The Comic Book War: The Comic Book War Read online

  He had to stop this avalanche of unwarranted concern. “There’s nothing to worry about Mum. I can take care of myself and I don’t think there’s ever been a kidnapping in Calgary.” He tried to lighten the mood with humour. “Besides, kidnappers take rich people’s kids for ransom and that sure ain’t us.”

  His mother stiffened and the unwarranted concern changed to indignant anger. Robert realized he’d made another serious tactical mistake.

  ENGINE DAMAGED, OUR HERO KNEW HE COULDN’T OUTRUN THE DEADLY ASSAULT. HE’D HAVE TO USE ALL HIS EXPERT SKILL IF HE WAS GOING TO SHAKE THE ENEMY OFF HIS TAIL. VALIANTLY, HE FLEW ON THROUGH THE STORM!

  “Uh, I mean, I’m sure we have enough loot that any kidnapper would love to snatch me up.”

  “Stop your impertinence young man. We may not be rich but you never go hungry and we live an honest, decent life! And speaking of not being rich, when I found your pants balled up like a chore rag...” Her glare pinned him like a butterfly to a board. “I also found a stack of those blasted comic books. There must be over five dollars worth! Considering how hard your father works to put food on the table, spending money on something so frivolous is completely wrong. Practically sinful.” Here she made the sign of the cross.

  When his mother brought religion into it, Robert knew he was done for. If she found the boxes hidden in the garage, she’d organize a firing squad and borrow the bullets! Or worse – donate his precious collection to a paper drive for the war effort!

  WITH A SINKING FEELING, OUR HERO REALIZED HIS AERIAL ACROBATICS WERE NOT ENOUGH TO WIN THIS DISMAL DOGFIGHT. THE ODDS WERE STACKED AGAINST HIM AND HE HOPED HIS PARACHUTE WOULD OPEN....

  Robert tried to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “I read those comics over and over, Mum. I get my money’s worth out of them.” Reading his comics several times was kind of like giving himself a hand-me-down, which he knew his mother was all for. “And they tell fantastic stories about fighting the evil Axis – especially that Hitler.” He referred to the leader of the Axis powers the way his mother always did, as if the man were something nasty on the bottom of a shoe, to help make his point. “They really boost my morale and make me want to help the war effort in any way I can.” Maybe adding this patriotic sentiment would also help his case.

  “Nevertheless, it’s a lot of money. This is about growing up as much as anything Robert. In fact, I think it’s high time you discovered what it takes to make those dimes you so freely squander on your funny papers.”

  “They’re not funny papers Mum, those are in the newspapers. They’re comic books and they’re important and worth every penny of my hard-earned allowance.”

  His mother’s face grew pinched. “Is that so, Robert Joseph Tourond?”

  Robert sucked in his breath. The triple-barrelled name thing was a sure sign he was a goner.

  TIME STOPPED AS OUR HERO DESPERATELY BANKED HIS BATTERED LITTLE FIGHTER. THE ENEMY HELD THE SUPERIOR POSITION AND STARTED A DEADLY STRAFING RUN HE COULD NOT ESCAPE.

  “Your ‘hard-earned allowance’,” she scoffed. “Maybe I should get paid for washing your clothes or cooking your meals!”

  Robert knew what sarcasm was. He’d taken it in English. He kept quiet.

  “Does your father ask for payment from you when he gets up at four o’clock every day and goes to the factory so you can eat?”

  THE DOGFIGHT HAD TURNED INTO THE BATTLE OF HIS LIFE! OUR HERO SAW THE TRACER BULLETS HEADING STRAIGHT FOR HIM AND WAITED FOR THE FIERY LEAD TO HIT!

  “And next time your trousers need mending because you were careless while gallivanting around hell’s half acre, I’ll show you where the sewing box is and you can fix them yourself!”

  Understanding dawned like a 60-watt light bulb going on. Mum must have had a letter from George. Even with the censors cutting out most of the good stuff, hearing about his exploits always made her a little strange.

  “Mum, maybe I should make you a nice cup of tea. We could both use a cup of really, really strong tea, and the sooner the better, I say....”

