Well. It's official: I love comics enough to go to Hell for them.

Cafe Society
1

Sometimes you find yourself in a situation that tells you more about yourself as a person than you really wanted to know. Me, I love comics; always have. I’m not a “collector” so much as I am a hoarder. My affection is a deeply personal one, dating back to the weekends spent at my grandmother’s house in Pittsburgh. Grandma was an inveterate dimestore patron who purchased used comics for me whenever she ran across them; Gold Keys, Whitmans, Superman Family 80-Page Giants. These were the sort of distressed, fatigued comics that you only find these days shoved down at the very back of the quarter bins, all coverless, crumpled and acid-yellowed. I didn’t care, and still don’t; I buy my comics to read, and set aside, and then read again. That original collection is many years lost now, but sometimes I have dreams in which I am a child again, and I look inside a dusty cardboard box in some shadowed attic, and there they are, in all their dog-eared glory.

So. Lately I’ve been jonesing for Carl Barks duck comics. The aforementioned Pittsburgh collection had a few early Gladstone reprints to its credit, and I thought I’d see if I could track some down. Armed with a list of Barks story reprints, I went shopping. And so late this evening I found myself browsing a comic store with which I am not terribly familiar, poking idly through their one 50-cent bin twenty minutes before closing time. The clerk asked me if I was looking for anything in particular.

“**Uncle Scrooge ** comics,” I replied, and he shook his head reluctantly. “We mostly carry superhero stuff,” he said.

“Well, it was worth a–hey!” I exclaimed, plucking a disintegrating Gold Key **Boris Karloff Tales of Mystery ** from the 50-cent longbox. “Are you sure you only have superhero comics?”

“Oh, you’re talking about older stuff,” he said. “Hang on, I’ll go take a peek in the back.” A few minutes later, he returned with a small stack of books. “Found these in among the new stuff. Let me know what you think.”

They were **Donald Duck ** reprints, similar to the type handed out during Free Comic Day, with the slightly inferior cover stock. I flipped through them; all Barks, of course, no surprise there. “How much?”

He frowned. “I’m not sure. They haven’t been sorted yet. Let me get you a price,” he said, and retreated to the checkout counter. As he fussed with the price catalog, I continued to admire the artwork.

The books were really very well-made reprints, even down to the 10-cent cover price… interesting. I glanced at the indicia, puzzled, then looked the books over again. I began to get a very cold feeling, because I was starting to realize that these were not reprints after all.

**“The Old Castle’s Secret.” ** 1948.

**“Luck of the North.” ** 1949.

**“Ghost of the Grotto.” ** 1947.

**“Christmas on Bear Mountain.” ** 1947.

I looked at that last cover for a long time. As one might expect from my prefatory remarks, I have no expertise regarding comics grading, but this cover looked just about perfect. The colors were bright and vivid, with no obvious chips or creases. There were comics sitting on the New Release rack that looked worse for wear.

Very gently, I lifted back the cover, and there was Uncle Scrooge McDuck glowering the lower right corner. *“Everybody hates me, and I hate everybody!” * he snarled unrepentantly at me, from his five-decades-past debut appearance.

“Jeez… I can’t figure these prices out,” the clerk’s voice broke in. “This catalog gives a price of five dollars for a book in that condition. Does that sound right to you?”

“Umm…” I murmured, and every neuron in my brain began to clamor at once. I suddenly realized that this guy had *no idea at all * what he had. I had never found myself in anything approaching a situation like this before. I glanced to my left, and there was Scrooge himself hovering above my shoulder.

*“Bah!” * he snorted. "This fellow has no business savvy! He doesn’t realize the value of his own stock! What are you waiting for? Do you seriously think an opportunity like this is ever going to come around again? You want those books!"

I looked around helplessly. Over my right shoulder, Huey, Dewey and Louie gazed at me anxiously.

*“You’re not,” * asked Huey.

“Going to try and” asked Dewey.

*“Cheat him, are you?” * asked Louie.

I winced. “Umm… five bucks seems… er, a little low,” I said at last, gritting my teeth. “You’ve got new comics published this month that cost more than that.”

