Raisins of Gluttony (pt 3)

That tension had strained us both while we traveled.  Both knowing, but never saying what the other felt.  Of course everyone else saw it.  Maybe it was the least apparent to us.  It had been, at least.  Like anything tense and taught, once it snapped everything was laid bare.

 

Relieved by this revelation, I told you my thoughts, and recounted our meeting.  How I had always pined for you, since our first meeting.  My attempts at friendship, thrice spurned.  How only after I had moved on that you became my friend.  The first three tries had been a farce, a chance to get you into bed.  I was a wolf and you a sheep.  But you saw through them.  Then you reached out to me, I suppose some part of me had forgotten or was interested in other pursuits.
Our friendship remained pure and plutonic, but there was a always something lurching in the depths of our minds, my mind at least.  Too often, our paths would chance to cross.  Our sentences would be finished by the other, and though you found me eccentric and garish at times, you admitted that there was a “sweet sincere truth” to me.
In those days, you would laugh when I told you about my fears.  You chided me for what sounded like childish concern for conspiracy and contingency.  But when it all came crumbling down, you saw me for what I was, no longer a skeptic with a sardonic distaste for the government, I had become the clear-headed eye in the storm that washed around as the world spun out of control.
I confessed my love for you that night.  You said nothing and made no promises.  I decided that this was good for now.  You were all I had and I you.  Besides, I never believed in ghosts and I didn’t think anyone could take you from me.  I was content for the first time since the fall.  I thought to myself if the world had to end to bring us together then I would be Nero.  Damn the world! Let her burn!
When I woke, the next day you were already up.  You had made a chore of settling into this place.  I had my doubts but you seemed happy so I consented to staying in Homer.  In my mind I saw our future, living in this small village.  Our children growing up here, us growing old sitting on rocking chairs til the sun went down.  It was a nice little life I imagined.  You handed me a coffee.

A Legend (in my mind)…or Legends of the Dork Knight

It was a Saturday afternoon in December, maybe it was late November, either way the Mall was packed that day.  Holiday shopping season was in full swing.  I remember the store was over staffed.  Marc, the manager, didn’t mind.  He was happy to have everyone there and we were happy to be there.  The store was packed with customers, one-timers in for the holiday season, people we’d never see again, and regulars that were in everyday.

We sold comics, sure but it was more like a cult, no secret handshakes or funny bird calls, no decoder rings, just like minded people hanging out, shooting the shit about whether or not Planetary was going to come out on time this month. And perhaps Prince or Joe Jackson was on the CD player.

The regulars hated the one timers and the one timers resented the regulars.  Most dad’s and mom’s that came into the store were wary.  They’d wanted sons who played football and daughters on the cheerleading squad.  What they got instead were Star Wars fans and Batman devotees.  Tough luck, I say.  I guess I sort of resented the one timers too.

This particular day, I was on wander duty.  Marc and John had the registers (we just installed a second because it was so busy this year).  Bryan was on wander duty too.  Wander duty meant you blended in with the customers, if they stopped to pick up something of interest you’d fan that flame.

Bryan was great at this.  He used to get kid’s 10-15 so excited about Warhammer and Dungeons & Dragons that their parent’s would often have them leave while they purchased box sets and expansions that ranged in the hundreds of dollars.  The man was a master.  But at the time the real money laid in CCGs.  Collectible Card Games.  That was my realm.

Magic: The Gathering, Star Wars, Legend of the Five Rings, Overpower, and yea Pokemon had just come out.  This Pokemon fad was the “gateway drug” card game.  It subverted 5 year old PeeWee football heroes into future Magic: The Gathering Pro Tour wannabes.  It was a plague that spread through the middle schools like small pox with the native americans.  And us Comic Store Guys, we were Columbuses and Pizzaros.

So, wander duty was going well, Bryan and I were having fun.  When you like what you do it doesn’t feel like work.  Life as a Comic Shop Clerk couldn’t get any finer.  So John went to lunch or something, maybe he was in the back eating on the comic bins.  I took 2nd register.  By now the store was packed, but it was manageable with one register.  Marc was swift enough on it, anyhow, he could run the whole place.  Marc’s expertise was comics though, and while the late 90′s saw a huge resurgence in the popularity of “funny books”, they just couldn’t compete to the financial success of CCGs and games like Warhammer.