  His mother scrutinized the ruined pants – a hanging judge examining the bloody evidence. Tension grew while Robert waited for the verdict. She straightened. “You shall still receive your allowance....”

  Wham! Kablam! He’d truly dodged a bullet this time. Robert relaxed – but too soon, it turned out.

  “However, from now on,” she continued, cranking up the meat grinder to “pulverize”, “the entire amount will go toward buying war savings certificates which will support your brothers who are fighting so hard to keep the world free from that Hitler.”

  As Robert digested the words, his satisfaction fizzled to be replaced with anger.

  BLEEDING AND NEARLY OUT OF AMMO, OUR BRAVE HERO WOULDN’T GO DOWN WITHOUT A FIGHT, NO MATTER HOW FUTILE HIS DYING EFFORTS. HE RELOADED HIS GUNS WITH THE LAST OF HIS BULLETS.

  “That’s not fair Mum! I earn that money doing chores around the house. It’s mine. I should get to spend it on anything I like.”

  For once, she ignored his rude tone. “This is a life lesson. Growing up successfully is all about responsibility and making wise choices. I believe this is a very good start for you.”

  WITH THE FINAL SALVO DELIVERED DIRECTLY ON TARGET, THE ENEMY WHIRLED IN A VICTORY ROLL AND DEPARTED AS OUR HERO`S LITTLE FIGHTER SPIRALLED DOWN IN FLAMES. IS THIS THE END?

  His mother stalked out of the room like a conquering general leaving the bloody field of battle. Robert stood speechless, knowing it was useless to protest. They’d had the “responsibility” conversation before, but the part about his allowance going to buy war savings certificates was completely new. His mother was all for the war effort. Heck, hadn’t she’d ripped up her precious flowerbed to plant a victory garden? But now she was volunteering him to be part of her master plan to defeat the Nazis!

  Rationing didn’t affect him. Less gasoline meant nothing – his family didn’t have a car. It was his mother who made do with the weekly allotments of a half-pound of butter and eight ounces of sugar, and since they were Catholic, they didn’t eat meat on Fridays anyway, so the required “meatless day” was covered. Robert didn’t mind using less natural gas for heat – he wore undershirts and sweaters in winter.

  But doing without the money that kept him in comic books – he felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. The idea of a world without comic books was unthinkable and, for him, unlivable.

  Then he remembered. The Maple Leaf Kid was due in today and he had only one measly nickel left. This was a disaster! His brain frantically sought a solution. Maybe she’d calm down by tonight and it would all blow over?

  Trying to control himself, Robert grabbed his school bag and was about to slam out the door when his mother came back into the kitchen.

  “Robert, good, you’re still here. You received this from James.” She held an envelope out to him, her face as calm as the eye of a hurricane. “It slipped my mind. I got my own letter from your foolhardy brother George. Then I found your new pants, and well, I guess it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.” She rubbed her forehead wearily, like she had a headache. “Oh, and about your allowance, I shouldn’t have been so angry...”

  Immediately hopeful, Robert tucked his letter in his book bag and waited respectfully, altar-boy perfect, sure she’d come to her senses.

  “...but it really is for your own good dear. You’ll thank me when you cash in your certificates and there’s all that added interest.”

  The shell with his name on it exploded. Yes, he’d thank her – in seven and a half years when the certificates came due! It was forever away and there wasn’t a darn thing he could do. Once his mother made her mind up, no power in any universe could change the course of that juggernaut. His voice broke as he replied. “I’m sure I will, Mum.”

  There would be tough words in his next letter to his eldest brother. He knew it had been George’s bragging that had sent her down this motherly path of destruction.

  _____

  Wheeling h
is bike dejectedly out of the garage, Robert was at a loss as to what to do. Comics were his life; but money was required to keep the lifeblood flowing. Money was supposed to be the root of all evil. If that was the case, he could sure use a piece of that root. He’d plant it and pray for rain.

  His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Glowinski.

  “Robcio! You have minute?”

  “Sure Mr. G, what’s up?” He pushed his bike to his neighbour’s garage.

  “I work on meteorite last night. It is finished. It turn out pretty good. You want to see?”