“Well, the pricing on the Disney stuff is confusing. The comic has a cover price of ten cents, but the catalog lists a price of twenty cents… Do you know anything about older comics?”

*Christ, he was asking me to help him price them?! * I averted my eyes. “Not really… I don’t even have any Golden Age comics… well, that’s not true, I do have a couple funny animal comics without covers, and a war comic from 1946 with interior art by Alex Toth…” I was babbling.

“Well, I’m sorry this is taking so long. Do you mind if I take a quick peek online here?” he asked.

Scrooge clouted me over the ear with his cane. *“The store’s about to close! Tell him you’re in a hurry! You’ve got a hundred bucks in your wallet; get him to haggle with you! He’s got no idea what these comics are worth! He’ll bite!” *

Helplessly I looked at a poster of Superman on the wall for moral support, but it was the Frank Quitely cover art from Grant Morrison’s **All-Star Superman ** and provided no solace. *“Take him, sailor,” * he whispered seductively, leering at me. “Take him while you can.”

Minutes spun out while the guy flailed about online, trying to track down the titles. Meanwhile, feeling sick and unclean, I leafed absently through Boris Karloff Tales of Mystery. The cover story was a harrowing tale of sand sculpting gone awry; I’d guess that Karloff didn’t sign off personally on these stories. I also tend to doubt that the world of sand sculpture competition was ever this viciously high-stakes. Nonetheless, our hero the disenchanted Nepalese sand sculptor Gino, accompanied as always by his apprentice Dodo, journeys to a remote South Sea island with volcanic sands that–

“*Jesus! * It says here that this one comic is worth, like, six hundred dollars!”

Catharsis. Redemption. All my pent-up tension drained away at once in a peculiar mixture of regret and relief. “No kidding!” I said. “That’s pretty amazing! Well… I certainly don’t have that kind of cash on me. I guess I’ll just take these others from the 50-cent box…”

And so I came away with the Boris Karloff #17 (Gold Key), Necromancer #1 (Top Cow), **8th Wonder ** (Dark Horse), **GLX-Mas Special ** (Marvel), and a signed copy of Hero Happy Hour #5 (Geekpunk).

I’m happy.

2

Uncle Scrooge was right.

In the comics collecting game, it’s not dishonest to take something that’s undervalued by a supposed expert. It’s not like you misrepresented the thing’s value to him.

Hell’s Bells man, even Superman backed him up, what other mroal authority could you possibly want?

3

Hm. I think you blew it. I don’t collect comics, but I do collect lots of other things. I saw an Hermes scarf that usually goes for around $500 on eBay for $4.99 at a Salvation Army. What do you think I did? I bought it. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. Does anyone else? I love those little moments of finding something of value among the junkstore dreck.

Although . . . since he didn’t know the price and he asked you for help, that’s a slightly different situation. Still, I might’ve had a moral lapse at that point. Not sure.

4

Well, I think you did the right thing.

However, had I been in your shoes, I would’ve taken then for five bucks.

Or at least tried to. My excitement would’ve given it all away. I’ve never played poker, but if I did I’d suck at it.

5

Wow, that’s a great dilemma you got yourself into there. I know I’d have grabbed those books at five bucks without a second’s hesitation. A guy who owns a comic book store and is that ignorant about comic books deserves to lose out. The only thing that would have given me pause would be the possibility that he doesn’t own the store, and is just an employee. Wouldn’t be fair to rip off the rightful owner of those books just because he couldn’t find competent help.

6

Wow, that’s a tough situation.

I’m not sure what I’d do, though seeing as how I’ve been minorly obsessed with Uncle Scrooge comics lately (especially Barks and his protege Don Rosa), I don’t see how I could’ve resisted walking out with them, not so I could sell them for a profit, but so I could read them and eventually frame them to go up on the wall in the “comic book room” of my future dream house.

