In walked Dave, towering and foreboding. His arms were muscular, tattooed from shoulder to wrist. Dragons and monsters adorned them, colors blazing. They dared viewers to glance at their majesty, but also intimidated them enough to look away.

As with any new customer, their story is important. I can’t pair the book with the man unless I know of what he’s made. In Dave’s case, he turned out to be composed of much more than just ink on skin and masculine presence. His story had secret chapters, with little hint of their content.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“I used to collect a long time ago,” Dave said. “Loved reading these things. Guess I got distracted somewhere down the line and stopped. What’s going on in the world of comics these days?”

I gave my standard reply. “Well, we’re in a comic-book renaissance right now. Mountains of great product in every genre.”

Dave asked, “Where should I start?”

As with all new and returning readers, some sleight of hand is necessary to glean the information I really need to help them begin. It will never be about the product, but always the human being holding it.

“Where you from?”

Dave had just moved to Los Angeles from Florida. He’d been working two jobs there and decided to make a change. He landed some freelance construction work and had been plying his trade at different sites all over the city.

This explained the calloused hands, the sun-baked skin, the tattered, paint-splashed clothes. I came to know this as Dave’s regular attire and also came to enjoy the furtive, somewhat frightened glances from other customers in his vicinity.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

So began our relationship. No ceremony. No dating rituals. No dinner and a movie. Just our good old-fashioned love of the written word and scrawled-on page that defines us and keeps us close. Intimacy of the mind.

Dave was surprisingly literate in his tastes. He’d read many obscure novels as well as the classics and had a solid knowledge of pop culture in general. While we began focusing on the most widely read superhero fare, Dave quickly became fascinated with more alternative titles. I chuckled at the idea of this construction worker at home, feet up, giggling at Daniel Clowes and Chester Brown.

Once, sometimes twice a week, Dave would come in and we’d talk at length about what he’d just read. He devoured everything I threw at him and came back for more.

Urasawa? Done. TeNapel? Done. Hernandez Bros? Done. Not to mention Waid, Johns, Bendis, Brubaker and the epic majesty of his favorite Marvel Annihilation epic.

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

It was painfully obvious that Dave was unhappy with his work. While I could tell he must have quite a bit of carpentry skills and his body was most certainly built for the task, he also had a softness about him. An intellectual flair that didn’t befit his profession.

“I was unhappy in Florida. I felt so far away from everything. I thought maybe if I moved out here, I’d get closer to the things I really want to do,” Dave confided. “I have this image of who I want to be and if I don’t do it soon, I worry I’ll get too old and miss the boat.”

“It’s fear that stops us from being who we want to be, Dave. Not time.”

“I’m working on a few things,” He replied. “We’ll see if they pan out.”

His demeanor changed as he spoke. He seemed angry with himself. The smallest thing could trigger a shift, transforming him into an insecure giant. Because of this quality, I pried less than I normally would.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

If there’s any certainty in lessons learned during a life in retail, it’s this: never judge, never assume, never expect. You will find yourself embarrassed, you will make an ass of yourself and you will see all expectations eclipsed.

Time passed and Dave’s visits tapered off a bit. I knew he was working on a big construction job, so he must have been overwhelmed. His subscription file grew, but I was far from alarmed.

I found myself with a rare day off. I discussed it with my lovely little girl and we decided to take advantage of the clock and make it a daddy/daughter day. I went online and found a crazy kid’s show playing at a local theater. It was a strange and mysterious version of “Alice in Wonderland” that nearly defied explanation.

In this unique little production, Alice (not the one from Lewis Carroll’s novel, but the one from the Brady Bunch) wakes to find herself in a surreal world where the classic story unfolds and is frequently interrupted by the characters we know and love from the story breaking out into songs by modern rock bands that had one hit and faded into obscurity.

I know.

But there were glowing reviews and parents online raved, so the tickets were procured. We had a nice lunch and went to our matinee. The lights went down and the wackiness ensued. It started off like gangbusters. Weird pop-culture references that cracked us both up, but only I really understood. It was obviously designed to appeal to both children and their grown-up dates.