Marc was lost when it came to this stuff.  Most of the comic guys had already picked up their weekly fix by Friday morning (which was two days after the day when comics are released.)  The weekends were for gamers.  And Marc knew this, so Bryan and I did was we do best: played games, and got people excited about those games.

Just so you can get a quick idea of the people in the store, the employees:  Marc(at the register) sort had this Chris Isaak thing going on with his hair.  Bryan (chilling by the comic bins) was a big dude, burly.  He probably had a beard around then, he was definitely wearing a Harley Davidson leather bandana thing on this head.  John was the shortest, he was always smiling and having these intense happy moments when he came to some conclusion about comics or games that mirrored real life.  “Ergo, hot chicks are like 10th level Fighters…1st edition rules of course” was one of John’s favored lines.  John sort of looked like a Hobbit, except he was eating lo mien.  And I looked a lot like I do now.  I was skinnier, but I was 6’1″ bespeckled and wearing a comic book tee shirt unironicly, my jeans were much looser fitting (as was the style back then).

So now you have us in your minds eye: Legends Deptford Comic Stop #7.  We were a ragtag group of dudes in our late teens and early 20′s.  TOP OF THE WORLD.  Anyhow, this day, something happened.  Something that we still laugh about whenever we get together.

In walks this cat, wearing a black Rolling Stones shirt with a PacSun bag.  I vividly remember that bag and the shirt.  It was the full on embodiment of contrast, The Rolling Stones, and preppy beachwear.  Only it was matched by the stark difference in the brightness of the bag and the utter blackness of that shirt, it was the one with the mouth in red.  Mustard, blackness, and ketchup, you could see this guy coming a mile away.  I suppose that was his bad.  I wasn’t as detail oriented then as I am now.  Which says something for this outfit that ten years later I still remember it.

He walked in, I greeted him and then realizing he was probably just browsing, I moved on to other more promising customers.  I did get close enough to see his bag was empty.  I wasn’t too worried about that though.  He moved toward the RPG (Role Playing Games) books and I settled on him knowing what ever he was looking for.

“Zac.” Bryan called me across the store.  I walked over.

“What’s up, Big Bry.”  Everyone called him Big Bry, there was another Brian that hung out in the store but not often enough when Bryan was there to make a nickname a thing of convenience.  He was big and his name was Bryan.  That’s just how it was. So, Big Bry.

“Zac, what do bulldogs do?”  He asked me.

I smiled, I thought he was telling me a joke.  Bryan, when you first met him, you’d think he was gonna beat you up.  Then he opens his mouth, he was a warm dude, very funny and prone to yell out things like “JEAN CLAUDE VAN DAMMIT, YOU RANDY SAVAGES!”  So I thought this was a joke.

“They slobber all over the place and have nasal problems.”  In truth I probably said nothing of the sort, but this is my memory I’m allowed to change a few things to make myself sound cool.  Don’t let it fool you though, I was a huge awkward geek.  But, had I said that it would have been backed with facts.  My Grandmother had a bulldog, he had nasal issues and slobber.  Lots of slobber.

“No like Spike on Tom & Jerry.”  Bryan said.  Ok this was serious.  We went right to a mainstream cartoon reference, this was not a laughing matter, he wanted me to understand something of importance.

“They guard things.” I kept my voice down.  I knew something was up and he wasn’t talking at full-on Big Bry bravado.  So the game was afoot.  I gathered that much.

“Yea.” He pointed to the guy in the Rolling Stones shirt.  “Bulldog that guy.”  He winked at me.

“Got it!”  I nodded.  This was my thing.  Skinny and a bit of a skulk, I was the perfect candidate for the job.  I was stealthy and elfish already, a natural rogue.  Bryan had recent degreed that I hit level 4 in real life and could modify an attribute.  My official dexterity was now at 16.  That’s a +3 to all stealth, acrobatics and dodge checks!  I was the Grey Mouser.

The guy in the Rolling Stones t-shirt was handling a full box of Star Wars cards (Retail Value: $106).  I decided to just make my presence felt and hopefully avoid the situation entirely.  If he knows he’s being watched, then he’s not gonna try to steal anything.

