Patrick pushed his chair back and brushed the pencil shavings off his lap, stood and said, Well never mind then okay anyway. Hey, Wendy, I wondered if I could borrow your car. I need to get to the Sunset. I’m hanging with Bill Blackbeard this afternoon. He asked me if I wanted to check out his archive and I was like, fuck yeah. Or if you’d like to, Wendy, obviously you could come with me.
You can borrow the car, Wendy said and uncapped a Rapidograph. I’m going to seize the page.
Cool, thanks. Yeah, Blackbeard’s got plans for a tenth-anniversary reprint of the Smithsonian collection, so he’s going to publish some newly discovered strips.
A new edition?
I get to take a look at the archive. Can’t wait.
You know what? Wendy said. That does sound like fun. I will come with you. Hold on. I should draw something especially for Blackbeard.
Smooth, very smooth, whispered Twyla to Rachael.
Wendy drew a quick doodle and amassed a basket full of Strays toys, bubble gum, a pint glass, and a copy of her bestselling debut Strays treasury, Go, Buck, Go!—collecting the best of her strips from the past three years, published by Bantam and Scholastic.
Patrick drove so she could take pictures of the city with a Brownie for future source material. Not that she drew a lot of backgrounds but she liked to fill binders with street scenes just in case. She used b&w 400 ASA film that when developed came out grainy, washed-out greys that made for aesthetically unappealing pictures but worked for her needs.
Does his reprint plan to go right up to the present day? Wendy asked as she snapped shots of nondescript street corners.
So far’s I know, said Patrick.
Gee … that’s interesting, I wonder who he’ll pick. She looked at the little drawing in the top of her basket of Buck and Francis that she’d made as a gift for Blackbeard and sighed.
Patrick shot her a look. Sheesh, Wendy.
Well, I’m allowed to hope … She turned her camera to another city skyline out the side window.
Bill Blackbeard was waiting at the door of the Spanish-style split-level he had rented with his wife on the corner of one of the numbered avenues off Taraval Street in the Sunset District. Not only did he live here, this was where he maintained an enormous archive called the San Francisco Academy of Comic Art. In the early years of microfilm, Blackbeard saw how this format treated daily comics and filed to become a 501 (c) 3 organization so libraries could send him their bound archives of original crusty old papers, otherwise going to the dump now that decades’ worth had been reduced to single pocket-sized sheets of migraine-inducing x-ray microfiche. Then the Smithsonian endowed his collection, and in seventy-seven, Blackbeard published a definitive history of newspaper comics—and now with the ten-year anniversary nearing, a revised paperback was in the early planning. Since then his comics collection might have doubled or tripled in size. He possessed over two million black-and-white and full-colour comic strips, by far the biggest collection in the world. And he lived right here in the city.
Patrick introduced Wendy, which was unnecessary since Blackbeard had been over to No Manors on plenty of occasions before the wake; the two knew each other at least peripherally and sometimes nodded to each other on the street. She assumed he knew her strip was a roaring success. Blackbeard was a tall, no longer slender man with inquisitive hands and a boneless handshake, neck popping out of an unpressed gingham shirt, a freckled face half covered by a set of big square glasses with wire frames; behind them his eyes were squinted, surrounded with the laughlines of a man who smiled for a living. What little hair was left on his head was snow white, cut short and neat and respectable. For a man of his advanced age, maybe he was sixty, he spoke in the likable drawl of a Bay Area gonzo, as if playing the peaceful alien meeting Captain Kirk and Spock for the first time, welcoming his beamed-down visitors to the sacred crypt and to sleep with his princesses no problem.
Did you bring the stuff? Hot dog. Okay, then, let’s go inside, Bill said, rubbing his hands together with a conspiratorial flourish. He shut the door to the main floor where he said his wife was watching Donahue.
Wendy gave him the drawing she’d made and said how much of a treat this was for her to finally see the archive after hearing so much about it all these years. He scanned her doodle admiringly, thanked her and said it was wonderful, then carefully carried the picture down to his office.
He’s like the Bela Lugosi of comics, Wendy whispered as Blackbeard led the way down two flights of narrow stairs. Blackbeard said this used to be a four-car garage until he had it converted to his archive and office. First he gave a tour of the archive. The overpowering scent of decomposing paper knocked you down before you saw what a precarious place it was, a room overstuffed with thousands upon thousands of newspapers stacked nine or ten feet high. A pair of bare ceiling bulbs lit the musty former carport and made it feel more like a catacomb, as if Blackbeard’s destiny was to protect a rarely seen chamber in the new library of Babel. Much of his collection of newspapers was unboxed, just giant stacks of folded papers. Some papers were stored in crates or cabinets. Only a few pillars were made of leatherbound library collections, yet most of it was labelled. Blackbeard was the first to concede it was a rather haphazard affair. All of it tottered on the brink of what felt like imminent collapse. One serious seismic tremor and the entire archive would be levelled. There were not enough shelves for all the papers still uncatalogued and not enough room for his recent acquisitions, there was almost not enough space on the concrete floor between the towering stacks to take a safe step. One wrong move along the fault line and a high pile of Hearst papers would crumble over our heads.
Patrick opened his sidebag and removed a Ziploc with a hundred dollars’ worth. It’s super sticky, you might let it dry out a bit, he advised.
My wife doesn’t like me to smoke but I love the shit, Bill said and toggled his head happily laughing as he made the exchange. Can you roll me one or two? I want to see how you do it. I’m somewhat terrible at it. We can’t smoke in here. Let’s go to my office.
There he opened a window at grass level to let out the fumes and kept what he called the stuff in best condition. Patrick used the surface of a brushed-steel fireproof cabinet to crumble up a joint under Blackbeard’s connoisseurial nose; eight of these cabinets filled the room, flat files loaded with pristine examples of newspaper strips and originals. Portfolios were filled. UPS boxes yet to be opened. Manila envelopes yet to be sent. Traces of an aroma she was distinctly fond of, reminded her of childhood days in the basement of the downtown public library, that vanilla scent given off by old paper disintegrating, plus stains from cigarettes and joints and body odour. Preserved behind frames on the walls were favourite strips, original artworks, rare sketches. Cabinet and tabletops were decorated with Annie Beetleware shaker mugs and Krazy Kat tin plates and various wood figures. Every square inch of wall was dedicated to some framed piece of comic strip memorabilia.
Hey, she said and pointed to a Strays Sunday she’d handpainted and donated to an auction. I had no idea you bought that.
Of course I know your strip. He eyed Wendy over his glasses. Number one, your sense of humour is positively gothic. Two, you like to use four panels and that makes me happy, in an age squeezing most cartoonists down to two or three.
Well, shucks, said Wendy. I was thinking of going down to three more often.
Don’t, Blackbeard said. He told her to fight the trend. Comics used to be king. I like the level of detail you deliver. Your roommate would be proud.
I miss him. I’m drawing in his shadow all day long.
Bill Blackbeard gave them a hearty tour through his many shelves of comics, stacks containing ex-library leatherbound newspapers some seventy years and older, proudly uncovering examples of Yellow Kid and Buster Brown to impress them, and as with so many other famous titles, he possessed the entire run of Mutt & Jeff. He hoped to get the Smithsonian to reproduce his originals at full size in his upcoming history, for he
had many sketches worth sharing with readers. In these old newspapers he showed us the comics were privileged with full pages and reproduced almost to scale; some papers even had two entire pages of daily comics, near the front. And in some weekend editions each strip was given an entire page of a special section, and not only were the comics what made papers popular back then, Blackbeard said, but the size of a newspaper back then was twice what some were today. There were so many repetitively epic adventure strips and all sorts of derivative gag strips and tie-in strips that came and went, and what struck Wendy was that she didn’t recognize a single one, and yet it was clear that at one time or another each of these forgotten strips had fans who felt the way we did about Strays, and now that all these titles had gone by the wayside in favour of a select few whose names stood out in memory, the only thing saving them from complete oblivion was this man, Bill Blackbeard.
Make sure you check out these early Gasoline Alleys to understand why it’s the legacy strip it is today, Blackbeard said and spread out a set. How well each frame is executed, the poetry of his line, and the sublime honesty in his treatment of his subject matter.
I’m gobsmacked, said Wendy. I gotta admit I never saw any of the old Gasoline Alleys until your book. She let her eyes roam over each panel of this consummate Sunday strip.
Hey, that’s okay, Blackbeard said. I know the feeling—that’s the whole point, to keep the history fresh. He poured her a tonic water from a beer fridge and passed a can of Old Milwaukee for Smooth Patrick.
This is place is terrific, said Wendy, pushing her glasses up her nose. She quickly exchanged her tonic for Patrick’s can of beer. You saved all these characters from the brink of oblivion, she said. You’re practically the patron saint of newspaper comics. I want to spend a week here reading my face off. Comics are the entirety of my existence. Without comics I don’t know my name. I always hoped my comic might someday grace your archives, she said and nodded to the auctioned comic.