The show veered from the “modern” world of the Brady Bunch into the tilted one of Sir Caroll. Hannah was utterly confused but got a kick out of Alice being an old maid. Then, out of nowhere, the stage exploded into a Cirque du Soleil extravaganza. Lights, costumes, stilts, the whole nine yards.

The cast broke out into song, danced and cartwheeled their way through a Frankie Goes to Hollywood number and finished with a flourish. The lights came up a bit, the audience cheered wildly and the cast froze in a musical tableau.

There in the middle of this loony bunch of actors, standing straight upon his head, was my very own Dave.

What? How? Why?

The show continued and I was transfixed. Here was a man who I only pictured with a saw and power drill in his hand, walking on stilts as if they were grafted onto his legs. He changed costumes and voices like some sort of savant. He took up swords and plastered on make-up and leapt through the air like a gymnast. And he sang! This quiet hulk of a man that I knew from my store might as well have been an elaborate illusion. He was brilliant and hilarious and altogether shocking.

As the show wound down, the Jabberwock entered the stage. It was an enormous and intricate piece of puppetry. All beak and claw and roaring fire. Hannah actually shrunk back into her seat. It traipsed the stage, tearing limbs and eating characters whole. There must have been three actors in there manipulating this patchwork beast.

From the wings came the savior. Bells hung from his pointy hat. His green slippers curled at the front and sent him sliding in all directions. He swung his mighty plastic sword like a baseball bat. An Arthurian jester had come to slay the savage monster.

“Get him, joker-man!” whispered Hannah.

“Get him, Dave!” I whispered beside her.

As if he’d heard our plea, Dave ran across the stage, grabbed a rope, swung around twice, flipped upside down, did a somersault, handed his sword to a fellow thespian, juggled some fruit, took back his blade, leapt over two village commoners and let fly his weapon. Red scarves shot out of the Jabberwocky’s neck, signifying blood. It reached up with its scraggly claws and grabbed for its beak, but found only air.

Off with his head, indeed.

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

We adults roared with approval and our children screamed, frightened but loving every minute.

And Dave raised his arms in victory, elated. So much so that he broke out into a bluegrass version of a Duran Duran song. The cast joined in, the townspeople were regurgitated from the headless beast and Alice was sent on her way, back to her little room beside the kitchen at Chez Brady.

Days later, I was deep into my work at the store, head stuffed under some back-issue bins.

“Howdy, stranger!” A voice bellowed.

“Howdy yourself,” I replied, shaking Dave’s hand. “Where you been hiding?”

“Just been working on a project,” he said. “It’s taking up all of my time. But the hard part’s over, so I can visit more often again.”

I decided not to say anything for awhile. If Dave didn’t want to talk about his “project,” who was I to pull the covers?

We chatted up a storm as usual, walking the shelves and speaking passionately about comedy and tragedy and romance. I was no longer surprised at how adept Dave was at discussing these themes and how they lifted themselves from the written page into our hearts and minds.

Dave looked at his watch and grumbled, “Gotta get going. The new building site is all the way across town. Hate traffic. Hate construction. Hate.”

Again, the curtain fell over Dave’s face. It was painfully clear that this dual-role life he was living was eating him up inside. But maybe it wasn’t just that. Maybe he needed to talk to someone about it. Sometimes, letting the hero know you’ve discovered his secret identity can be a relief of epic proportions.

“By the way,” I said flippantly, “you make an excellent woman.”

Dave looked perplexed. “What did you just say?”

“I’m also very impressed that you can put lipstick on with your toes while wearing a colander on your head. Not an easy feat to accomplish for any six-foot-tall man.”

There was a long pause. Dave turned beet-red.

“When did you see it?” He said softly.

“A few days ago,” I replied with a smile. “Went with my daughter. Almost had a heart attack when I saw you up there! Why didn’t you tell me you were an actor?”

“Because I’m not an actor,” Dave demanded. He smiled a proud smile and announced, “I’m a clown!”