“Could I ring that up for you?  Maybe just hold it behind the counter while you look around?”  I held out my hand for the box.

“Oh, no thanks.”  He put the Box back on the shelf.  I figured that was it.  He’d been marked and knew the jig was up.  He’ll move to another store a better easier target.  Spencer’s Gifts perhaps or the Hot Topic.  I didn’t care, I just didn’t want him stealing from a locally owned independent comic shop, and not mine for certain.  In this, I was resolute.  I think all comic shop clerks, the ones that have watched Clerks, Mallrats and Empire Records (which means all of us) feel this way.

“Zac!”  I turned Marc beckoned.

“Sup, Boss.”  I chimed.

“Don’t call me, Boss.”  Marc was like Perry White of the Daily Planet sometimes, except he was obsessed with Prince instead of Elvis.  “I’m gonna find some stock in the back.”  That was code for he was gonna use the bathroom.  I nodded and took the register.  John was still chowing down on the lo mien. Bryan was pretending to be an Orc with a few gamers.  That left me to a twofold task: ring up customers and watch our friend in the Rolling Stones shirt.  Easy.  I didn’t even need to take my eyes off him to use the register.

One of our regulars came up.  And asked for her comics for the week.  We kept the comics for regular customers behind the register.  This meant that I’d have to swing around for just a second to turn my back on Mr. Rolling Stones shirt/PacSun Bag. He was near the exit over by the toys, giving me a dirty look, because he knew I was onto him.

In the mere second, it took me to turn and hand the comics to regular, he had vanished.  I was relieved at first.  Good riddance.  Then it struck me.  Such a quick departure seemed suspect.  I scanned the toys.  Something was off.  Something was missing, I’d seen that section of the store from the register everyday for 3 years.  And there was an aberration in my memory of how it should look.

“Fuck! Bry, he took the Cantina Dancers Box set!  BULLDOG!”  I hurdled the counter.  It’s important to note that I yelled “BULLDOG!” because spike would also chase down Tom in the cartoons, it was the other thing a bulldog does.  I could hear Bryan saying something but I was on the chase.  Now Really this whole exchange took me two or three minutes to realize.  I had at least rung up two customers.

(Let me take this moment in the middle of the story to let you on to the fact that the item he took, the Cantina Dancers booze set was a worthless toy.  It house three female Star Wars aliens dressed like Hoboken skanks.  No self respecting collector even wanted this item.  We reduced the price to $3.  This Ludite could have asked for the thing and we would have given it to him as a joke.  Back to the story…)

I panicked, we were close to an exit.  He could be gone.  But if that was the case, he was gone.  I might as well check the rest of the mall.  We were in the counter at the 2nd level (This is where all comic shops go in malls. We are the red-headed bastard child, the illegitimate son of the Milkman.  Comic store customers don’t come to the mall to shop, they come to hang out.  So they stick us in the counter and hope that the punishment doesn’t go unnoticed).

What that meant is that I had a lot of ground to cover in a very small amount of time.  I had one advantage.  If he was still in the mall, he could only go in one direction.  Two Floors 78 stores and 18 kiosks, this was my mall, I knew every inch.  I could move through the crowds like a ghost and there was no way he was going to get away.  If he was still here.

The mall was packed.  I scanned every store on the top level up to the middle.  Every one a guy in his twenties wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt could enter without looking like a weirdo.  That was a drastic cutdown in my search.

I was trying to get in his head.  If I was this guy I’d want to put distance between myself and the store.  No way I’d be cornered in a store, there would be no way out.  Also, I would switch floors.  With all the escalators on this end of the mall going up until the food court that meant a switch in the center of the mall.

I rushed to the gaping hole that over looks “Santa’s Workshop”.  The world was a blur.  Time was of the essence and I was running out quickly.  I started to lose my resolve.

Then I spotted him!  Diagonal from my position on the first floor, he was next to another toy kiosk.  Of course.  Kiosks are hard to watch, they only had one employee and if he/she was on one side then the other side was unprotected.  As such, the girl at the kiosk was a sitting duck.  I ran to the stairs that lead to the first floor.  I bounded down all four flights like an acrobat.  He was mine!  Dead to rights.

