Comics! Comics! Comics! Within those 32 pages of narrative pizzazz and colorful costumed heroes lies a story for any one. The dazzling snapping plot twists of a radiated arachnid infected teenager to the magic-wielding homeless half-demon are just to name a few of your options for escape. Staring into the collision of image and text, narrowly from panel to panel, the reader’s eye sockets burn from sparks of god-thunder and galaxy juggling. It’s a small wonder that two simple metal staples can contain such pulpy epics.
Amongst the fantasy laden tales and exotic commonality, is a guide- just as rare as the unicorn, winged griffin, or two-headed liger - the comic shop manager. A position well parodied, the comic book guy, is an obese middle-aged virgin, whose encyclopedic knowledge of trivia and popular culture is worn like a smug badge. Rather, I, a middle height, middle weight, brown haired, green eyed college graduate, whose areas of expertise’s still seem undefined compared to the typical know-it-all, am helpful and willing to share my excitement for the art form we solicit.
Unfortunately on a day like this (rainy, cold, and Monday), I knew it would be a lonely one. Opening B Bop Comics, I first rattle through my keys to open the clunking nearly busted lock. The door needs a certain twist of the wrist that is at first sensitive then forceful to open up. Flipping on the florescent over-head lighting for the botanical garden of colorful heroes I race over to the repeating buzz of the opening alarm. Next I fix the thermostat to a conservative 67 degrees. The remainder of tasks to finish the opening procedure include: making sure the register has some cash, all phone calls on the answering machine are returned, and finally flipping the closed sign over.
Amongst the fantasy laden tales and exotic commonality, is a guide- just as rare as the unicorn, winged griffin, or two-headed liger - the comic shop manager. A position well parodied, the comic book guy, is an obese middle-aged virgin, whose encyclopedic knowledge of trivia and popular culture is worn like a smug badge. Rather, I, a middle height, middle weight, brown haired, green eyed college graduate, whose areas of expertise’s still seem undefined compared to the typical know-it-all, am helpful and willing to share my excitement for the art form we solicit.
Unfortunately on a day like this (rainy, cold, and Monday), I knew it would be a lonely one. Opening B Bop Comics, I first rattle through my keys to open the clunking nearly busted lock. The door needs a certain twist of the wrist that is at first sensitive then forceful to open up. Flipping on the florescent over-head lighting for the botanical garden of colorful heroes I race over to the repeating buzz of the opening alarm. Next I fix the thermostat to a conservative 67 degrees. The remainder of tasks to finish the opening procedure include: making sure the register has some cash, all phone calls on the answering machine are returned, and finally flipping the closed sign over.
The phone rang later that day.
“Hello, B-Bop Comics.” I try to say it with a cheerful politeness, but usually I come off as mopishly dismal. It was the owner Friendly Frank on the line. The smiling mustached comic baron, was getting a divorce. The situation arose of out differences from parenting and the tenuous obligations from balancing a step-family, or so I deduced. I never really met Frank’s family, except on casual instances, like comic book conventions or accidental brush-ins at the art museum or movie theatre. These casual happenings never revealed a distressed household, but I had ample experience in the failures of re-ignited vows.
These failures were set in backdrop of Fallon, Nevada, where my sister and I were no longer main characters to my father’s summers, but cast as mere step-children amongst an ensemble of disapproving grandparents, a harassing ex-husband, and unfamiliar siblings. Crossovers don’t’ usually last. The adventures of Risi and Smith ended when my step-mother died from a sudden brain tumor. Her end (those surmised) was a combination of a recent childbearing and the aforementioned abusive ex-husband.
These failures were set in backdrop of Fallon, Nevada, where my sister and I were no longer main characters to my father’s summers, but cast as mere step-children amongst an ensemble of disapproving grandparents, a harassing ex-husband, and unfamiliar siblings. Crossovers don’t’ usually last. The adventures of Risi and Smith ended when my step-mother died from a sudden brain tumor. Her end (those surmised) was a combination of a recent childbearing and the aforementioned abusive ex-husband.
“Oh, wow. I’m sorry to hear that.” Frank says kindly. We chat a little further, mostly about business, and then we end our conversation.