We both laughed hysterically, struck by the hilarity of such an honest declaration in the heart of Los Angeles, city of stars.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

Over then next few months, Dave spilled the beans about the true trajectory of his life. From a small town in Florida to a large city to a road trip bound for California. About his love affair with theater and the circus and commedia dell’arte.

How he’d have to time everything just right to get from construction sites to whatever theater he was secretly performing in. How he’d rehearse late into the night with paint under his nails and a rumbling in his belly. How he desperately wanted to leave behind the world of drywall and staple guns.

“Sometimes, I imagine spending every day just making people laugh. I imagine looking out and seeing happiness and wonder. I imagine it every night and then I wake up and find myself with a hammer in my hand.”

I thought carefully before responding. I take imagination seriously.

“I read somewhere that we think in pictures. That the more we think about what we love, the more likely we are to find it in front of us. Don’t hide your pictures away, Dave. You’re not just looking at them. You’re in them.”

We talked for many weeks after that. Dave finally “outing” himself and regaling me with stories of covert auditions and much heartache (which it seems is a constant in the life of a performer, clowns especially).

Then the day came when Dave’s golden ticket presented itself.

He came into the shop, wound tightly. Obviously, something was up. Something big.

“What’s going on, Dave?” I said, concerned. “You look kind of pale.”

“Disney!” he shouted, startling some of the milling customers.

He went on, out of breath. “There’s an opening at the park. I have an audition next week. There’s only one slot. They said they need someone who can walk on stilts, juggle and improvise.”

“Well, that’s got you written all over it!” I said, beaming.

Dave’s jaw tightened. “But there are going to be hundreds of people auditioning for this and they’re only picking one performer. The rooms will be packed with young kids more athletic than me. Kids whose knees don’t creak when they get up in the morning. Who don’t have scars on their hands and wrinkles around their eyes.”

I shook my head sympathetically and said, “Yeah, but none of them have slain the Jabberwock. Saw it with my own eyes. Truly an amazing sight.”

We laughed together, two friends old enough to understand what victory really is. Not a job or a paycheck or a title. It’s knowing who and what you are. Without fear of reproach. Without need to hide in the dark. It’s not the slaying of the fearful Jabberwock. It’s the courage you arm yourself with on the way that really counts.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Yesterday, my friend Dave closed his subscription account. He’s moving away. Too far to make any weekly visits. It was a bittersweet moment for two men who’d shared so many fine stories and spent so many hours discussing the truth of things. But that was yesterday.

Today, my friend Dave moved even closer to his dream. Just a few blocks away, in fact. From one end of our country to the other he traveled, pursuing something he wasn’t sure he could accomplish. Today, my friend Dave walks the fabled streets of Disneyland, a knight on stilts, forever on parade, only laughter left in his wake.

He’ll be teaching the younger kids what it really means to be a clown. What it means to live your truth. What it means to slay your very own Jabberwock and live to tell the tale.

Imagine that.

YEAR ONE

His walking stick preceded him. It was the size of a small tree. He didn’t seem to really use it, but it made him look regal. Majestic. His red-haired queen followed closely behind, keeping her place. She was in her early forties, he in his late. Both were well-groomed and dressed in immaculate fashion.

When someone makes an entrance like that in a small retail store, you immediately know you’re in for a wild ride. Tom knew how to make such entrances and during his era at the shop, “wild” was indeed an appropriate description.

“Good evening, sir!” he bellowed.

“And a good evening to you!” I replied.

He studied the four walls. It was our first year in business, so I was still filling out the shelves and putting the puzzle pieces together. He looked me straight in the eyes and announced, “I heard whispers about a new store on the boulevard, so I had to come and see for myself. Looks like you’ve made a very nice start so far. With a few adjustments here and there, this place could achieve greatness!”

Bewildered, I looked over at his wife. Sheila stood quietly by the door. She looked up briefly, then turned her eyes away.

We chatted for a good long while, getting to know one another. Tom told me about his history with the other retailers in the area. He’d been shopping at another store close by, but found himself disenchanted with the service there. While he spoke of his passions for Batman and Thor, he quietly piled one item after another onto the check-out counter. Sheila still looked at the ground, making herself small.