I landed like a cat on the ground floor of the mall, stood and moved in silence toward Rolling Stones t-shirt/PacSun bag.  The box set was there, sitting in his bag.  Guilty!  This is where I came to the conclusion of Who the fuck do I think I am?  Sure, I found him and sure he had the item but like a dog chasing a car, what the Hell can I do once I catch him?

That’s when he took a couple of things from the toy kiosk and put them into the PacSun bag!  All doubt faded, I was the law.  I moved toward him.  He looked around, presumably to make sure no one saw.  That’s when he spotted me. His face dropped.  I bet he thought, “The fucking comic shop guy, REALLY?!”  I smiled like a wolf and the sheep turned quickly away.  The chase was back on and the trail was hotter than ever.

He went from a brisk walk to a jog, but the magnitude of the crowd at the mall was too much to move swiftly.  I was content to walk quickly.  My plan was to get him in the parking lot, I guess, kick his ass and return the goods.  Zac Clark: Hero of the Day!  Best to keep it simple.

He broke into a run, pushing people out of the way.  He created a hole for me to follow and I took a faster pace.  But again, it was a simple waiting game.  No moves till he’s outside told myself.  I steeled up all my rage, and a calm jog was my pace.  Imagine Pepe Lepew and the Lady Cat he’s always after.  I know I’m fast, faster than the Rolling Stones t-shirt.  He knew it too.  He turned, I could see the fear in his eyes.  I could taste it like a steak.

This continued.  I’d come closer, he turned, and then pushed farther.  I smiled, calm in my confidence.  Closer. Turn. Push. Smile.

That’s when Marc jumped him from behind, pushed him to the wall and shouted, “Did you think you’d get away?”  Marc was like Batman.  He came out of nowhere.  Mall security saw the ruckus and asked what was going on.  “This asshole,” Marc pushed his forearm under his chin putting the guy against the wall, making sure he wasn’t going anywhere, “stole from my store!”

“And I saw him take stuff from the kiosk back there!” I felt like I had to add something.  I wanted to come off as cool and as hardboiled as Marc, but I just ended up looking like his sidekick.  I did all the work!

The mall cops took him in.  Marc shouted at him, “Not in our store, buddy!”

Afterwards Marc told me that he’d heard Bryan yelling as he was finishing up in the bathroom and he rushed out.  Bryan told him what happened and he went to chase me down, and bring me back to the store.  Probably to lecture me about leaving the store.  He spotted me as I saw the thief.  He went from mild mannered comic store manager to super hero.  “I cut him off at the pass.  Classic western strategy!”  Marc had a thing for spaghetti westerns.

I laughed then, “I can’t believe you said, ‘Did you think you’d get away?’. That was too much!”  Marc laughed, he told me it seemed like the right thing to say.  We walked back to the store, a crime fighting superhero team.  I think he even bought the sidekick some Chick-Fila.  Ideally, he did at least.  Number One Value sized no pickle and a Cherry Coke.  Bryan gave me a +1 to Intelligence and was now level 5 as well!  I’m not sure I remember what said but it was likely to include the words “Vis-a-vis and whetherto.”

Looking back, I really miss those silly moments.  We were all just geeks trying to figure out what and who we were.  Marc was the coolest guy I knew in those days, and the rest of the staff wasn’t too far behind.  We didn’t do too much with the ladies except Marc, he had a steady girlfriend (I remember how magical and impossible Mel seemed) but when someone rolled a twenty (naturally, of course) or answered some impossible question about the first appearance of who ever in Amazing Spectacle #16 we all celebrated.  Those cats were and still are family to me.  The store closed in 2005, but our friendships and our Legend (the name of the comic shop was apropos of all the crap we got into) remain an indelible mark on my youth, in a good way.

The Mark

(I’m working on a series of 600 {or less} word stories.  Some of them will become serials while other will be a shot in the dark one time only thinger.  Here is my first.)

 

The bar was mostly crowded. This is where the players who thought they were big time hung out in New Shanghai.

“He’s here.”  Leroy said, clutching his skull.

