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The Comic Book

Eric Burbridge

    It was not often nostalgia over took me, but today it hit hard. When I turned down Cottage Grove Ave. at 95th street memories of my grammar school days and classmates who were, like myself, comic book fanatics. I pulled over at 89th street, parked several car lengths from a bus shelter, popped the trunk and opened my walker. A walk around the old stomping ground would do me good. My new cell was fully charged with the newest I-phone camera. My first steps did not agree with the tightness in my lower back, but I soldiered on across the street ignoring honking horns and profanity. The off-road wheels for the walker helped a great deal over small pebbles and uneven sidewalks. I snapped a picture of a row of store fronts that had not changed except for peeling paint and rusting wrought iron window frames. The entrance to the apartments above had modern wood panel doors, but still needed replacing. Vacant store front makes a block look bad, but these buildings, built in what had to be the thirties, still had a special appeal. Mid-block one of them showed signs of an attempted rehab cut short by whatever. An old Rexall drug store sign still hung over the entrance of what was now a store front church. Rexall...they have been gone forever, that, brought back more memories, St. Joachim grammar school memories which was around the corner. I started to turn down that street, but remembered it had been sold to the Chicago Public Schools. I moved along without any problems until I hit a bottle top; looked down a there was a nickel and a penny. I remember six cents saved the day sixty or so years ago when that Rexall was open.
    Comic books were my life back in grammar school. Two groups of kids sold and traded DC and Marvel comics...I was a Marvel guy. I would die for Spiderman and the Hulk. Of course, the girls loved Archie, Jughead and Richie Rich. If memory serves the new editions came out on the first of the month and other kids at school always got theirs first. Later I found out they would slip away during recess and go to the store, but I went during lunch.
    Comics were twelve cents...for a kid that was a lot, for me anyway. We teased a guy in the group calling him Richie Rich, his name was Richard; he always had money, the cleanest, newest uniform shirts and pants and a dime in his penny loafers. I was the shortest and widest and my shirt sleeves were halfway up my arm and faded. But I did have a few cents every now and then and I brought the best lunch to school. My mom kept the newest snacks in my lunch box. I was the first to bring a Mountain Dew and Now & Laters when they first came out...I remember not sharing for less than two cent or a nickel. That got me in trouble with the nuns; they told my parents and they said I was selfish and corrupt. Corrupt at eleven! Some kids bought all the comics and sold the popular ones for twenty cent or more, and they pitched pennies. But I was corrupt.
    The further down the block I walked, the more details of those days returned.
    Our little group was thrilled and excited for the conclusion of the first epic battle between “The Hulk” and “The Thing.” It had us begging for more and finally it was out. Kathy, a tall skinny girl who always got more gold stars in spelling than me asked Ritchie did he get the books during recess? “Yeah,” he said with a smile. “They for sale, of course.”
    “You wrong.” Jacques said, the big football player who never had any money.
    Ritchie smile, “No, I’m not yall, there’s one left.” He gave him a copy because he was scared of him. “I got more for a quarter.”
    “What!” Sharon with the long pretty hair said.
    “That’s right.” We all got quiet when Sister Sebastian walked in.
    Forget paying him. My plan was simple, be the first out the door for lunch and get to the store before anybody else. But what if Richie was lying? What if the others gave him a quarter? All I had was twelve cents. No telling when I would geta copy and what I dreaded the most...somebody telling me the ending. I remember Sharon had that bad.