Sheila wore a bit too much make-up, applied an excessive amount of hairspray and adorned herself with flashy jewelry. But beneath the façade lived a naturally attractive woman. The two of them made quite a pair.

I rang up Tom for $300 in product and looked forward to learning more about this strangely fascinating couple. I would come to find that some knowledge is not always welcome and some of the darkest comes “not single spies, but in battalions.”

Tom and Sheila began visiting me once (often twice) a week. Because they were what we refer to as “big ticket” customers, I gave them my undivided attention and made sure Tom got everything he asked for.

He spent extravagantly that year. Tom wasn’t content with one of anything. Only multiples would satiate his hunger. Of course, I was only too happy to oblige and ordered everything he desired. And ordered. And ordered. And ordered.

His deep-rooted obsession with the Dark Knight dominated his buying habits. Statues, action figures, graphic novels, memorabilia. If Batman was involved, he bought it. Twice. Our monthly order meetings were dominated by the constant mention of Tom’s name.

“How many of these statues should we get?”

“Three for Tom” I’d reply, before even thinking about our other customers.

“Does Tom want the entire set of these figures?”

“Four sets,” I’d reply, “to start.”

Tom and I spent many hours in the store talking about our personal lives. He’d been quite a well-respected and highly paid doctor for many years. He’d met Sheila when she was very young. She was an administrative assistant back in their hometown. He’d swept her off her feet and taken her to the big city. She no longer had to work and became a doctor’s wife. An idyllic story for a successful man. Until he came down with an illness. One that none of his colleagues could diagnose.

He showed me photos of himself taken only a year before. Emaciated in one photo, enormously heavy in another. To go from one hundred to three hundred pounds, then back to a normal weight in a matter of months was a frightening transformation.

“The pain was excruciating,” Tom told me. “If not for Sheila, I certainly wouldn’t have survived the experience.”

Sheila smiled sheepishly, blushing at the acknowledgment.

“She nursed me back to health,” Tom continued. “She fed me, bathed me and made sure I took all of my medications, even when I refused.”

For the first time since they’d been visiting the shop, Sheila became animated. She lifted her head and fixed her eyes on Tom. Her gaze was dark and pained.

“No one forced you to take your meds, Thomas!” she growled. “You took them the way you take everything in your life. By the handful!”

With that, she graciously excused herself and walked out.

Tom watched her go, mouth agape. He cleared his throat and quietly confided, “It’s been hard on her the last few years. I almost died and left her on her own. To this day, I still fight the tremendous pain. Without the medication, I wouldn’t even be able to leave the apartment.”

It occurred to me that I’d often seen him taking medication in my store. He’d usually put a pill into his mouth as he entered and sometimes, he’d turn away mid-conversation to administer his dose.

As usual, I helped him out to his car with his many boxes. Sheila sat in the passenger seat, quietly fuming. As I headed back inside, she rolled down her window and grabbed my hand.

“I apologize for my outburst,” she said. “It was wrong of me to do that in your store. It won’t happen again.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” I cheerfully replied. “We’re all humans with strong emotions. We don’t just leave them at home when we go out into the world, do we?”

Sheila’s eyes filled with tears. She let go of my hand and rolled up her window. In the driver’s seat, Tom stared ahead, stoic. I left them there in the parking lot, dreadfully sure there was more of this to come.

YEAR TWO

Tom and Sheila began to change. She became more vocal about what he purchased and his irritation with her grew.

“Do you really need two of those?” Sheila would say.

He’d reply, “Do you ever not get the things you want?”

She’d roll her eyes and scoff, holding her tongue in public.

Eventually, as is usually the case with these types of scenarios, they would stand at my register and hear the words I’ve so often spoken in my time in retail.

“I’m afraid your card’s been declined.”

They would whisper to one another, shrug it off and hand me a different piece of plastic that would work. Or not.

Their outward appearance also changed. He took to wearing the same exact clothing every time I’d see him. Not dirty, by any means. Just exactly the same. Sheila’s outfits had become far less regal and far more casual. The jewels had been shed.