“You go cover the back.  If he sees there’s two of us, ain’t no telling what he’ll do.  We don’t want this one to run.”  Glen turned and shoed Leroy out the door.

Glen scanned the room.  Table games lined the back and the center had the card games.  That’s where he’d be.  Trying to blend in with the masses.  Glen spotted him alone at a booth, faced toward the door, watching all along.

No sense in pretending to be sly, Glen decided, the mark had nowhere to go.

“Evening, Rico.  Nice seeing you in this dive.”  Glen brushed the rim of his porkpie in salute.

“Don’t act like you don’t know that I don’t know you’ve been following my trail all over town.  And take off those damned implants.  I’m wearing a dampener, you might as well get comfy.”  Rico smiled.  He cocked his blaster under the table and made sure Glen heard the loud click sound.

 

 

Many patrons in the bar turned their heads.  When they heard no blast they went back to their games.

Glen stopped, then smiled.  Negotiations had begun.  “Deal’em!”  He put his hat on the table and ripped the psionic implants from his neck port.  “I’m clean.”

Rico, chuckled.  “What are the stakes?  I know what I win, but what happens when you loose?”

“I won’t loose.”

Glen stared at Rico.  Rico was human.  Humans, pure humans, weren’t good for much.  They couldn’t read minds, their brains couldn’t handle astro-travel calculations, and they were no good in a fight.  But they could breed.  Post Humans, extra-sapiens, those who opted for enhancements just didn’t have the “knack” for fathering children.  This was becoming a problem.

Glen’s bosses were men of vision.  Wealthy men who rebuilt the metropolises after the Cataclysm.  They watched the population slip.  Panic buttons where hit and men like Larry and Glen were sent out to find the Breeders.  The last true humans were the final hope to set mankind’s prolific pace back on track.  Every birth counted.

Glen’s employers paid for breeders.  They paid well. The future belonged to the post humans, these baseline pipsqueaks were a dirty necessity.  That’s how Glen saw it.

“I want 30 minutes.”  Rico put the gun on the table and shuffled the deck.

“10.”

“25!”

“15.”

“Done!” The cards were dealt.

Glen looked at his hole cards.  Seven of Spades, and Nine of Clubs.  It wouldn’t due to bluff.  Rico had been on tilt for months.  They’d see every card.  He was sure.  The bet started at $200. Rico called.

The flop came down.  Ace of Clubs, Five of Hearts, Eight of Diamonds.  Glen was on a draw. Fifteen Minutes and out $1500.  He muttered something about “honor among thieves”.

“Is that some kind of tell?” Rico said.  Obviously he paired up.

The Turn: Ace of Diamonds.

Glen sighed

“All in.” Rico said.

“Call, $1300” Glen stood, cards exposed.

The River: Six of Hearts.

Glen smiled.  “That was anticlimactic.”  He grabbed Rico’s arm.

Rico shot the rest of the cards at Glen.  He ran free. Glen plugged into the Psi-amp and put on this porkpie

“Leroy, we have a runner.” Glen walked to the door.

“Leroy stepped in front and leveled Rico in one hit.  He landed against the bar.  Glen cuffed him.  “Nothing to see here.  Go back to your fun.”  The three of them left.  Rico was out, slung over Leroy’s shoulder.

(I think we’ll here more from Rico before this is over.)

On Death, Conduits, Gods and Oedipus

Jack hadn’t believed in god until recently. He had been the type of man to just believe in himself. It wasn’t so much that he had a spiritual epiphany or that he had felt the call of piety. Simply, one day a voice appeared inside of Jack’s head and uttered the words. “I’m am the spirit of a dying god, in your tongue Ishtar is the closest you could come you pronouncing it without going mad. You know this to be true.”

And he certainly did know it to be true. In Jack’s opinion, Ishtar was not just a loud talker but an inappropriately close one too. He often thanked god, not the one in his head or even the other more well known one that he didn’t really believe in, just the one you thank when you set about thanking god, the god of “thank yous” he supposed. He thanked this thank you god that he could not smell Ishtar’s breath. Dying God breath likely smelled insidious he guessed.