*

    The sidewalk was full of wet leaves making it dangerously slippery. I did not care. I ran all the way like I was being chased by the neighborhood dog. I had to have that book. I caught my breath before I snatched the door open. That old ugly waitress/clerk or whatever she was with the bad teeth and uncombed red hair looked up and frowned. She hated kids coming in the store especially kids from Catholic school. “You young whipper snappers think you better than everybody else.” She always said, with a smirk on her wrinkled, freckled face. We were scared of her being so big, but that was the only store around with books, let alone the latest comic books. I ignored her stare when she stopped flipping burgers on the grill and went straight to the swivel rack of comic books, sport magazines and sci-fi novels. It was close to the wall by the booths. It stuck all the time. I had to force it around. “Don’t break it kid.” She snapped.
    “Yes, mame, I won’t.” There it was, the only one left! “The Hulk v. The Thing,” the conclusion. I was over joyed, I picked it up and thumbed through it as usual. Why I always do that I don’t know, but I also did the same with the Ace Double sci-fi novels. They were two novels in one...a different cover on each side. I think they cost fifty cents, every now and then, I saved enough money to buy one. I don’t know what came over me, but this one book caught my eye. They said don’t judge a book by its cover. I did it all the time; I had to have it. When the waitress turned her back, I slipped it in my back pocket and made sure my sweater covered it. She turned around.
    “You going to buy that or what?”
    My heart skipped a beat. Did she see me? “Yes, mame.” I hurried to the cash register. I dug in my pocket for what seemed eternity getting my money. I put seven pennies and a nickel on the counter. She counted it out.
    “That’s twelve cent, there’s two cent tax on it, kid.”
    “What tax, since when, lady?” They said she charged an extra two cent for catsup on the fries too.
    “Don’t get sassy with my, boy.” She took the book. “No tax, no book.”
    “Please lady, I’ll give it to you tomorrow. I promise...please.”
    “No.” She pushed the book aside and went back to bussing dishes and serving customers.
    I almost cried, but I had one of the books I wanted. Lunch was almost over, if I’m late, I’m in a world of trouble. The ruler to your butt trouble, period. Corporal punishment was a big thing. I remember saying, “Thank you lord,” when I stepped out the store, looked down and there was a nickel and penny on the ground. I had just stepped out the door, but the waitress asked, “Who did I steal it from?”
    “Nobody.” I got my book and made a beeline back to school.
    I hated grown-ups!
    Calm down, Lacy. I found myself still getting upset thinking about that day. Just a harmless memory, I told myself and reached in the pouch on the walker and drank a bottle of water.
    I felt good when I rounded the corner, I was last to get in line, but I made it. I couldn’t wait to get home to read them. Ritchie smiled, “Did you find the last one, Lacy?”
    “Sure did.” He thought he was such a clever guy...I didn’t. I told Kathy her beloved Archie and Jughead were still there, they were pleased.

*

    My school day ended on the average note, but I decided to stop at the A&P and get a few candy bars. I had no money, but I was feeling slick and clever after virtually stealing that book in front of that evil cook/clerk/waitress at Rexall. There were not many people in the store and I remember not seeing any cashiers. I hurried down the candy aisle. I shoved a Baby Ruth and a couple of Now & Laters in my pocket. Before I could turn around and start walking. “Hey you kid, what are you doing?” I froze, terrified. A big burly guy came out the back of the store. “I saw you, put it back!”
    “What? I didn’t do nothin’.” I started to run, but by the end of that thought he grabbed my arm real tight. It hurt like mad.
    “You’ll go to jail for that.” He pulled me in the back where all kinds of boxes were stacked all over the place. “What else you got, empty your pockets.” I did. “I should call the cops, but since you go to that Catholic school, I’ll give you a break. Your parents’ home?”
    “Yes.” I was trembling, almost in tears.
    “If they don’t come and get you, you going to jail. What’s your phone number?”
    My mom screamed and hollered all the way home. She said both of them were going to give me a good whoopin’. I laid in the bed anticipating the pain I was going to be in. My little brother didn’t help. “You goin’ get it good this time, Lacy.” I was scared out of my mind. What could I do to get out of this?

*

    Who wouldn’t be terrified of a double whoopin’? My father didn’t get home from his second job until eight and usually he wasn’t in the mood for foolishness...this would really piss him off. I slipped outside and told my next-door buddy, Fat Johnny what happened. He laughed, that made me feel better. “Say you sorry, like I do.”
    “That ain’t gonna work. I’ll run away.”
    “Where?”
    I shrugged. “Lacy, get inside!” My mom shouted.
    I ran back upstairs and lay in bed thinking where would I go? Hop a train. We lived in the rowhouse next to the railroad tracks where they parked empty boxcars; freight trains also passed by at a slow speed. Being stupid we hopped them all the time. But which train would take me to Detroit to stay with my cousin? I forgot that, but I had to do something by dark.
    The thing about the rowhouses is; over the entrance to each unit there was a flat concrete awning. The window to my bedroom was above it. My plan was simple, climb unto it and jump down. It wasn’t far, I would not get hurt and head over to my friend, Christopher’s house. He lived a mile away across my aunt. First, I’d write a note saying, I’m gone and I ain’t coming back, ever. Maybe if and when I come back, they won’t kill me.
    When I left Chris’ house it was late and cold. A car pulled up next to me. “Get in the car, Lacy.” My dad said, he didn’t shout or anything. That was a shock. My mom was in tears, crying her eyes out. I ran up to my room and prayed. My dad stood over me with those piercing angry eyes, “You steal anything again and your dead...got it!? I don’t care what your mother says.”
    “Got it.” He went in their room.
    It worked!!
    Early the next morning I got a chance to read the conclusion. It ended in a stalemate. The novel I stole would have to wait until the weekend. And sixty years later I still have not stolen anything I can remember.

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