While listing a hard-to-find 1950s Gold Medal paperback earlier today, which was loaded with creases, I recalled a customer transaction which I had witnessed in the mid-1980s (how could that already be nearly 40 years ago?!?), at a comic book store that my (then) middle-school son and I regularly frequented in the rougher section of downtown St. Paul, MN.
The proprietor was slightly older than me, another one of those nostalgia buffs who had survived a post-World War II childhood with not only fond memories of all the toys and comic books which we actually had owned, but with a hungry gnawing in our bellies for all those toys and comic books which had never had the decency to land in our possession. And so -- of course -- the proprietor (John) opened up his own comic book store, to recapture a youth he'd once known, as well as a youth that hadn't been.
And, being the good salesman that he was, John would also honor the want-lists from other similarly nostalgia-enslaved customers, perpetually chained to the warm and comforting mental fires of their past -- and hunting -- always hunting! -- for that one elusive item that would forever set them free. And such a customer had entered John's shop that morning, while my son and I were shopping.
The truck-driver (for that's what he was) clumped in wearing black, twisted engineer boots, topped over by faded blue-jeans held at the waist by a wide leather belt with (I swear it's true) a gold Roy Rogers belt-buckle. The shirt that failed to keep his upper body entirely covered was festooned with various pin-backs, some of which were even passingly polite (but not many). Plus the requisite stetson holding his head from shooting off into the clouds, while driver juggled a burning cigarette from between his beard, and growled: "Understand that issue of ROY ROGER COMICS that I ordered came in."
John nodded. "Sure -- right behind the counter."
John rang him up -- about $240.00, plus tax.
"Okay -- thanks," replied the driver -- and folded the comic book in half, and tucked it in his right boot.
From Very Good Plus to Near Fine Minus, right down to Good Minus -- in seconds flat.
And walked out the door -- still puffing his cigarette.
John looked at me. I looked at John. And we both shook our heads.
You just can't make those things up.