7

Well, my distress over the whole situation was not so much the loss of the books, really. As I said, I’m not really a “collector” in the sense of acquiring this stuff for its sale value or anything. My dream collection would be a huge longbox stuffed full of Gold/Silver Age comics, all of them sufficiently tattered and disheveled as to be effectively unsaleable, so that I could enjoy them repeatedly without any anxiety about reducing their value through handling. If I’d managed to come away with those books, I’m sure I’d be too intimidated to even try leafing through the pages more than once, for fear of damaging the pages. And I’d never even consider selling them either, of course, so their actual value would really be kind of a moot point.

If I’d just run across the books in the quarter bin, I expect I would have snapped them up in Planck time (hmm… would I? Would I really, or would I have agonized and grimaced and sweated and eventually just taken them up to the counter and asked, “Are you really sure these should be in there?” That sounds more like me, actually. I’m such a doofus). But the whole interaction with the clerk was an entirely different situation, at least to me. It just felt wrong. I knew the books had a substantial value, and the clerk was all but begging me to tell him otherwise.

It was an intensely peculiar and uncomfortable situation. If I’d pushed even a bit harder, I’m certain that I’d have the books now, but I don’t imagine that I’d ever want to go back into that store again. Sooner or later that guy would have probably figured out what he’d let go, and I doubt I’d be able to look him in the eye at that point. I may not have been ‘cheating’ him, technically, but it certainly felt like it to my amygdala. Maybe one day I’d feel comfortable enough to share the anecdote of how I’d talked a clerk into selling me several thousand dollars worth of classic comics for five bucks a pop, but it wouldn’t have been today, or any time soon I suspect.

I just never quite realized how rapacious my possessive instinct really was, until it rose up and blindsided me like that. I read comics because they are fun, not to make me feel icky and conflicted. Sooner or later I’ll run across some nice reprints of those comics that I can read with impunity, while drinking grape juice and eating a ham n’ tomato samwich with mayo; comics that I can toss around with peace of mind, or burrow through like a gopher, or toss into the air and let them hit me on the head.

8

Strange world collectors live in. I have an acquaintance who’s a collector. He had some friends over to value his collection. It was indeed a valuable collection … included things like the first issue that Spiderman ever appeared in. But the friends told him that the old fruit company boxes he was storing the comics in were in may cases more valuable than the comics they held! They had some kind of rare artwork that people collect. He lives in fairly straightened circumstances, but will not sell either the comics or the fruit cases because … he’s a collector.

I’d sell 'em in a heartbeat, but then … I’m not a collector, so I don’t collect stuff.

9

I was under the impression that in the world of the “COLLECTOR” that grabbing undervalued items and making huge profits on them afterward was the primary goal.

I think you missed out on a golden opportunity.

10

I don’t know why, but this is just absolutely the most adorable thing I’ve ever read. Thank you.

Carry on.

11

I agree.

Over the last few weeks I’ve gotten deals on some designer and other upper end boots at Goodwill I bought for 15 and flipped for well over 125. each pair. They retailed at well over $ 300 a pair so everyone got what they wanted and it felt fabulous to make those deals happen. I’ve also been burned when items I’ve listed didn’t sell even though I thought they were great.

I think you were foolish from a “collectors” perspective. Getting deals is what the retail hunt is all about. If your desire is to help them correctly price old, forgotten back stock merchandise you were true to yourself, but leaving a few thousand or a few hundred dollars sitting in a musty box because you were conflicted about taking his “get rid of it offer” is a little too precious for me to admire as general guideline in snagging retail deals in a nominally free hand, competitive marketplace. It’s not like a somewhat retarded child was selling his Dad’s coin collection to you in order to buy ice cream.

You had information and you were being offered a perfectly viable and ethical opportunity in a free marketplace. This goes double for old back stock merchandise that retailer hasn’t bothered to price correctly.

12

No, not for one second. I hate to think that we’ve progressed to the point where having a moral compass makes you a “doofus.” Or “foolish.”

Other people can tell you how you would’ve been able to come up with a rationalization that might’ve satisfied any ethical quandry, but I think you had the answer before you even left the store:

Absolute best case scenario is neither the clerk nor the store owner had an idea how much the comics were “worth,” and you would’ve gotten home with some great comic books for a few dollars that you had no intention of selling. Sounds like that’s what happened anyway. Worst case is that the store owner finds out about the sale and gets pissed, and the clerk loses his job. Same difference to you, but somebody else gets screwed, not because of malice on his part, but just because of his ignorance.

