My Kind of Crazy by Robin Reul Page A

dated this guy who worked at a funeral home and sidelined at a real estate agency. Folks would kick the bucket, and then while the family was grieving and vulnerable, he’d get the listing for their rent-controlled apartment. People do all sorts of messed-up shit, and they all have their reasons why. Who am I to judge?”
    Nobody says anything for a few minutes. I mean, what can you say in those circumstances? A comment like that is sort of a conversation stopper. Instead we watch cars driving by, the cracks in the sidewalk, the street sweeper blowing up a mini dust storm.
    Nick kicks at a rock on the sidewalk, and it goes skittering into the road. “My dad’s a great guy. He’s honorable. He stands up for what he believes in. He loves his family, his friends, and his community. He goes to church.”
    So did the Sopranos.
    â€œHey, like I said, I don’t care if he takes out the garbage or he ‘takes out the garbage.’” Peyton uses air quotes to drive her point home. “I’m just saying that who our parents are doesn’t have to define who we are. At least not to me.”
    â€œSo what’s the deal with the guy with his brains blown out?” I ask as we walk toward Main Street. Nick looks visibly relieved by the change in topic.
    â€œIt’s some video I saw once on YouTube,” he says. “You can see all sorts of weird shit like that on the Internet. Mutilated bodies, people having sex with animals: you name it.”
    We end up at Metropolis Comics. Victor doesn’t even bat an eye that I’m showing up before the end of a school day. He greets me by name as if I’m a regular at the local bar. He grabs his cane and gets to his feet.
    Victor has one wooden leg. His real one got shot off in the war a long time ago. Sometimes he says he can still feel it, like it’s still there. They call it phantom pain. I get that sometimes too. Stuff will happen and I’ll want to tell Mom or Mickey. And then I remember they’re not here anymore either.
    â€œThis must be Nerdvana for you,” Peyton says, taking in all the posters on the walls and the display cases of back issues and collectible figurines.
    â€œI like to come here. Victor doesn’t mind if I sit and read in the back. He’s awesome,” I tell her as Nick pushes past us to look at a Spider-Man anthology that’s grabbed his attention.
    â€œHey, Hank. I got something that I think you’re gonna want to see,” Victor tells me with a knowing smile. He tilts his head, summoning me to the counter.
    â€œNew Avengers?” I ask him. Sometimes if he gets in an issue early, he’ll let me check it out even though he’s not supposed to put it on display yet. He used to do the same thing for Mickey when he was alive. Victor has always looked out for us. I think it’s because he once had a kid too, but his kid died. Drowned in a pool or something messed up like that.
    â€œBetter.” His New England accent is so thick that the word comes out sounding like bett-uh . He wiggles his eyebrows as I make my way over.
    â€œWhat’s better than a new Avengers?” I ask.
    â€œWhat’s the one thing you’ve been asking me about for years? Nev-uh come through here before, nev-uh even seen one, and then yesterday it shows up. Some old guy bit the dust, and his nephew comes in and sells everything. I didn’t put it out because I wanted you to be the first to see it.”
    â€œYou’re killing me with the suspense, Victor,” I say.
    He reaches into a drawer behind the counter, and my eyes bug out of my head when he pulls out a beat-to-hell copy of Marvel’s Fantastic Four #48: “The Coming of Galactus!” and lays it down in front of me. Nick and Peyton lean over my shoulder as I run my finger over the battered cover and then carefully hold it in my hands. I can’t find the words.
    â€œWhat’s the big deal? It’s