Some people set up a savings account for their kid’s college fund; my dad found a copy ofX-Men #1in a dead woman’s house while cleaning it out for an estate sale and decided to invest in comics instead.
I don’t draw anymore, but if I still made comics, this is how I would tell my dad’s origin story:
Panel 1:A pair of hands in weathered work gloves sort through papers in a cardboard box.Recycle?is written on the side.
Panel 2:Close-up of a piece of sheet music. It’s an “easy piano” version of “Hero,” by Enrique Iglesias. A sliver of bright red color protrudes just above Enrique’s hairline—the top edge of an illustration tucked into the sheet music.
Panel 3:The gloved hand pulls up the paper to reveal a large redX.
The comic book was already in the recycling bin with the other papers no one wanted. An actual treasure in the trash.
I understand now that Dad should have returned it to the family that had contracted him to run the estate sale. He should’ve explained to them that those thirty-two pages with a cover price of twelve cents was worth far more than his Toyota 4Runner. Enrique Iglesias had protected that issue well. Dad seemed to believe it was some kind of miracle, or at least a sign. And he turned that one issue into a massive comic book collection over the next twenty years.
Not that he’s a passionate comic book reader; he’s not getting in any arguments about Marvel versus DC or which Robin is best. His business is buying low and selling high, whether it’s a Tiffany lamp or a vintage Barbie doll. For him, the only factor in a comic book’s value is the last sale price.
I was the one with the emotional attachment.
Panel 4:A four-year-old girl sits in front of an audience of stuffed animals, “reading” a comic book in her lap.
Girl
…and Cyclops left his Madelyne and their baby to go back to Jean Grey, but it turned out that Madelyne was Jean’s clone and Jean became the Goblin Queen and…
Panel 5:The girl looks up from the comic.
Voice (Off-Panel)
Did you take that book out of the plastic?
I started drawing my own comics before I could read the hand-lettered dialogue bubbles on the issues Dad would give me. They were like picture books, but more grown-up. And I always strove to be more grown-up. A tiny adult.
All the drawing practice improved my line art skills. I’d proudly show my sketches to my dad. As much as he nodded approvingly at my efforts, there was something else about my newfound hobby that proved useful to him: the more I learned about comics, the more helpful I became. And because I only saw him every other weekend (when he was in town), there was nothing I craved more than his attention and appreciation. Usually that came in the form of accompanying him to tag sales or flea markets in search of valuable comics. He trusted me to identify key issues and keep track of storylines and popular artists. He’d brag about me to the vendors and show them my drawings.
Those are core memories. And the artifacts of those weekends sit in one of those long boxes.
Fifteen or so years later, it’s part of a gradually decaying estate and I’m its keeper. I picture myself in twenty years, still sleeping in the office, having become both the Big and Little Edie of comic book inheritance.
My dad’s not dead, by the way—he just lives in Florida now.
He moved there when I was sixteen to “expand” his estate sale business and never came back. He left me with the comics because he doesn’t trust the humidity down there—or the flood risk. I suspect the real reason is that his girlfriend (I’ve never met her) won’t let him store twenty unsightly boxes in her house.
For years, my mom has urged me to sell them. But this collection is still the nexus of our father-daughter relationship. Without it, we wouldn’t communicate. Flipping is his greatest talent, and I know he’ll be back for them eventually. If my dad has an emotional attachment to anything, it’s making money as a reseller on auction websites.
The daybed shakes again. I hear the muffled voices.
“Nonononono, put it down perpendicular.No.Let me show you, it’s—”Ka-THUMP!
I watch the shelf wobble again and decide to pretend to be vaguely busy somewhere less dangerous.
2
The Bixby isn’t officially aretirement community, but you’d never know it from the number of “active seniors” who congregate at the pool for weekday water aerobics.
Sometimes I wonder if Perry, who’s a few years younger than my mom and exudes effortless cool and good taste, is a bit dissatisfied living in such a generic, beige complex. The apartment they gave up in order to move into The Bixby was one of those aesthetically pleasing converted lofts in the Arena District. I can’t imagine Perry will want to stay here long-term.
The Bixby is Gate 27 at the airport: everyone’s waiting for their next destination. And I’m that person at Gate 27 who’s camped out on the airport terminal floor, using her carry-on as a pillow. Number seventeen on the standby list. Stuck killing time in a bland, liminal space.
On weekends, the pool area gets taken over by the other major demographic of The Bixby: divorced dads who need to entertain their screaming children. All these men have the same styling: beard, slight paunch, sunglasses, AirPods, and the ability to tune out their kids by focusing on their sports betting or dating apps. I’m convinced some divorce lawyer is collecting referral fees from this building by sending all his newly separated clients here to set up their temporary bachelor pads. The pool must be the selling point.
