This afternoon, I took my 6 year old to a comic book shop for the first time. We left the house with no particular place to go—we just needed to get out of the house for a while, and it was too hot to play outside. When I suggested the destination, he got excited. The nearest shop I know of is a hole-in-the-wall kind of place.

I’ve been to many comic book shops over the years, and they range from dark, gothic shops to bright, fluorescent stores. The owners and employees range from surly “fat-beards” with a chip on their shoulder to happy, helpful, friendly geeks. My preferred places are those bright stores with friendly geeks.

I had only been to this particular place one time, and it leaned a bit to the dark and surly. I know of a better place in the area, but it’s at least a half-hour drive away. I got my son excited about going to a comic shop before I really thought about what the closest place was, and kind of cringed at what his first experience with a comic shop would be. I hoped I could keep things good for him despite the establishment.

We walked into the store, and I was happy to see two normal-looking guys talking at the counter. The clerk immediately asked if he could help us with anything—a good sign. I told him we were just looking.

My son’s head was on a swivel, looking all around the room. There were comic books and graphic novels everywhere; I think he was in visual overload. He was quiet and intent. He looked at everything, and took his time moving from shelf to shelf. I made sure he quickly passed over anything of questionable imagery.

Contrary to what some non-comics-fans think, comic books are not specifically for children. Many comics are strictly for adults. Like most movies are PG or R rated—not for children—so are comic books. And even the ones not specifically for “adult audiences” can be a bit intense for young kids.

We spent many minutes looking at the new comics, some comic-character toys, and some new and old role playing game books. A few patrons moved through, in and out, of the store. The patrons were all males, and just normal guys. My initial concern about the environment was dropped—the store was physically dark, with dark walls and dark shelves, and just sufficient lighting, but none of the employees or customers were like that.

My boy found a Spider-Man comic on the new issues shelf and wanted to get it. The cover showed The Kingpin – an evil crime lord. (He’s not just a “bad guy,” he is Evil.) I paged through the book and saw this issue was almost entirely a long violent sequence between Spider-Man and The Kingpin, so I said no to that book. I suggested we go to the back of the store and look through their old comics in boxes and plastic sleeves.

New comics are around four bucks each, and I figured many of the old books wouldn’t be more than that. Plus, the sufficiently old ones might be cheesy enough to not bother a child’s sensibilities.

We searched through probably a hundred Spider-Man books until my son found one that intrigued him: Spider-Man versus The Lizard and some other reptilian/dinosaurian monster. The book cover was in bad shape, but it was only priced at $2.50. Its “pre-damaged” condition assuaged my feelings about giving a 6 year old a 30 year old, collected comic book. (He looks at his comics so much that they fall apart within a couple weeks.)

We went back to the front of the store where I picked up a couple new issues of Incredible Hulk. As we were about to check out, I asked the clerk if they had any Marvel comics (the publisher of Spider-Man and such) for young kids. They had several. The clerk showed us where they were on the new issues shelf, and my boy picked out a new Spider-Man to go with his ancient one. We were both happy and excited about our new comic books.

We made the purchase and went back out to the van. My son of course wanted to look through his books as soon as we were buckled into our seats. I wanted to look at my books right away, too, but I had to drive.

* * *

On the subject of comic book shops, I will add that I actually worked at a comic book shop for a week back in the late 90s.

I was writing freelance at the time, and so had a very flexible schedule during my days. The owner and sole operator of the comic shop where I made all my comic purchases, a bright, clean store, wanted to go out of town for a few days to a major convention. One of my long time dreams was to run a comic book store. (Not exactly a “change the world” dream, I admit.) So I offered to run the shop while he went to the convention.

The owner was supposed to be gone only three or four days, but winter weather held him up wherever he was—I don’t remember in what city the convention was being held. Through regular phone check ins, he let me continue to run the store for seven full days, from opening till closing.

That was one of the most enjoyable jobs I ever had. I got to hang out in a bright and clean comic book store all day, looking through the old issues, reading the new issues, talking with fellow comics fans, and just generally getting my comics geek on for seven glorious days.

Bullgrit

Back when I was in college, I worked in the camera and electronics department of a chain department store. It was the days of $1,000+ “camcorders” – even the latest-tech small ones of the day were larger than the standard palm-sized stuff of today. Here are two true anecdotes from my time selling these instruments.

* * *

A man and an obviously pregnant woman came in to find a camcorder. While the husband talked with me about the various features of the cameras, the wife was sitting down on an exercise machine in the nearby sporting goods department. After a few minutes, I noticed the woman breathing quickly—it looked very odd to someone who had never seen Lamaze before.

I mentioned her breathing, “Is she alright?”

The man looked over at her and said, “She’s in labor.”

“Now? Here?” I said, shocked.

“Yeah,” he said, “We’re getting the camera to tape the birth.”

I speeded up my explanations and got a camcorder in the couple’s hands as quickly as I could. They left happy, and hurriedly.

* * *

We kept the camcorders in a glass cabinet behind the glass case-counter. The cabinets were locked and we had specific protocols for showing the camcorders: never more than one camera out at a time (put the first back before taking out a second), never leave a camera on the counter unattended, etc.—some cameras cost as much as $1,500, so theft was a big concern.