Their communal visits were becoming unbearably tense. So Tom did what he needed to do in order to keep himself happy. He began coming alone. Late at night, he’d drift in, popping a pill and chewing it down quick. He’d pile up the counter with product and stay for hours on end. His sentences became long and drifting and made their way from one random topic to the next. It was difficult to keep my focus in the face of his condition.

When he ran out of credit cards, he began to bring in his own rare collectibles to sell or consign. He had a marvelous collection and he demanded I take it in trade. So the journey into year three of Tom’s visits was littered with scatological conversation, an influx of rare product and a dark foreboding of something altogether inevitable.

YEAR THREE

“I have to talk to you in private.” Tom whispered. “You’re the only one who’ll understand!”

His eyes were wild, his hair askew. Small pieces of yellow pills were wedged into the crevices of his teeth. He looked behind him as if he were being stalked.

“They’re watching me!” He said, desperate.

“Who Tom?” I asked. “Who’s watching you?”

“I don’t know yet. They’ve been following me. I think they let out the air from my tires. All of my doctors don’t believe me, but there’s something in my blood. Something trying to get out. I think maybe they put it in me to experiment and see what would happen. But I’m working on a cocktail of vitamins and minerals that’s going to get it out of my body. They know I’m onto them and don’t want me to reveal what they’ve done. If you knew what I knew about what’s going on, you’d be as afraid as I am!”

I was afraid all right. Here was a delusional man, chewing morphine on my shop floor and confiding in me as his only true friend in the world. There are limits to how far we can venture into the personal lives of our customers. Communicating about ourselves on the shop floor is one thing. Becoming intimately involved in someone’s fractured fantasies and tenuous relationships is something of a taboo in retail. It’s a slippery slope and rife with danger.

I told him he needed to leave. To go home and get some rest. I ushered him out as calmly as I could and hoped he would be okay. The very next night, Sheila came into the store.

She wore torn sweatpants and an old t-shirt. Her face was devoid of make-up, her eyes were red and swollen and she looked utterly exhausted.

“I’m so sorry for coming in like this,” she said. “I know it’s not right, but I have to talk to someone who knows him. I have to know if it’s just me.”

I closed a few minutes early, locked the gate, got some tissues and listened to a woman on the brink. A woman who’d been struggling for quite awhile in silence.

“He used to be such a strong man. Everyone respected him. We went to functions and ate at expensive restaurants. Then he got sick and everything changed. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. He was in so much pain and the medications they gave him weren’t helping. So they gave him more and he started to take twice as much as he should have. I was his nurse for a whole year. We never left the house. Never. Do you have any idea what that does to a marriage?”

It would have been easy to be dismissive. To detach myself and say, “I’m just a comic- book retailer. You should talk to someone else.” Easy for others. Not so for me.

“He can’t stop taking the pills,” she continued “And the more he takes, the more delusional he gets. He thinks someone is following me and filming me in the shower. He shouts and rages and accuses me of being involved in some plot to kill him. He’s up all night and barely sleeps at all now. I don’t know what to do.”

Sheila told me what I already knew. They were in dire financial straits. She’d taken a job as an assistant at a bank for some extra cash. She said that it actually empowered her and reminded her that she had a life and a mind of her own.

“I’m going to leave him,” she said. “but I’m afraid of what he might do to himself. Just tell me this. Do you think he’s insane?”

Slippery. Slope.

“I think…I think he needs some help,” I said. “Just not necessarily from you. Maybe you could use some help as well. Just not necessarily from me.”

Sheila thanked me, apologized a hundred times and went back to her life of emotional distress. Her husband had become someone she no longer knew. What’s more, he’d become someone to fear. Someone to avoid. Someone to escape from.

YEAR FOUR

“They’re turning her against me!” Tom cried. “They’ve put cameras in the walls. I found the holes. They’re filming her when she’s naked and they know I know! They’re making her divorce me!”

One of my customers passed by and brushed his shoulder.

