I offered to help, but Jack insisted on paying for the abortion. He gathered some items from the attic and sold them on eBay. Most of the items were mine—one complete collection of late seventies Mattel Shogun Warriors, one unopened 1980 Kenner Star Wars Droid Factory, one well-used Atari 2600 game console—but I didn’t make a big deal out of it. He was up to two hundred seventy-five dollars, still twenty-five short of where he needed to be, with nothing but some old comic books—also technically mine—left to his name.
We pull into the parking lot at Sal’s Comic Barn, a giant aluminum-sided box in Greenwood. Empire Ridge is just too damn nosy for something like this. Local boy tries to unload some things in a pawnshop, and people talk. Here in Greenwood, Jack is just a nameless kid trying to scrounge up petty cash.
Sal’s Comic Barn is a familiar place to me. I was an avid comic book collector beginning in second grade and ending in puberty. My last two years of collecting in the seventh and eighth grade were largely spent arguing with Sal, his store only two blocks away from Our Lady of Perpetual Help.
The comic books are individually wrapped in clear vinyl sleeves. We each carry a stack tucked under our arms as we enter the store. Sal sits behind the counter, a middle-aged paradox with an old-man comb-over and teen-profuse acne.
“Hank Fitzpatrick?” Sal says, brushing the remnants of his barbecued pork sandwich off his face. He sticks a toothpick in his mouth. “Is that you?”
“Been a while, Sal.”
“Twenty years if it’s been a day. How’s it going?”
“My son here is just looking to unload some comics.”
“Your son?” Sal says, looking at Jack, then at me, then at Jack again. “Looks to me like he could be your brother.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We get that a lot.”
I nod to Jack. He nods back and places the comic books on the counter. Sal eyes them one by one. He retrieves one book, then another, and another. He slides seven of them back across the counter.
“How much for these?”
I grab the comic books, shuffling them as I pretend to assess their worth when I already know their value down to the penny. “Detective Comics numbers three hundred thirty-seven through three hundred forty-three. Good picks, Sal.”
“They’re okay, I guess.” He shrugs. “I’ll give you twenty bucks for all of ’em.”
“Twenty bucks?” I say. “How stupid do you think I am?” I drop the comic books on the counter one at a time, smacking them with the back of my hand to emphasize each point.
“The first appearance of Martian Manhunter.” Smack.
“…winner of six awards for comic book excellence.” Smack.
“…both Archie Goodwin and Walter Simonson were recognized for their work in this series.” Smack smack.
“…the artwork, some of Simonson’s earliest stuff, continues to be hailed as a masterpiece of page layout and storytelling.” Smack smack smack.
“Yeah yeah yeah.” Sal waves a dismissive hand. “Take it or leave it.”
We could have easily got fifty for them if we had the time or inclination, but like most seasoned comic book collectors, Sal’s superpower is smelling desperation.
“Come on, Sal. Can you at least come up to thirty? For old time’s sake?”
“I’m running a business here, not a charity.” Sal rubs his patchy attempt at a goatee. He cracks a smile, a barbecue-stained row of what I like to call “summer teeth”: some are here, some are there.
“Then how about twenty-five?”
“Deal!” Sal says with shamelessly obvious haste, as if to let me know he fucked me over. He throws the money on the counter. “Nice doing business with you, Hank. Try not to be such a stranger.”
“See you in twenty years, Sal.”
He laughs us out the door.