Comic Book World

I got paid to go to ComiCon twice. My best memory there was getting ditched in Tijuana at around 3AM. That gives my teenage ass 4 hours to cross an international border, make my way back to a city on the opposite coast of the one I know, and pretend I got some sleep last night. The border guards fucked with me—I had a few beers in me, and kept answering "New Jersey" when they asked my home. Eventually one clued me in that I had to say "America". That and white skin, and a native accent, was the entirety of the border check in those days.

I paid a hack cab, but we stopped off to buy cocaine and I got ditched again. I'm sorry, I've got the social skills of a neanderthal. I understand why. This one was because I only knew one cokehead and he still had infinite money. He was a good lesson, though—all my bosses were on coke when I was a kid, and none of them beat it. It won every time. A fool may learn from his own mistakes, but a wise man watches other people fuck up. Coke's fun, but I never played in that tax bracket. Did a lifetime fill of free stuff anyway. Coke dealers need someone who can keep up to talk to, and they appreciate that I don't geeze. Much.

I ended up on an old coin-op pay phone trying to get a cab. I didn't know the name of any cab companies, but there was an operator-assisted connection for which I could, and did, dial zero. She fucked with me for a while ... "What color are cabs?" Me: Yellow! "So would you like me to call you a Yellow cab?" Me: Yes! Please! The cab eventually showed up. It's eerie to be all alone in a brightly lit but totally empty urban downtown in the wee hours.

The old comic book world was stone criminal. I think that crops up anywhere you have people creating value out of nothing. Like any blockchain currency, any collectibles market draws the bottom feeders. Real dynamite was $5 a quarter stick. Our forger once stuck a little AK sub in my face and put the red dot on my forehead over a joke. A verbal joke; I said my scripted line in a deadpan voice as instructed and got barrel-checked for it. There was a slot in the front of the banana clip, it was fully loaded. We all laughed and I went outside. I found out later than Jay chewed him a new asshole over that. Apparently, pointing loaded, full-auto firearms at the kiddies is a smidge over Jay's line. Not much was.

I immediately finished a 40 of OE from the gas station across the street and was working on my second when Jay came out to check on me. He made me dump my beer that night, but we were allowed breakfast 40's instead of a quart of milk or OJ if we wanted. It's how I learned not to drink at work—it's hard enough to stay awake after two hours sleep, coming down off a beer buzz is awful. I never smoked weed at work, either. That just makes the day drag. The boss also loved to egg people and places, and was thrilled when paintball guns came out. The kids got an automatic thousand dollar bonus for taking the rap if we ever got caught. Only Mike ever had to.

Jay was also a compulsive gambler. He used to bet us a hundred dollars against one embarrassing moment over our report card. If we got nothing below a B, we got a bill. One C, though, and he got to humiliate us. I had to sing the ABC song at the salad bar in a Shoney's in Maryland. Gomer had to trail us in a mall somewhere while Jay approached teenage girls with a sob story about the boy who had never been kissed. Got him kissed. Jay gave me my first joint, too. Started a lifelong love affair. I'm disassociated anyway, weed makes humor possible through the agony. Without it, I do tend to be cranky.