“Do you know him?” Tom whispered. “Have you seen him before? I think I’ve seen him outside my house!”

“Tom” I replied, “That’s one of my subscribers. He’s shopped with us for years. He’s an accountant.”

Sheila left Tom that year. She got her own place and her own life. As part of their divorce agreement, she was to get half of his entire collection. They needed someone to appraise and purchase it as soon as possible. Of course, they came to me.

We purchased Tom’s collection. It was enormous and, of course, included four years of product we’d sold him. We gave them a fair price and wished them both well.

Tom continued to stop in. Some days his eyes looked clearer than others. He still spoke of a medical conspiracy bent on destroying the world.

His vitamin elixir was apparently a success. It now rolled back time and made people younger. He was working on it in the room he rented from a friend. He was experimenting on himself and the results, to him, were dramatic.

The last time I saw him, he told me he’d discovered the secret of how the “real” world works. He told me he could control other people’s thoughts and make them do whatever he wanted them to. He believed he was at the forefront of ushering in a new age of humanity. He believed his wife never understood how special he was. He believed he had finally become what he always knew himself to be. A superhero.

He thanked me for believing in him. He thanked me for being his friend. Then he disappeared.

Most of what I do as a retailer (besides selling product) is wrapped up in the personalities, histories, relationships and idiosyncrasies of my customers. I spend very little of my time actively involved in your lives but most of my time hearing about them.

I see your highs and lows. I see your babies born and families grow. I see your jobs and loves, both won and lost. I see your lives grow and blossom over time. And I also see them unravel and can do nothing at all to stop it from happening.

I stand behind my counter and wait for you. I wait for the door to open and your stories to step in with you. I am the watcher. I am the listener. But mostly, I am the witness. To both the good in you and the bad. I see the things that you yourself cannot. And often, very often, I see it all and say nothing.

“Daddy, can I press the buttons?”

My daughter, Hannah, stood on a chair at my counter, reaching out for the cash register. She loves it when the cash drawer pops open. Surprises her every time. She’s spent many hours behind my counter. She was only a year old when we opened our doors and I carried her around on my hip while I served customers. Now at seven years old, she’s getting to be a good deal taller than my waist and has free reign of the place. She knows the best hiding spots, she knows where things go and remarkably, she knows my customers. Guess what? They know her too.

I take great pride in the fact that she gets to tell her classmates that “my dad sells comic books!” It makes her the coolest kid in school. I fill the school library with books and hang Free Comic Book Day posters in the halls every year. I’m a rock star to the little boys. I’d say it makes them respect her more than the other little girls, but one of them just knocked out her tooth with a volleyball, so apparently “comic-book-cool” has its limits.

When she was tiny (and we still had carpet on the shop floor), she’d crawl all over the place, staring at herself in the display cases. “Honey, don’t lick the glass! It’s not good for you,” I’d say, wiping the displays with Windex for the hundredth time. “Da!” She’d reply, tongue hanging out.

Back then, my dog came to work with me. She didn’t have a backyard, so I made a little area for her in the back room. I worked long hours, as most new retailers do, and I didn’t have the heart to keep her locked up away from me all day. Not to mention the mess I’d come home to. It wasn’t unheard of for customers to come to the door and find a handwritten sign in the window.

“Back in five minutes. Taking Faith for a quick walk. When she’s gotta go, she’s gotta go!”

Everyone understood, of course. It was a one-man (and one-dog) operation back then and my customers are the kind of folks who don’t lack patience.

Hannah’s grown up in the kids section of the store and knows what a “spinner rack” is. More and more kids don’t these days and that’s just a crying shame. I’m forever regaling my poor customers with the story of her spinning the display, grabbing a copy of the latest Betty & Veronica digest and rushing up to the counter with it.

“Daddy! Can we buy this?” she pleaded. “Please?”

“Honey, we kind of already did.” I replied.

