at the back of the closet. The t-shirt was black; on the
front was the golden O word balloon
logo from the sign, overlaid with the store’s name in white hand-lettered text.
I rubbed my hair in a mirror push-pinned to the wall and went back out front.
The lone customer’s eyes were wandering, a sure sign he
wanted some help. I obliged and he left a few minutes later with a half-dozen
issues of Simon’s least-favorite title.
“ Majestic is
selling well, huh?” I leaned with my back against the checkout counter; Zane
was behind it. I crossed my arms and looked out at the street.
“He’s a better Superman than Superman lately,” he said. “As
far as writing goes.”
“Don’t let Simon hear you talk like that. He’d do more than
take your keys for that kind of blasphemy.”
“Probably,” Zane said, “but that would mean he’d have to be
here. And you know how likely that is lately.”
“Come on, I like Patti.”
“She like runs his life.”
“She’s good for him.”
Simon got married the spring before, and his wife, a local real
estate kingpin we didn’t know how he reeled in, seemed to be weaning him off of
Golden Age. His schedule kept shrinking. Supposedly he was writing a book, a
definitive history of comic books, and Patti was being very encouraging, but
Zane and Marissa felt like she was stealing him away. But that meant more of
Simon’s responsibilities were falling to me.
“She’s good for you ,”
Zane said.
“You’re off ten minutes ago,” I reminded him.
“I’ll just chill for a while,” he said. “If that’s OK.”
“You must have more exciting places to be.”
“Just doing homework.”
“Hanging out with Jeremy.”
“That’s over,” he said. “Thanks to you.”
The bell jingled and a boy walked in, five or six with red mittens
tethered to his sleeves, an old man trailing behind him. The boy reached
immediately for the Spawn figures.
“Those are ugly,” the man said. He looked at Zane and me and
shrugged, smiled. “He says, Let’s go for
a walk , and when I’ve got my hat on he says, Don’t forget your money .”
“Kids are sneaky,” Zane said.
“But he shoveled all the steps, so a deal’s a deal.”
Zane gestured to the plastic demon in the boy’s hands. “If
you’re in the market for something less satanic,” he said to the grandfather,
who nodded, “we have some new Spider-Man figures in.” He looked at the boy. “Want to see?”
The boy clutched his grandfather’s leg and mumbled yes into the
old man’s coat. Zane came out from behind the counter and took a figure down
off the hooks.
“This guy’s a nasty villain,” he said to the kid, describing
the figure. He didn’t change his voice the way most people do when they talk to
kids—he spoke to the kid, not to the nearby adults, haha, via the kid. “He’s
got these tentacles you can wrap people up in and stuff. And he comes with
slime, which is pretty cool.”
The kid scrunched his face and shook his head.
“Is that... what’s his name?” The grandfather was pointing
to the line of figures on the top row. “I remember him...” The figure wore a
metal helmet and had wings on his shoes. A blue cloud covered the front of his
bright yellow shirt.
“Matt Morrow,” I said. “Protector of the future.”
“Ah, not Tom Morrow?”
“Tom was a few Morrows ago now. He got killed off in, I
think, 1983.”
“Ha! Shame. I used to read that magazine. I sold newspapers in
Boston when I was a boy back in the forties.” It sounded like fotties . “The first thing I’d do with my
pay was I’d go to the drugstore and buy it. They were a dime back then—if
I remember right. Which is less and less likely to be the case.”
The boy had selected an action figure and he stood on his
toes to push it onto the counter. The grandfather pulled out his wallet and
then, as an afterthought, reached up and took the Matt Morrow figure off the
hook.
“I’ll get a man too so they can
front was the golden O word balloon
logo from the sign, overlaid with the store’s name in white hand-lettered text.
I rubbed my hair in a mirror push-pinned to the wall and went back out front.
The lone customer’s eyes were wandering, a sure sign he
wanted some help. I obliged and he left a few minutes later with a half-dozen
issues of Simon’s least-favorite title.
“ Majestic is
selling well, huh?” I leaned with my back against the checkout counter; Zane
was behind it. I crossed my arms and looked out at the street.
“He’s a better Superman than Superman lately,” he said. “As
far as writing goes.”
“Don’t let Simon hear you talk like that. He’d do more than
take your keys for that kind of blasphemy.”
“Probably,” Zane said, “but that would mean he’d have to be
here. And you know how likely that is lately.”
“Come on, I like Patti.”
“She like runs his life.”
“She’s good for him.”
Simon got married the spring before, and his wife, a local real
estate kingpin we didn’t know how he reeled in, seemed to be weaning him off of
Golden Age. His schedule kept shrinking. Supposedly he was writing a book, a
definitive history of comic books, and Patti was being very encouraging, but
Zane and Marissa felt like she was stealing him away. But that meant more of
Simon’s responsibilities were falling to me.
“She’s good for you ,”
Zane said.
“You’re off ten minutes ago,” I reminded him.
“I’ll just chill for a while,” he said. “If that’s OK.”
“You must have more exciting places to be.”
“Just doing homework.”
“Hanging out with Jeremy.”
“That’s over,” he said. “Thanks to you.”
The bell jingled and a boy walked in, five or six with red mittens
tethered to his sleeves, an old man trailing behind him. The boy reached
immediately for the Spawn figures.
“Those are ugly,” the man said. He looked at Zane and me and
shrugged, smiled. “He says, Let’s go for
a walk , and when I’ve got my hat on he says, Don’t forget your money .”
“Kids are sneaky,” Zane said.
“But he shoveled all the steps, so a deal’s a deal.”
Zane gestured to the plastic demon in the boy’s hands. “If
you’re in the market for something less satanic,” he said to the grandfather,
who nodded, “we have some new Spider-Man figures in.” He looked at the boy. “Want to see?”
The boy clutched his grandfather’s leg and mumbled yes into the
old man’s coat. Zane came out from behind the counter and took a figure down
off the hooks.
“This guy’s a nasty villain,” he said to the kid, describing
the figure. He didn’t change his voice the way most people do when they talk to
kids—he spoke to the kid, not to the nearby adults, haha, via the kid. “He’s
got these tentacles you can wrap people up in and stuff. And he comes with
slime, which is pretty cool.”
The kid scrunched his face and shook his head.
“Is that... what’s his name?” The grandfather was pointing
to the line of figures on the top row. “I remember him...” The figure wore a
metal helmet and had wings on his shoes. A blue cloud covered the front of his
bright yellow shirt.
“Matt Morrow,” I said. “Protector of the future.”
“Ah, not Tom Morrow?”
“Tom was a few Morrows ago now. He got killed off in, I
think, 1983.”
“Ha! Shame. I used to read that magazine. I sold newspapers in
Boston when I was a boy back in the forties.” It sounded like fotties . “The first thing I’d do with my
pay was I’d go to the drugstore and buy it. They were a dime back then—if
I remember right. Which is less and less likely to be the case.”
The boy had selected an action figure and he stood on his
toes to push it onto the counter. The grandfather pulled out his wallet and
then, as an afterthought, reached up and took the Matt Morrow figure off the
hook.
“I’ll get a man too so they can
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