I walked up to the counter one time and saw an unattended camcorder sitting on top. I looked around and saw no one around. I figured that someone had left it out accidentally, so I picked it up to put it away. At that moment, I didn’t have a key for cabinet, so I took the camera into our secure electronics storeroom and set it on a shelf. I then went to help a customer elsewhere in the department.

Unknown to me, a customer had brought in his own camera to get guidance on how to use it. A salesman was helping him, and they had stepped over to a rack of blank video tapes. (They were around a corner, just out of my sight when I walked up and saw the camera on the counter.)

When they came back to the counter, the camera was missing. (I was already gone from the spot.) Both the customer and salesman were concerned. The salesman called up to the customer service desk, at the front of the store, and asked if they had seen anyone leave with a camcorder. The woman answering the phone had seen the customer enter the store with a camcorder, and she thought that’s what the salesman meant, so she said, “Yes.”

The salesman, holding the phone, standing with the customer, said, “You did?”

The customer heard that and got immediately upset. Without waiting another moment to hear the salesman get clarification, he bolted. He ran to the front of the store, out the exit doors.

The entrance and exit of our store was inside a small mall. The entrance of the mall near our store was the standard glass doors in a huge glass wall. The customer ran full out toward the mall exit, misjudged where the doors were, and smashed right into the glass wall. Witnesses in a small restaurant beside the mall entrance described what happened. The man hit a glass panel and bounced back about ten feet to fall on his back, in a daze.

Hearing about all the excitement, I went out into the mall to see what happened for my self. Someone had already taken the man to the hospital, but the blood and mucus was still on the unbroken glass pane where his nose had hit. The same signs were on the floor about ten feet back from the window. Witnesses said the man wasn’t seriously injured, so it seemed alright for folks to laugh at the accident.

A few minutes later, back in the electronics department, I learned why the man had run out of the store—he thought someone had stolen his camera, and he apparently intended to run out and get it back.

I told my manager what I had done with the camera, and he told me to just not tell anyone else. I didn’t tell anyone else at the store, but I’ve been telling this story to friends for years since.

* * *

I bet you expected to hear about some embarassing video recordings. Well, there was one incident, but it really isn’t as intricate or interesting as the above tales.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

I took my boys to a playground for a couple hours today. It was a mild day, in the mid 80s temperature, with relatively low humidity. Last week it was hot, in the mid 90s with the usual high humidity.

A woman near me was talking on her cell phone, and commented to whoever she was talking to, “We’re going to the pool in a few minutes. It’s just too hot today.” She said this “too hot” thing several times during her conversation, as she paced around the sand box where her child was playing.

I leaned over and commented to the mother sitting on a bench near me, “She’s obviously not from here, if she thinks today is too hot.” That mother and another laughed. “Today is nice,” one said.

Half the humor of my comment was overlooking the cell phone talker’s Yankee accent. I pegged the mother as a New Yorker. She was also thanking the person on the other end of her cell call for telling her about this playground—it really is a great place.

Before that, I saw and heard two women talking in some east European language. Later, I saw and heard a husband and wife talking in probably Hindi. At one point in there, I saw and heard an Asian mother speaking to her child in English with a heavy accent.

I was the only one I heard say, “Y’all” or “fixin’.”

“Boys, y’all come on. We’re fixin’ to leave.”

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

In my high school days, I waited tables for spending money. One Sunday, a group of ten middle-aged and older men and women came in from their church service. They were all dressed for church—the men in coats and ties, the women in dresses. They had been pleasant and polite, right up until they threw me a curve ball.

Their table was along a wall at the back of the restaurant, so four had their backs to the wall, four were facing the wall, and two were at either end of the table. As usual for a Sunday lunch, the restaurant was packed. When I brought their food, I started with those on the outside and ended with those against the wall. They were not right up on the wall, so there was enough room for me to squeeze behind them to place their meals before them.

As I was setting down the last of the plates, they were deciding who would say the blessing. “So who will say grace, today?” A couple of the men offered to speak, but then the apparent matriarch of the group looked directly at me, catching my eye, and said, “Why don’t you say it for us?”

I had only barely heard what the short discussion was about, as I was placing the last plates and getting ready to leave the table. But when the request clicked in my mind, time slowed down. Every head at the table turned to look at me, and one of the men at the end of the table said, “Yes, that would be nice.”

I was still behind four of the group, between them and the wall. At least one of them would have to shift forward a bit for me to squeeze back out, but no one moved. I was literally trapped. It felt like a full minute passed as I stood there like a deer caught in headlights, and then they all bowed their heads for the prayer.

I’d never been one to say blessing even at my own house. My father or grandfather always did that honor. And here I was just their waiter. For a moment, while their heads were bowed and they were folding their hands in front of them, I thought maybe I could jump out from behind them and slink away. But the whole area was
too crowded for any kind of quick stealth.

It felt like another minute passed, and then the matriarch lifted her head just enough to look up at me again, obviously prompting me to start the blessing.

“Um, . . . God is great, God is good, let us thank in for this food. . .” It was the only thing that came to mind right then.

When I reached the end, they all repeated, “Amen,” and lifted their heads. “That was very nice,” the matriarch said. Then those blocking my escape shifted to let me out, and I left the table as quickly as I could without bolting.

A waitress and the hostess were standing near the kitchen door staring at me. “What did you just do?” the hostess asked.

Red faced, I explained the situation. They both laughed heartily, and I asked the waitress to take over that table for the rest of lunch.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com