My Kind of Crazy by Robin Reul Page B

just some old comic,” Peyton says, and Victor chuckles.
    â€œThis is not just any old comic,” I tell her. “This is the March 1, 1966, issue of Fantastic Four where the Silver Surfer character is introduced for the very first time. He comes to Earth as a scout for Galactus, and they battle with the Fantastic Four and the Watcher.” I can’t believe I’m actually holding a copy of it in my hands.
    â€œUnfortunately, this one is in wicked poor shape,” Victor explains. “The spine is split, especially between the staples, and there’s a lot of edge wear and small tears in the pages. And half the back cover is missing. But you don’t turn one of these down when it comes through, even if it’s low grade.”
    The condition doesn’t matter to me. It’s not like I’d turn around and sell it, not when I’ve wanted it for so long.
    â€œHow much is it?” I ask. I’m willing to bet I don’t have near enough to buy it.
    â€œIn this condition? Around $275.”
    It’s like I found a winning lottery ticket, only to have it swept out of my hands by a gust of wind and blown into the gutter. Not that I know what that actually feels like. I’m just guessing it feels a lot like this. Here one minute, gone the next. Never really mine to begin with.
    Nick whistles and leans in for a closer look as I carefully open the cover, taking in each glorious yellowed page. Peyton shakes her head in disbelief. “For a ripped-up comic book? Who would pay that?”
    Victor says, “People will pay upward of seven or eight grand if it’s in mint condition. This one’s very popular. People are always looking for it.”
    â€œThat’s like…a car,” she rationalizes.
    â€œA shitty car,” Nick says. “With no air-conditioning and bald tires.”
    â€œI put it aside just for you, Hank. Thought I’d offer you the first shot at it,” Victor says with a grin.
    I sigh. “Man, I wish I could. I don’t have that kind of money.”
    I thumb through the pages, wishing I were here alone so I could sit in the corner and read the whole thing. When I reach the end, I gingerly close the cover, running my fingers over it again before reluctantly handing it back to Victor. God knows how many times Mickey and I talked about wanting to find this issue. He’d be beside himself right now. Giving it back is killing me.
    Victor carefully slides the comic back into its plastic sleeve and locks it in the drawer behind the counter. “Well, I’ll wait a while before putting it out. How’s that? Maybe you’ll be able to scrape it together, huh?”
    I smile, knowing that unless I rob a bank or discover I am the sole heir of an unknown rich uncle I have zero chance of ever owning that comic. “Yeah, maybe.”
    Victor turns to Nick and Peyton and beams with pride as he says, “Your friend Hank is quite the artist himself. One day I’ll be selling his comics for top dollar. You can bet on that. They’ll be lining up outside to wait for the latest issue.”
    â€œI wouldn’t hold your breath, Victor,” I say and he pats me on the back good-naturedly.
    I can tell Victor feels sorry for me because he tells us all to go ahead and pick out a comic from the Last Chance Clearance bin, on the house. Most of the time, I hate when people feel sorry for me. When people find out my mother and brother are dead, or that I have no money, or that my dad spends more time with the drunks at the local bar than with his one non-dead kid, they treat me differently. Their eyes get this pitying look, and they go out of their way more than they would for other people.
    When people feel sorry for me, it’s because they see me as broken, and sometimes I wonder if there’s truth in that. But it’s weird; I don’t. I know my life is pretty messed up, but I gotta believe there’s more to life