The 1st grade was boring me to tears. "Class, take your red crayon, color the bottom half of your paper red, then write..." And Mrs. Goodhart turns to the blackboard and writes R_E_D... "on the top half of your page, then...
By that time, I had drawn a plane, one that only Picasso could love, and shown it to the blonde sitting next to me. She was suitably horrified, and I got an 'n' for 'needs improvement' in correctly doing assignments. Soon afterward, however, I had started my own course of study.
Mother and I were in a store in Yakutat, Alaska. She was buying cigarettes, and I was looking at a comic book whose cover featured two monstrous aliens about to fight. There was a very anguished aryan-looking guy between then, who obviously was trying to prevent the battle, the reason being that, in the background was a destroyed city. I sounded out the title, No Man's Land. I got it; the monsters were using Earth as a dueling site.
"Mom, can I get this? Mother hardly glanced my way, and said yes. I put it in the bag before she saw the cover, a smart thing, it turned out.
When we got home and she saw the cover, Mom said, "I wish that I had seen this before I let you buy it." But she let me read it, and answered all my spelling questions. "Mom, what's d_e_s_t_r_u_c_t_i_o_n? What's that mean? Oh, what's P_e_r_i_l" and so on. Two weeks and several comics later (Mom was no dummy, not really prudish about comics, and she saw how fast I was learning {don't tell your Father just yet, ok?}), I was helping kids in my class with spelling and pronunciation.
Comics gave me a good head start on my classmates, who were stuck with Dick, Jane, and that damned Spot, and I suffered no ill effects. Well, I still say 'Sigh!' when I sigh, and 'ai-eeeee!' when I'm scared......
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"Teacher's coming!"
I quickly put my stash back in my bookbag, and pulled out my geometry book, leaned against the brick wall of Everitt Jr. High, pretending to be enraptured by scalene triangles. When Mr. Holman came around the corner and looked into the breezeway, he saw three seventh graders walking away from a tall skinny guy, me, trying to look shorter by bending his legs and hunching his shoulders, so as not to be identified as a ninth-grader with no legitimate business here, where the 7th-graders wait for the morning bell.
"Boys, come here." He said to the retreating backs. No response.
"Darrell! Mike! Talley!" his gym-filling coach voice, and the use of their names stopped them. He looked at me, the book I was holding. Geometry was not offered to 7th graders. "Stay right there," He told me, and went over to the three frightened youngsters.
"What's in the sack, Darrell?"
"Nothing."
"Looks pretty full of nothing this morning. Open it."
Holman repeated the command, and Darrell sullenly complied. Holman made such a face as he reached in the bag, one expected him to pull out a dirty diaper instead of the stack of comic books that actually appeared. Pete handed each boy a comic, and pointed towards the trash can. Talley walked over and threw an issue of Batman on top of the paper sacks and discarded tests.
"No, Talley. Pick it back up". Talley did. "Now tear it in two. Talley tore it down the middle, leaving Robin, the Boy Wonder, to fight the Joker alone. I put the book back in my bag while Holman watched Tales of Suspense #42 torn apart before Iron Man could prevent the Red Barbarian from committing world mayhem. I didn't see what issue of Archie Darrell destroyed (not that I cared for Archie, mind you), because I was sliding along the wall to the opening. Holman had grabbed the remaining mind-destroying illustrated contraband and was tearing them all at once. Even from my vantage point, which was behind and moving away, I could see that he was turning red with the effort.
I heard him yell as I rounded the corner of the building. I slowed to a stroll as I passed the main entrance, and I blended with a group of students getting off a bus. I was certain Holman did not know me; he was fairly new, and had never had me in his class. Still, I would have to avoid the 7th grade side until next week, when another teacher had morning monitor duty. That would definitely cut into my earnings, but at least I had finished transacting business before we got interrupted.
I caught up to Steve five minutes before the bell sounded. "Got somethin' for ya'." I pulled an issue of Sgt Fury And His Howling Commandoes far enough out of my bag to let Steve see the #3 in the corner.
"Oh yeah!" We sat down on the steps. The other students blocked any adult eyes as we made our trade. Another benefit of this subterfuge occasionally a gust of wind would blow up a skirt, and from our sitting position we would see a little thigh action.
Steve handed me a dime, and reached for the comic that would complete his collection. I moved it out of his reach.
"A quarter for this one."
Steve almost whined when he asked why.
"I paid fifteen cents for this one." I lied.
The 7th-graders always sold their comics for a nickel. No one knew that but I, and I kept that fact from the 8th and 9th graders, who valued comics at a dime apiece. I would take my lunch money, 35 cents, and hit the seventh-grade traders in the morning. I would buy seven comics, keep one or two for myself, and sell the rest on the big-kid side of school. I usually ended up with my original stake, a couple of good reads, and a nickel or more in cash. Hey, in 1967, a nickel was good money to a schoolkid whose allowance was a mere dollar a week. That dollar, and the profits from my dealing, went to buy new comics, which were 12 cents apiece, a quarter for special issues and annuals.
"Twenty" he countered.
" OK, deal. Twenty, and I want you to get that copy of Spider-Man #1 from your cousin."
"Okay," he handed me the money. "But they just moved, and he can't find which box it's in."
This was why I did not mind gouging Steve. He had been stringing me along for two months, telling me how his cousin had Spider-Man #1, and would sell it to Steve for the cover price, and he would sell it to me for a small mark-up. Finally, a mutual friend told me that Steve had made the story up, but made me promise not to tell Steve. I never did, Steve are you reading this, you miserable, low-born liar? How's the family?
Stashes, secrets, busts, it all prepared me for the seventies, throughout which I successfully dealt the 'love-grass', the 'wildwood weed'. By successful, I do not mean that I got rich, but I never got busted, and I found out that chicks dig dealers. Plus, it paid for my comic habit.
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