Sometimes, she comes with me to work. She has her own chair with a cup holder. She has an endless supply of colored markers, sharpies and paper. A little fridge in the back for juice and snacks and of course, much needed paperclips and rubber bands for those special art projects. I often find her hiding upstairs in the storage area, lying on her back and lost in her imagination, hidden among the toys and boxes. Some kids have tree-houses. Hannah has a comic-book store “attic.” On occasion, she’s been known to lie at the top of the stairs, crushing packing peanuts and sending them raining down onto the heads of my unsuspecting employees.

“It’s snowing!” she cries out. “Boogedy-boogedy!”

Like many proud parents, I get to display her unique art pieces in my back room. Super-Dogs and crazy pictures of Mr. Toast and Shaky Bacon. Recently, she made a wonderful drawing of “The Flash’s Pet” and I was thrilled to put it in the back room. When she came in and saw it there, she asked “Why isn’t it out front? Why are you keeping it hidden in the back?” So, I brought it out and put it behind the register.

After seeing it there, she said “Everyone else’s art is framed and on the wall. Why can’t mine be?”

“Good point.” I said. So, I framed the picture and hung it out on the shop floor alongside the original Alex Ross paintings and the John Cassaday pages. It hangs in the kids section and we plan to update it whenever she’s inspired to draw something new. I asked her what we should do if someone asks to buy it. She replied, “depends on how much they want to buy it for!”

I glow with pride. Truly.

Together, we’ve watched our customer’s children grow over the years. She knows some of the regulars who have kids and they have a kind of “play date” while their parents chat and shop the store. Rarely a day goes by that I don’t have a “how’s the kids?” conversation with one of my regulars. While our children are growing up around us, we’re growing as parents and it’s fun sharing the stories while we talk all things comic-book.

My daughter will grow up with memories of my wife bringing tuna sandwiches to the store on a lazy afternoon. Of stacking shortboxes and fashioning them into a table, kneeling down around them as we laugh and eat our lunches. There’s nothing more wonderful than watching the two of them strolling through the front door, my wife smiling and my daughter running to the checkout counter. My wife is also in retail, so we return the favor at her store every chance we get!

Jeremy, one of my long-time subscribers, just became a father. Unfortunately, he also just lost his job. While he and his wife are ecstatic, they’re scared and uncertain. But they come in every other week together, religiously. Comic-book store, nail salon, supermarket. Him, her, them.

Jeremy’s cut back on his spending (a good thing, to be sure), but he’s held onto his store visits and his periodical purchasing. He’s moved to trade paperbacks for some titles and doesn’t have a problem waiting for some stories, just not all. I recently asked his wife how he was holding up and how things were going with the job hunt.

She was mostly positive and added, “Thank God he has this. He cut out everything else, but this is his special treat and I’d never let him take it away from himself. Plus, it gives us time to be out together and not be cooped up at home. Every little thing counts.”

Why am I telling all of this to you, faithful reader?

Well, I know there’s lots of debate (on this site and countless others) about brick-and-mortar comic-book stores vs. online discount services. Opinions are varied and heated, with good points made for both options.

Times are tight. We look for ways to cut corners. We look for ways to be smart and spend less. We look for ways to make it through this recession intact. Here’s what we don’t look for. Reasons to stay home and worry.

We go to the movies to laugh and be entertained. We exercise to keep our minds sharp. We meet friends for drinks and accept invitations to parties. Sure, we spend more time online. Facebook, MySpace, Twitter. But these sites we visit and the messages we post revolve around one thing. Communication. It’s not a time for us to bury our heads in the sand. It’s a time to talk. To socialize.

Certainly, saving money is paramount in the economic climate we find ourselves in. It’s unprecedented and filled with mystery. It’s my position that in times of great trouble like the ones we’re facing right now, the most important thing we can do for ourselves is to fall back on the people and the places we love and to support our community in the process.

Most people don’t come to my store to just pick up their books and leave. They come for a shopping “experience.” They come to see the colors and listen to the music and share their opinions. Many drive from far away and brave the traffic every week because it’s one of the rare things they do that isn’t jaded and frightening. We have many things in our lives that remind us we need to be responsible adults, but few that remind us to have the spirit of a child.