But through the whole thing, it doesn’t sound like you care about so-called “fair” market value and the “retail hunt” and what you supposedly should have done to make money and how it was supposedly foolish that you missed out on something that could be justified with just a few easily-repeatable rationalizations. All you cared about was a good story, well-told. And you got exactly that with your OP.

13

:smiley: I’m glad you were amused, but alas I can’t take credit for that, either; the line was a nod to the guy whose work acted as bait for my little adventure, Carl Barks. His character Scrooge McDuck had a mantra:

“I love money! I love the feel of it and the smell of it! I love to dive around in it like a porpoise! I love to burrow through it like a gopher! I love to toss it up and let it hit me on the head!”

Given the circumstances, the quote seemed uniquely appropriate to my situation.

14

You’re a good man, Terrifel. Maybe things work differently when you’re collecting scarves, but in comics, the goal is to get a good deal on something that someone’s willing to part with, not to swindle someone out of hundreds of bucks.

–Cliffy

15

I’m glad this happened to you and not me, man. I’m trying desperately to kick the comics habit and this is EXACTLY the sort of situation where I, having far fewer compunctions and scruples than you, would have bought the lot out for whatever pittance I had in my pocket, chortling and cackling, and the whole experience would have suckered me into buying comics again for the next twenty-five years.

So you’re not a capitalist. Big whoop. You have integrity.

16

**“You’re not,” asked Huey.

“Going to try and” asked Dewey.

“Cheat him, are you?” asked Louie.**
This was comedy gold, incidentally.

17

Two thumbs up on the humorous post, but I must admit, if someone dangled a Justice League of America #1 in front of me for a dollar, not knowing the real price, I might ask once if they’re sure, and then it’d be mine, all mine.

You know, I have some shoddy Disney comics - a very few - in my collection, and I have no sentimental attachment to them whatever. I might be willing to send them to you for a couple bucks… after I check the price guides, of course. :wink:

18

Quite honorable, Terrifel. I think the fact that these were in the back and not yet researched makes a big difference in the moral equation. Had they been on the shelf with a stupidly low price, then it would have been the owner’s own fault for not correctly pricing the items. But the fact that the owner hadn’t researched and priced them yet means you did the right thing.

19

Well… gawrsh. I appreciate the offer. By all means, drop me an e-mail and let me know what you’ve got when you have the time. I’ll double-check my own stash to see if I have a JLA #1 lying around, but frankly I don’t want to raise your hopes there.

20

In high school in the Boston area, I had occasion to hear a local trumpet player give a concert and speak. I believe Walter Chestnut was his name.

At one point, he was playing a bizarre miniature trumpet with much more tubing than one is used to seeing. I recall even today that it had an exceptionally clear tone. He told the story of how he had come by it.

He and his young son were perusing the wares at a yard sale held in a barn somewheres. He came across this strange little horn, with a brand name he had never heard of, in near-mint condition espite indications that it was nearly a century old. Examining it more closely, he saw the serial number was 00005. A rare, good-quality antique trumpet with a low production number. Gold!

He began speaking to the seller, who obviously had no idea what he had on his hands, and who was ready to let it go for something $50. Chestnut’s little boy, who had the benefit of his father’s expertise, at this point began to pipe up with: “Hey, Dad, that trumpet’s worth a lot more than $50!”

What to do? On the one hand, the horn was a steal. On the other, what about his obligation to present an honest example in front of his child? He chose to do what any right thinking person would do in this situation. He said, “Son, you go wait in the car.”

Terrifel, does strike you as right that these comic books were languishing in the back of a store.

Does it strike you as right that they be in the possession of an utter boob who, professing to be an expert, had not the first clue as to their true market value?

Does it strike you as right that you should pay through the nose in order to give these comics a proper home?

Then why, when, as you state, these words emerged:

did you say anything other than “Yes. Yes, that sounds absolutely right to me”?

You’re like the engineer, who having been spared by a faulty guillotine, sets about trying to fix the problem. :smack: