Sammie & Budgie

by Scott Semegran

  "I don't know."

  "Sammie?"

  "Yes?" I knew I was creating an environment where my boy would clam up and not talk to me. A few years before, I learned that these types of interrogations led to a self-imposed week of solitary confinement, where Sammie Boy would cram himself under his bed and not come out nor talk to me. I didn't want that to happen again and decided this seeing-the-future business was too important to risk him clamming up. So I decided to back off, for a while at least, and just not talk about it anymore.

  "Will you tell me later if I stop talking about it now?"

  Sammie slowly raised his head, his eyes leading the way, and nodded.

  "Yes, I will."

  "Promise?" I said, extending my pinky finger to him for a pinky swear. He confirmed by wrapping his little pinky around my pinky, tugging it.

  "Promise! Shmomise!" His sly smile reappeared.

  "Thank you, son. Let's go see who your sister has beaten up. OK?"

  "OK!"

  I placed my hand on his shoulder and we cashed our winning ticket together in the Speedy-Stop. Himanshu congratulated us. Then we walked back to the taekwondo dojang to see how many asses Jessie had kicked while we were gone.

  ***

  As a boy, I absolutely LOVED comic books, particularly Marvel Comics, and I would devour them for hours--by myself, in my room. I loved the entirety of the Marvel Universe, all the heroes and all the villains--well, most all of them. Marvel Comics weren't perfect. They shit out a few turds here and there. I mean, the band KISS as superheroes? What a pile of shit! But a lot of what they published was pure gold. And my favorite was The Amazing Spider-Man. I loved Spider-Man and everything about Spider-Man. I collected Marvel Comics as a boy and cherished all the issues I had of The Amazing Spider-Man, so much so that I still had my collection as an adult. I had retained the entirety of my collection through ups and downs in my life, through thick and thin, as the value of my collection skyrocketed into the stratosphere. I had every issue from #10 - #316, all the Annuals, the One-offs, the Specials, the What-Ifs, all of them, except #1 - #9 and Amazing Fantasy #15 (Spidey's first appearance and an issue that is worth a gazillion dollars). For a brief time as a boy, I did own a copy of The Amazing Spider-Man #6 in fair condition, which isn't great but better than nothing. It disappeared after my friend Stanford--one of the few black friends I had at school when I lived in Montgomery, Alabama during my junior high years--came to my house to eat dinner one day after school. I confronted him about it the next day at school but he denied taking it. He denied it again years later when I confronted him about it during a trip to Montgomery on my way to New York for a book signing that went horribly wrong (I'll tell you about that later). I know the bastard took it, though. It had to have been him the way he drooled over it in my room, the thieving bastard. It's true.

  Anyway, except for The Amazing Spider-Man #6 (I'm telling you, I know that bastard Stanford stole it. I know it!), I still had the rest of the issues in a long-box in my closet in my bedroom, each one carefully enclosed in a 2-millimeter thick, archival, polyester mylar bag with an acid-free cardboard insert to keep them straight and protected. Only a serious comic book collector would go to these lengths to protect their collection and I did it, too. To be honest, I initially was saving them as an investment and a way to keep a connection to my childhood and my love for comic books. But when I became a dad, my collection and my love for comic books was something I wanted to share with my boy, Sammie. It was something I hoped would bridge my childhood with his, something that I felt we could share and discuss together. And, man, was I right. Good ol' Sammie Boy was probably a bigger fanboy than I was. Really.

  I remember the day I first showed him my collection of comic books. It was a day I will never, ever forget. We were still in our old house--the house we lived in before I divorced Sammie's mother and before she died--and I had come across my comic book collection while I was in my closet, thinking about packing and moving all the shit I had amassed while I was married. It was a soul-crushing realization that I would soon be moving out of the house that I swore I would never leave. As I sat on the carpeted floor--sobbing--I saw the corner of the white, long box full of comic books protruding out from behind a row of hanging blue jeans. I wiped my wet eyes and snotty nose on the short-sleeve of my t-shirt then pulled out the heavy box. Sliding on the carpet, I forgot just how heavy a long box full of comic books was; it must have weighed 100 pounds. I placed my legs on each side of the box, pulling it close to my crotch, sitting up straight, lifting the lid off carefully, and placing it to the side. The box was jammed full of comic books, the mylar bags glistening under the yellow glow of the closet light.

  I randomly pulled one from the middle of the box (issue #156) and found myself transported back to the time I first saw that cover, the one that announced, "INTRODUCING: The most mind-boggling wedding guest of them all--the murderous MIRAGE!" The wedding scene depicted Spider-Man web-slinging from out of nowhere into a wedding party, their faces looking on in horror as Spidey navigated toward one of many replicas of the multiplying villain Mirage, Spidey's webbed fist punching through the mirage of the evil man, another word-bubble proclaiming, "AT LAST! The long-awaited WEDDING of Betty Brant and Ned Leeds!" I didn't remember ever caring if Betty Brant and Ned Leeds got married (What young boy cares about weddings anyway?!) but I do remember seeing Mirage for the first time and thinking, 'I wonder what this dumbass thinks he can do to beat Spider-Man that all of the other shitheads couldn't do!' I was, no doubt, intrigued; I still felt the intrigue as an adult looking at the cover again. I couldn't remember the outcome of the battle between Spider-Man and Mirage. I only remembered the feeling of excitement of just looking at the cover. I was a real sad-sack for sure, sitting on my closet floor, going from bawling like a baby to reminiscing with old comic books, when good ol' Sammie Boy discovered me in my closet. I felt his little hands on my shoulders and the warmth of his sweet breath on my neck, the weight of his body resting on my tired back.

  "Wha cha doing, Daddy?" he said, leaning in to see the cover of The Amazing Spider-Man #156 comic book I held in my hands, protected by a clear, mylar bag.

  "Looking at my comic book collection," I said.

  "Comic books? Where?!" he said, tossing himself next to me on the carpet, propped up on his knees with an excitement he could barely contain. Who doesn't get excited about comic books? A no-fun jerk-wad, that's who. But my boy Sammie wasn't a no-fun jerk-wad. He was so excited he could hardly contain himself. It's true.

  "Here, in this box," I said, placing my hand on the side of the long-box. "It's a collection I started when I was about your age. I've kept them this whole time."

  "I didn't know you had comic books in here. Why didn't you tell me?!"

  "Because I wanted to wait until you were old enough to appreciate them."

  "Old enough?" he said, releasing an annoyed harrumph. "Old enough, shmold enough!"

  "Oh shmeally?" I said, leaning forward, looking him in his eyes.

  "Shmeally!"

  I knew Sammie was serious about the comic books when a terse sincerity appeared on his little cute face and our Shmenglish conversation quickly turned back to boring ol' regular English.

  "Can I look at them?" he said. "I promise to be careful."

  "You promise?" I said.

  "I promise!"

  I nodded then he lunged for the comics, jabbing his fingers into the crammed-tight box. I gently placed my hand on his shoulder. He stopped to look at me and I gave him a knowing nod, as if to say, 'Please be careful.' He continued with gentle hands. He flipped through several before landing on a thick issue towards the back. He pulled it up to reveal the issue, 'The Amazing Spider-Man Annual #2.' Now, annual issues came out once a year--hence, they were called Annuals--and they usually had a retrospective section of things that came about in issues the year before like villains that were introduced or milestones that were achieved or characters that died and shit like that. They also cont
ained bizarre stories that were too far-fetched for regular issues. The Amazing Spider-Man Annual #2 was no different.

  "What about this one?" he said, holding the issue up closer to my face. It's bright, yellow cover obnoxiously glared through the clear plastic mylar bag. "What's this one about?"

  "I don't know. Read the cover to me."

  He lowered the comic book to his lap and stared at the cover, examining it. Spider-Man stood alone with nothing around him--no scenery, no villains lunging for him, no girlfriend fawning over him or his newspaper boss barking at him, no aunt begging him to be good, nothing--but the bright, yellow background and little, miniature versions of himself in various spidey poses as well as a large spidey head, floating in the middle with the mini Spider-men orbiting around it. Right beneath The Amazing Spider-Man title was a black banner with bold, red letters which called out: ALL NEW! "THE WONDROUS WORLDS OF DR. STRANGE!" Sammie read this banner out loud the best he could in his third-grade level reading voice, all stops and stutters and restarts. He really tried his best to sound like he knew what he was reading.

  "Daddy, who is Dr. Strange?" he said, pointing at the black banner. "Is he the bad guy in this one?"

  "No, Dr. Strange is a good guy. He's kind of like a wizard or a sorcerer. This is his first appearance in The Amazing Spider-Man."

  "What's a sorce--sorce--sore--sir--err?"

  "A sorcerer is someone who can conjure spells and travel to other dimensions."

  "You mean, he's like a magician?" he said, scratching his head.

  "Yeah, I guess you could say that, but real magic, not fake magic, like performing tricks or something. Dr. Strange is the sorcerer supreme in the Marvel Universe, the most powerful of all sorcerers. He protects the Earth against magical and mystical threats. Pretty cool."

  "Wow! Can I read this one?"

  "Sure, but we have to read it here together. We need to be careful with it. OK?"

  "OK!"

  I pulled good ol' Sammie Boy onto my lap and, together, we slid the comic book out of its clear mylar bag and began to read it. The story began with a bizarre looking character named Xandu, an evil sorcerer who possessed one half of a magic wand called "The Wand of Watoomb." He devised a plan to retrieve the other half of the "The Wand of Watoomb" from his nemesis Dr. Strange by hypnotizing two thugs and ordering them to beat-up Dr. Strange and return to Xandu with the other half of the wand. It was a whacky premise that even Sammie could see through.

  "Daddy, why doesn't Xandu just fight Dr. Strange for the other half of the wand himself?"

  "That would be too easy, now wouldn't it?"

  "And where's Spider-Man?"

  "He's coming. Hold on!"

  The two hypnotized thugs entered Dr. Strange's lair and overpowered him, stealing his half of "The Wand of Watoomb." As they escaped to the roof of the building, Spider-Man spotted them while he swung around New York City, looking for something to do, good deeds and shit like that. Spidey approached them but they overcame him too, their spell-bound minds and bodies not tiring during their battle with the webslinger. Spidey gave up, knowing that they had the upper hand, but tagged them with a tracking device as they escaped.

  "Spider-Man can find them using the tracker thingy, Daddy?"

  "Yes, Spider-Man is pretty ingenious, isn't he?"

  Anyway, Spider-Man tracked the thugs with his tracking device and Dr. Strange followed Spider-Man with his mystical abilities. The two heroes teamed up to defeat Xandu and Dr. Strange, with his magic powers and heroic wisdom, decided to erase the memory of what just transpired from Xandu's mind, as well as any evil ambitions he had, leaving him to wander the Earth as a mere mortal.

  Then Dr. Strange grabbed "The Wand of Watoomb" and declared, "I realize now that the Wand of Watoomb is too potent, too menacing to ever fall into other hands! And so, my Mystical Amulet will drain every bit of power out of it, until all that remains is a harmless, simple ornament! The threat of Watoomb exists no more!" And with that, the powers of the wand were absorbed by an amulet around Dr. Strange's neck, and the powers of the wand became the powers of Dr. Strange.

  "So Dr. Strange can now travel to other dimensions and see the future?!"

  "Yes, whatever powers the wand had are now his powers. They are a part of him now, through his Mystical Amulet."

  "Cool!" said good ol' Sammie Boy, jumping to his feet and assuming a super hero pose. "Daddy, can I dress up as Dr. Strange next Halloween?"

  I could see on Sammie's face that the idea of dressing up as Dr. Strange was a fantastical idea and I couldn't agree more, as long as he didn't want me to dress up as Spider-Man. I wasn't about to stuff my pudgy butt inside a skin-tight Spider-Man costume. I smiled at him and said, "Sure, son. Whatever you want."

  "Yeah!" he said, raising a hand above his head, his arm outstretched at full-extension, his index finger pointing to the heavens. "By the powers of my Mystical Amulet, time to disappear into the future!" Then he ran at full-speed out of the closet to a different part of the house, probably to the kitchen to get a Popsicle or something.

  Chapter Four

  When you go to your doctor's office, do you ever wonder who decorates the place? The waiting room at Dr. Dimes' office was a bizarre combination of kid-friendly accessories and modern kitsch decoration--things like bead mazes, stuffed animals, board books, and fish aquariums intermixed with Scandinavian furniture, wallpaper with muted patterns and colors, hand-woven Oriental rugs, and a number of plants, some real and some fake. Good ol' Sammie Boy and I were the only patients waiting to see Dr. Nadine Dimes, Sammie's doctor since the day he was born, a nice woman who seemed to truly care about her patients as well as her own kids. I decided after all the incidents related to Sammie's ability to see the future (and some rather deep introspection about the matter on my part) that it would be best if he saw Dr. Dimes. There had to be an explanation--maybe something medical, maybe something physiological--to why all of a sudden, he had this crazy ability. I mean, seeing the future is something you only read about in comic books or novels or see on TV or in the movies. And it usually happens to someone with serious issues like post-traumatic stress disorder or child abuse or a serious car accident or drug problems or a death in the family or a freakish mutation from standing too close to a nuclear explosion or some shit like that. It never seemed to affect a normal kid, someone like my son Sammie. Really, good ol' Sammie Boy is about as normal as it gets. Unless he really can see the future, then there is nothing normal about that shit at all. He would be like a real life super hero. It's true.

  Anyway, after a bit of deliberation and some scheduling conflicts at my job I had to work through, I made an appointment to have Sammie see Dr. Dimes. She was a constant source of great advice as well as support in our lives, helping me figure out the right things to do as a parent. I mean, she had known Sammie since the day he was born, since the day he popped out of his mom. She examined him when he was just minutes old and watched him grow all this way. Why wouldn't I trust her? There is one thing, though. The only issue I have with Dr. Dimes is that, sometimes, she dresses a little whore-ish for my taste. What I'm trying to say is that, sometimes, she seems to be dressed like she's ready to hit a nightclub, pick up a 22-year Puerto Rican kid after downing five, double Piña Coladas, then go back to his apartment and ride him like a mechanical bull with a dildo strapped on the saddle. Whoa, right? The way she dressed could be pretty ridiculous, especially in a professional setting, but I let it slide. She really, really seemed to be a good doctor despite her horrible, horrible fashion sense. Really.

  Anyway, let's get back to the appointment. After checking-in with the receptionist, Sammie and I made ourselves comfortable in the empty waiting room. I found a couch to sit on with a fancy coffee table in front--one covered with magazines like Time and Sports Illustrated and Better Homes & Gardens and other crappy magazines that I couldn't imagine anyone subscribing to except for doctors to put on their fancy coffee tables in their questionably decorated waiting rooms--and
watched Sammie examine everything. He looked over the kids' toys and books and playthings and quickly decided they weren't of his caliber. He turned up his nose at them like a dog rejecting generic, kibble dog food. He could be a real fuddy-duddy when he wanted to be, the little snob. It's true.

  "Not to your liking?" I said, giving him the stink eye. He looked at me and crossed his arms, defiantly.

  "These are for babies," he said, pointing to a bead maze on the coffee table, the beads painted in bright, primary colors while the base was covered with cartoon animal and flower stickers. He was right to be offended by it. It was for babies, particularly unpretentious ones. I mean, have you ever met a pretentious baby? I didn't think so. Babies will play with anything they can touch or shove in their mouths. Babies are unpretentious as hell. This time, Sammie was the snobby one. He just wasn't having it with the baby toys.

  "I see. Want to sit on the shmouch with me?" I said, patting an empty cushion next to me.

  "Is it a shmoft and shmooshy shmouch?" he said, perking up a bit. Talking in Shmenglish always seemed to cheer him up. It was my go-to mood changer.

  I caressed the cushion with my hand in small circles to the left, then in larger circles to the right. I firmly gripped the material of the couch cushion, examining its texture and all like I was a couch connoisseur, then said, "Seems pretty shmoft and shmooshy to me."

  "Great!" He launched himself onto the couch like a football player diving into the end zone in a desperate attempt to evade vicious defenders and score a much-needed touchdown. He rolled up in the fetal position, his feet pressing into the back cushions. "Yeah, seems shmoft to me."

  "Are you comfortable?" I said sarcastically, pretending to read a copy of Time Magazine.

  "Not really." He got up from the couch and shuffled through all the grown-up magazines on the coffee table. He couldn't seem to find what he was looking for, nothing fun or entertaining or mysterious or enchanting enough for him. "Do they have any comic books like Spider-Man or Dr. Strange?"