I’m no fool. I know you can hop online and get things a heck of a lot cheaper on Amazon than you can in my retail store. We discount what we can and make up for it with customer service, ambience and a deep sense of family. We’re a small store, not a giant warehouse. I work as hard as I can to pay my mortgage and cut corners. I run a tight ship so we don’t find ourselves sinking. And I rely on my customers to shop with me and not lose themselves in the price wars of the Internet conglomerates.

Frankly, they can’t give you what I can. They can’t spend time with you and hear about the joys (and troubles) of your day. They can’t have a signing where you have to show up in person to hang out with your favorite creator. They can’t invite you to Free Comic Book Day, where families and friends meet in person and do the thing we need so very much to do right now. Celebrate.

And did I mention that there are stacks of comic books in our store that day that are…FREE? Discount doesn’t get much deeper than that!

The fact is, I could be making a heck of a lot more money doing something else with my life. Even in this dreary economy we’re trapped in, I’m qualified for quite a few well-paid professions. But I choose to do what I love. Even more important is the fact that my child learns that lesson from me every day. Do what you love. It makes you feel better and enjoy your life, especially when times are their darkest. This applies to both work and play. Which is exactly what we all do in your local comic-book retail store. Play.

Like everyone else, I need to earn a living. I have books that need to be sold. And no matter what the word on the street may be, the weekly periodicals are still the bread on which the butter sits. Yes, trade paperbacks and hardcovers are taking the industry by storm and my store reflects that change. Embraces it.

But the never-ending soap opera of the comic-book periodical has made its way through wars, witch-hunts and economic devastation. Are we truly to believe that the tactile concept of holding paper in our hands and being thrilled by its content will suddenly disappear because of a technological revolution?

I don’t think so. And every day I come to work, I unlock the door, turn on the lights and prepare my store for you. I clean the counters and turn on the music and tidy up the joint so when you come in, you feel safe. Safe from the raging world outside. Safe from the pounding images on your computer. Safe from the stress crawling through your mind. Safe.

It doesn’t take that much effort to escape into the digital world of your computer. Heck, you’re reading these words right now, trying to decide if you care one bit for what I have to say. Coming into a comic-book store requires time. It requires effort. It might even require a few extra dollars. But would you rather sit at home and hide away or would you rather come to the party?

My shop is filled with customers on a Wednesday. People are buzzing about “Old Man Logan,” quizzing one another about what happened to “Batman” and trying to guess what the next “event” will be. A little girl grabs for a copy of “Amulet.” A little boy sits by the spinner reading “Bone.” A businessman inspects that vintage copy of “Silver Surfer” he’s been coveting forever.

Two students from the local University are in a heated debate about Garth Ennis. Someone’s asking me what the song is that’s playing on iTunes while he tries on a Green Lantern ring. Two of my subscribers are flirting with one another in the indie section. They’ve been at it for weeks, but can’t seem to pluck up the courage to ask each other out.

I close my eyes and breathe it all in. There’s an energy in this small box that can’t be found anywhere else.

Unless of course, you’re in your own local comic-book store in your own neighborhood in your own state in your own country. You can’t get this feeling from a screen. You can’t get it typing at a keyboard. You’ve got to show up. You’ve got to be there to be a part of the experience.

My daughter watches me close my eyes and doesn’t seem a bit confused by what I’m doing. Maybe she’s seen me do it before. Or maybe she just understands what it is to be lost in the wonder of life with your friends and family close by.

“Daddy, can this be my first job when I grow up?” she asks me.

I open my arms to everyone around me. “This is all yours if you want it, honey. All of it.”

“I do.” She says, her smile adding even more light to the room. “I want people to come into our store forever and ever and always be happy.”

An invitation has been offered you. Come into our stores, everyone. Don’t sit at home. You’ll find us all there, waiting to welcome you. To give you an experience you so desperately need after a long, hard week. An experience you can’t get at home on your computer or waiting by your mailbox.

And if you come into my store, you’ll find a beautiful girl behind the counter. Growing, growing, growing. Wanting you to come into our stores forever and for you to always, always be happy.