The only collection of its kind in existence, said Patrick.
Just because I spend my time protecting the past doesn’t mean I’m not plugged into what’s happening now. I told you I read your strip and I do. You’re an excellent candidate for inclusion in the modern section of my Smithsonian reprint.
Wow, wow, wow, said Wendy and swooned.
My eyeballs are licking their lips, said Patrick, his nose to a picture frame. Is this original handpainted Krazy Kat actually signed best wishes to you?
When I was a young boy I wrote Herriman a fan letter and that’s what he wrote me back.
So cool, said Patrick. How much more do you need?
I want all the dailies, all the Sundays, for every comic ever. That is the dream, Bill said, and towards that goal he said he already had most, including many of the critical works like Nemo, Popeye, Mickey Mouse, Prince Valiant, Gasoline Alley, Dick Tracy, and Krazy Kat. I keep a master list and strike them off one by one. But Annie, Bill Blackbeard said and tapped his nose. I want to claim I have all of Harold Gray’s run on Orphan Annie but the truth is I’m missing a few damn weeks of one storyline, this continuity featuring this fantastic villain by the name of Mr. Chizzler, a shady conman who pretends to be a music manager to exploit Annie’s singing talents.
I read that story. It must have been at the Victoria public library when I was a kid, Wendy chewed her lip. I mean, this was when I was on vacation there … from where I am from, Cleveland. It’s in their old newspaper collection. I used to read all the old newspapers for their funnies. That’s what I did, even when I was on vacation … go to the library.
The whole story? Are you sure?
No, but I think so. Dozens and dozens and dozens of strips.
I’m going to give them a call. I will, I will, said Bill wagging his head so excitedly his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. I will right now. I’m serious. This would be the end to a very lengthy search, Wendy.
He asked if he could leave them alone for a moment while he looked up the number and made the call What did I tell you? Patrick said. Blackbeard loves comics.
No kidding. What an a-ma-zing collection. Wendy touched an original George McManus Blackbeard kept inside acid-free cardboardbacked plastic. Do you think I could take it out of the plastic for a second and feel it?
Go ahead, Smooth Patrick told her. Your hands are clean, aren’t they?
No, she said and pulled the bristol from its protective casing.
Sixty years later, the artist’s lines of ink stood up as though the paper were a thin sheet of glass. In his Bringing Up Father, McManus brought that classical illustration style to the funny pages, a graceful fairy tale line that was simply beautiful.
My lineage is pure vaudeville puppetry, Wendy said. Mickey, Krazy Kat, Dot and Dash, Snoopy and Woodstock, and a lot of Mutt and Jeff, Popeye, and so on. Hundreds and hundreds of loafy Shmoos in between.
She didn’t care what he said next, she kissed him on the mouth. You’re so stupid you’re beautiful, she said and kissed him again. You’re stupiful, she said, kissing him more. Patrick’s eyes rolled white. You know you taste like oranges, like Tang, she said. As soon as she got Patrick hard, she straddled him, snaked off his belt, unzipped his pants, and went down on him. She did not hold back. Oh good gosh, he shuddered and instead of coming, pulled his cock out of her mouth and swung it around erect in the air, bobbling around as if a small blind man lost his cane, or the cane lost the blind man.
Where, where? she whispered. She didn’t take her legwarmers off.
The floor, the floor the fucking floor, Patrick said and she stared transfixedly at his cock swaggering around pink and glistening.
There’s not enough time! she giggled. Once her back was flat on the floor of the San Francisco Academy of Comic Art’s archives and her legs were up and spread as far as they could go apart, Smoothie Smooth Patrick plunged. His prick pressed so deep into her she could feel his balls clapping her ass. Meanwhile her head kept knocking the bottom of the Thimble Theatre flat file so the drawers kept jerking out, an inch here, an inch there. And as much as she enjoyed what he was doing—kissing her neck and ably gliding in and out of her—the drawers of the flat file really started to worry her.
Smoothie, she whispered and tapped him on the shoulder. Smoothie.
Fuck, Wendy, you’re so awesome, Wendy. You don’t know how long I wanted this.
Hot damn, you’re a genius! she heard Bill Blackbeard shout from the top of the staircase. You were right, you were right, hoo-wee! How did you know? They can give me the papers, too. My god, girl, you just completed my Little Orphan— Hello? Where did you both go? Now what in the fuck— Holy shit, you two, what in the fuck are you doing fucking—? Oh no! Watch out!
In the lurch, a flat file tipped. Bill Blackbeard felt he must trip over Wendy and Smooth Patrick in his dive to stop the steel drawers containing irreplaceable Popeye strips from crushing them.
