almost okay

My Dear Lyzako,

As I sit here in seventy degree heat at 6:45 in the morning waiting for the sun to rise and thrust a dagger in my soul, I must tell you that your first Autumn on the West Coast has probably been much more Autumn-like in terms of temperatures than we've experienced here in Motown. The forecasters are predicting highs near ninety today and a record could fall as we await the rush of cool air behind the coming cold front, which isn't scheduled to arrive until tomorrow night. By the end of the week we're supposed to see highs only in the fifties. I can't wait.

And speaking of not being able to wait... I'm anxious to get my next bloody work trip underway because I know that if I survive that first leg in Pittsburgh, the next stop will be San Francisco, where I hope to quickly wrap up my business there in a tidy bundle without too much fuss, after which I will be able to spare some down time to visit and celebrate with you and yours. I know that it's only been a few short months you've been absent, but it seems much longer to me. More like five months, or five months and two weeks. Five months and two weeks of Hellish heat and a Summer that stubbornly refuses to end.

After finishing my work day this past Friday, one that involved toiling away in that same Hellish heat, along with several trips to the hardware store for 'supplies' and being chased by angry wasps after accidentally disturbing a nest of them (which should have been dormant by now, by the way), I stopped off at John King's Used Books here in Ferndalia to kill an hour or so in the air conditioning while I waited for Happy Hour to arrive. On the way in I checked out the cart of new stuff to be shelved, passed on a Kerouac collection of journal entries (twelve bucks seemed pricey to me), then moved on to the Art section, the Humor section and the Poetry section before making a quick stop at the shelf containing comic artwork, graphic novels and the like.

Atop the narrow six-and-a-half-foot tall wooden shelf I spied a thick paperback volume, the 'Standard Catalogue of American Comics'. It was leaning against one of those cheap, flat, steel book ends, the kind that has a tab that slides under the books and stays in place with just the weight of the books sitting on it. This one, however, was being used all by itself to prop up the Comic Book Book for display by some clever clerk looking to liven up the area. I pulled the book down, thumbed through it quickly and replaced it carefully, using both hands to prop it back up against the book end just as I'd found it. Seconds later, as I leaned down to get a closer look at the titles printed along the spines of several colorful square-bound volumes of Japanese Manga comics, I was suddenly struck a blow to the forehead that sent me reeling and caused a momentary cluster of blue stars to delicately float in my now blurry vision. I blinked my eyes a few times, stood up and felt the area with my hand. It was damp with more than perspiration. When I pulled my hand away, there was a shiny spot of blood on my palm. I looked down and saw the Comic Book Book laughing up at me from the floor.

When I told the clerk at the counter of my mishap and asked for a tissue to stem the bleeding, he issued me the tissue along with the standard 'Sorry about that, dude', then went back to reading his book. I returned to the shelf, tissue against my brow, and actually found a couple of things that I decided to purchase: 'Cartoon America - Comic Art in the Library of Congress' and 'Are You Under Sexty?'. Both are hardcovers, the former filled with beautiful illustrations of original comic artwork from the last 100 years, and the latter one of those risque tomes of humor and sexy cartoons from the late fifties, a first edition complete with the original dust jacket. Total purchase: $14. I put it on my card.

By the time I got to Happy Hour the bleeding had stopped and I went to the Men's room to check out the damage in the mirror. There was slight swelling and an inch-long rip in the flesh from where the falling book had made impact just above my left eyebrow, more of a tear than a split, located similarly to the scar sported by Karloff's famous Frankenstein's monster.

As I sat at the bar, nobody said anything to me about the cut, but I got the distinct impression from the women I saw who seemed to notice it that I was suddenly commanding more respect than normal. Even brief conversations left me feeling as though I were somehow seen as being more 'manly' because of the wound, which was beginning to throb slightly even after two tall Blues. I took advantage, smiled a devilish smile and stared whenever I felt like staring, sporting my best 'don't fuck with me' look. Many of the women smiled back, and the men seemed to give me a wider berth on trips to and from the head.

Thankfully, nobody inquired as to the specifics of my bleeding brow, for the real story would have surely detracted from my newly acquired swagger. No, if they had asked me what happened to my head, I'd already made up my mind to lie...

“Well, you see I was at this other bar just before I came here and this guy started giving me a hard time...”

See You Soon!
Marty Sherman