapnel, some still standing proud, others fallen in awkward silence.

If you’ve ever had a cat knock things off your desk, you know the kind of mess I’m talking about. But this wasn’t the work of a cat.

No, sir. It was a full-blown skirmish.

Now, before you start thinking I’ve gone off my rocker, let me say that these old army men and I go way back. I was about seven when I got some of them, back when a dollar could still buy a good-sized bag of plastic troops and a small child could conquer the backyard with nothing but imagination.

Those soldiers had fought on every front imaginable, muddy puddles, sandboxes, and even snowbanks. I’d buried some, melted a few, and lost others to the vacuum cleaner.

The survivors had earned their rest.

So maybe it was pride, or nostalgia, but when those shiny metal troops arrived, my old plastic army must’ve seen red. They’d defended my childhood.

Now here came a bunch of newcomers, gleaming like parade soldiers, too stiff, too fancy. They didn’t look like they’d seen a single battle in the dust of a driveway.

Now, I don’t know if it was jealousy or territorial instinct, but it was clear my old green army thought they were getting replaced. So naturally, I did what any sensible grown man would do, and tried to play peacemaker.

“Alright, you bunch of toy-box tough guys,” I said out loud, holding up my hands like a hostage negotiator. “Let’s take a deep breath here. Nobody’s invading anybody.”

That only seemed to escalate things. One of the green snipers rolled off the desk and hit the floor, right under my boot, while another threw himself on a grenade to make a point.

The coffee can lie on its side, its plastic contents strewn across the keyboard. The metal soldiers were scattered everywhere, one wedged under the stapler like he was taking cover, another dangling from my desk lamp like a paratrooper who’d missed the landing zone.

The metal captain, still gleaming and unpainted, was standing atop my mouse, sword raised, commanding his troops forward. I swear I could hear him yelling, “Hold the line, men!” though it might’ve just been the ringing in my ears.

My dog poked his head in the room, took one look at the scene, and backed out slowly like he’d walked in on something classified.

It took me the better part of an hour to sort out the mess. I stood up the fallen, wiped off the coffee stains, and tried to restore order to Desk Ridge.

The coffee can, now dented but still serviceable, is a POW camp for the green ones. And the metal ones are back in their packaging, where they can lick their wounds and polish their pride.

I sat back, surveying the battlefield. My desk was a disaster, paperclips twisted into shrapnel, Post-it notes torn to ribbons, and one green bazooka man staring up at me like he’d seen all the horrors of war.

That’s when I realized I’d learned leadership is overrated when your troops are all two inches tall and made of plastic and lead.

Next time, I’ll ease the tension with diplomacy with a meet-and-greet, doughnuts, and fresh paint. Until then, peace talks have been declared indefinite, and I’m keeping the coffee can lid duct taped on tight.

After all, it’s not every day a man has to broker a ceasefire between the past and the present, on his own desk.