Goddamn, I wish I could say this was the first time I’d caught kids fucking in my office, but it ain’t. Blackbeard turned to face the other direction.
Patrick pulled his pants on as fast as possible, then stuffed his underwear into his pocket. Still doing up his fly, he hobbled over to Blackbeard’s side and whispered in his ear, Look, man, thanks for being cool. Sorry about this but I’ve been trying to get with Wendy for like three years. You gotta understand I had to take this opportunity. She kissed me.
Blackbeard clapped him on the face. Haven’t you kids heard? Sex carries this plague. I hope you’re …
Wendy was still on her hands and knees behind a six-foot stack of bound newspapers, looking for her left legwarmer after it had somehow gotten shucked off in the action. She peeked around the newspapers, then stood up suddenly as if she’d tripped. She used her shirtsleeve to wipe spittle off the sides of her mouth. So uh … oh my god, shimminy bop, funny thing to ask now, but hey, just wondering what the chances are of Strays getting in your Smithsonian reprint?
Dear Dr. Pazder,
&nb
sp; Where do I begin?
19
I can’t go to the desert. I got this mailout to do, said Biz Aziz. Someone can take my spot.
She split the tape sealing the top of the Purolator box. Inside were two hundred copies of the latest issue of The Mizadventurez of Mizz Biz Aziz, straight from the printer. She thought the full-colour cover looked good—the livid, blood-orange sunset cast over her minimalist drawing of No Manors popped off the page in front of the giant apparition of Hick Elmdales clouding the San Francisco skyline behind it, as if the smokehaze from a thousand bags of pot seeped out an open window and clung to the air over the manor in a perpetual fog. A sentient fog, funny and agoraphobic. Biz turned over the copy to inspect the back cover and then flipped open the pages to check that all the corrections she’d made on the proof had stayed corrected. At two dollars, the price per issue was no doubt steep for the kiddies, but she was no big house like Marvel or DC, she couldn’t sell her comics for eighty cents, she was an artist who self-financed her work with an American Express credit card in her real name. Go on, she said, have a look. Number nine was set to hit the shelves of comic shops on Halloween of eighty-four. She was distributed through Last Gasp, a local shop that specialized in underground comix and books full of potentially harmful matter, which copies of Mizz Biz Aziz invariably were. Her comics weren’t always easy to ship out of the country, in fact Biz had to mail some orders herself from a PO box to avoid detection from the authorities— otherwise Canadian border guards confiscated packages going to comic shops in cities farflung as Toronto, Vancouver, and Saskatoon as often as shipments to Mogadishu or Jeddah, that’s how squeamish some democratic countries’ border guards were about harmful material.
Number nine was the second issue in a two-part story dealing with the death of Hick Elmdales. The eighth issue opens with a scene in which Biz accompanies Hick to the doctor the day he learns he’s got the sarcoma skin cancer and tracks the six weeks up until Biz heard the news of his death during her performance at The Farm. Issue nine opens with the wake. The hundreds of mourners are represented by her trademark chips and fragments, cracked pieces, shards of figurative black against the white page, masklike faces and perversely rudimentary figures further dissembled by the intrusive background drawn in the same manner. The comic was riveting and dizzying, and to learn Biz’s interpretation of the wake made the ends of our fingers tingle. As we flipped the pages, the sometimes inscrutable images, always beautiful and complex and perfectly executed, were eased along by the diary entries broken up into the captions at the tops and bottoms of each panel. Sometimes poetic, sometimes raw, always honest, Biz’s prose was not in the exact voice Biz spoke in—her writing amplified and filled in what her body language supplied in conversation. The entire genius was present in these pages, that shapeshifting free spirit roamed these pages, these pages made our mouths go dry and our cheeks hot. The middle of the comic gave us shivers, a breathtaking splash page across the staples featuring Jonjay’s return to No Manors. The dead communicate through the living, wrote Biz in the only caption to appear on that two-page spread. Black on white, the drawing looked like a massive tableau in stained glass, nonexistent colours vibrating in front of our eyes in optical illusion. As we read these scenes, the same insecurities came hurtling back to us in waves of nausea. It wasn’t so long ago that that feeling of homelessness, and it hit us hard a second time, of belonging temporarily, it made our stomachs sink like heavy sacks of lead into our bowels, thinking back to that night. We held our breath for minutes on end as we stared into every panel, then inhaled like swimmers about to go deepsea diving as we let ourselves be taken into her version of the wake.
The Road Narrows As You Go Page 21