Ishtar began as a fount of advice. Often this advice was unwarranted and came generally at in opportune times. Jack learned to not trust the advice after a short stint in Atlantic City at a poker table. Ishtar hadn’t known any better than Jack if that man had been bluffing, until he laid down the full house, and it was utterly apparent that either Ishtar was in league with the man at the other end of the table with the clear green visor, or she just had no bloody knack for gambling. As such, Jack tended to not gamble or listen to advice freely handed out by expiring immortals.

Jack found a common ground with Ishtar as time carried on. Ishtar accepted Jack’s mind for a final resting place, after all. He decided if his head was gong to be an old folk’s home for a god he might as well make nice. As a result they watched a lot of movies together. Ishtar had a fondness for epics and Charlton Heston. Planet of the Apes was one of her favorites, as was The Ten Commandments. “I knew Moses. Though he certainly did not look like that.”

Jack accepted that she was going to talk during the films they watched. He felt most of the time she could add an interesting point of view to the film or give him some poignant insight into the history of the film’s fictional era.

It wasn’t until Ishtar was quite sure of her impeding demise that she struck a deal with Jack. Jack knew well enough to not strike deals with silver tongued devils. But no rules had ever been written about bargaining with gods, and not defunct gods to boot. The terms were fair enough, so he agreed to the deal. She even made him type up a contract, though she couldn’t sign it. He insisted that if she wanted he could be given power of attorney to sign the document for her. She agreed.

The lawyers gave him a strange look when he asked to be given rights of estate over the “voice in his head”, but they accepted his money all the same. They were lawyers, after all.

With the particulars of signing the indenture taken care of they settled on terms. Ishtar had something of value: Knowledge. Jack had nothing more than time and proficiency with a typewriter. Ishtar found the trade off agreeable. She was the source and he was the conduit. They set about writing the secret histories of Ur, Lost Books of Alexandria, the Tragedies of Atlantis. These were the stories she had witnessed first hand. She told him of the antediluvian races and their decadent fall from grace.

Jack set about putting these stories into his own words. The first series was 2000 pages and 7 era’s thick. Jack sold it to a publisher for a barely a red cent. Royalties soon came tumbling in, though. He rose to fame as an authority on clandestine ancient knowledge.

Jack would have enjoyed his success but he was too caught up in his agreement. Ishtar would spend the night weaving the stories into his dreams and the day reciting the cantos of antiquity. In the time between Jack was writing.

Ishtar was a slave driver. Only after a volume was complete did Jack know true rest. Ishtar would give him leave for two weeks. He took it upon himself to use this time to socialize.

Divine knowledge will change a man. Jack’s demeanor transformed with the celestial cognition he took on. He found that it was hard to relate with his society after his time spent with Ishtar. Her stories took hold of his life. Her tragedies were heart breaking, her romances enthralling, the adventures were without compare. Normal life just couldn’t come close to that of a god.

Jack became despondent. Women had been his prime vice before the god’s voice had made itself apparent. They held no interest for him now. Jack felt a sense of something greater, something more ideal than each girl he met. They could never know or understand what Ishtar had passed unto him.

His friends would never understand his burden, he couldn’t explain it if he tried. There was a god dying inside of him that was sharing the cosmic secrets and the untold history of not just this universe but of all realities. He became consumed with his charge.

Seven volumes in as many years. Jack’s fame peaked just as Ishtar passed away. He final word echoed in his head. He was left in the wake of her death with every comfort known. No condolence could quell the pain and emptiness of the void she left in his mind. She had been his Calliope, His Helen and his Athena. Without her voice he was merely another talentless stenographer, just a plagiarizing hack without the story inside to let out.

Jack tried everything he could to fight off the pain. His therapist suggested that Ishtar was a mental hallucination. Some extension of his mother personified in his mind as an impossible lover, and that the stories where his all along. He had created this personality to compensate for some Oedipal guilt. Jack promptly quit going to therapy.

Jack survived Ishtar by four months. When he died it was a welcome relief. The bleakness of mundane life had been his slow murderer. He spent the days of his life working on his final book: a memoir of his time living under the voice of a fading deity. It sold the least of all his books, which was his greatest fear. Without Ishtar he was merely an empty trench waiting to be filled. It was safe to say he died believing in something much more than himself.