  Immediately Robert’s spirits lifted. “It’s done! So soon? I mean, it’s ready now?” He laid his bike down gently, careful not to scratch it. “You bet I want to see!” His heart sped up. Today was supposed to be his favourite day of the month, Maple Leaf Kid Day, but it had been blown up with his mother’s unbelievable tirade. The return of his meteorite would put one thing right at least.

  They walked into the cool garage and went to the workbench. Hanging from an ancient drill press was his fallen star. Mr. G had worked the stone to shape it, showing off the intricate detail on a surface etched by millions of years of interstellar travel. He’d tunnelled into the rock and attached an ornate loop of gold metal through which passed a gleaming silver chain.

  Robert was mesmerized, unable to speak. “Wham...Kablam...” he finally whispered as he watched the light reflect off the small work of art. “This is too much Mr. G!”

  The big man waved dismissively. “It is nothing. Good to work on something that does not need electricity.”

  “It’s beautiful, and the fancy chain...I was going to use a piece of string.”

  “Use binder twine on my beautiful work! Nie, nie. I had chain and it was right tool for job.” He lifted the necklace off the press and gave it to Robert.

  The talisman nestled in Robert’s palm. It still had that strange, otherworldly warmth, and as he slipped the chain over his head, he had the odd sensation it was humming. He was sure the stone was happy; it was where it belonged, home from its uncharted wanderings at last.

  There was another Polish word Robert knew and though he couldn’t pronounce it correctly, he gave it his best shot. “Dziękuję.” He tried not to show the sudden wave of emotion he felt. “Thank you.”

  “Humph,” Mr. G replied as he busily gathered his screwdrivers and pliers from the bench then put them away in his tool box and snapped the lid closed. “Now I must be engineer for government. Go to school, get education so you can have good job, like me.” He shooed Robert away in dismissal.

  Robert touched the stone and felt a tingle. He would keep this gift from the universe with him always.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FAT CHANCE

  Robert decided to keep his treasure hidden beneath his shirt at school as none of his swell-headed classmates would understand how important it was. They already called him Comic Book Crazy and he didn’t want to add Buck Rogers Space Cadet to their list of uncomplimentary nicknames. As he wended his way down the hallway he could feel the stone’s warmth against his skin and was glad he’d brought it.

  Miss Pettigrew, his homeroom teacher, was pinning a poster to the wall when he entered his classroom. Her hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head – a style Robert thought of as Haystack Madness – and she always smelled faintly of old cigarettes and stale perfume. Miss Pettigrew was what his parents would have called “eccentric.”

  “Boys and girls, to start the school year off right we’re going to have a grand contest open to all students!” she announced, pushing in the last thumbtack. “It’s the cat’s meow!”

  Robert scanned the poster. The contest was called The Great Grease Roundup. The student who collected the most fat over the next two weeks would win a full book of twenty-five-cent war savings stamps.

  “Wham. Kablam,” he murmured as he reread the poster. Those stamps were as good as money. In fact, the poster on the wall of Mr. Kreller’s drugstore, the one about the war stamps, advertised how he would give savings stamps in lieu of change.

  An idea flashed into Robert’s mind. What if Mr. Kreller would do it the other way around and take savings stamps in lieu of money? A full book was worth four whole dollars. If Robert could convince the old pharmacist to do a trade, he would be rolling in comic books for a long, l-o-n-g time.

  He was getting ahead of himself. First, he had to win this contest.

  It was then he noticed someone else eyeing the poster with interest. It was Crazy Charlie Donnelly: trouble with a blond ponytail. If Robert was going to take the prize, he had to eliminate the competition. He made his way over. “Planning on entering?” he asked casually.

  “Maybe,” she answered, in the same bland tone.

  “Seems like a lot of trouble for a few stamps.” Robert trod carefully, trying not to alert her to how much he wanted to win.

  “Yeah, the thing is, I’m kinda bored right now and it would give me something to do after school. Wonder if it matters what kind of fat?”

  Robert thought this was an odd thing to say. In addition to all her other faults, Charlie must be a little slow, as his mother would say. Time to educate the poor thing. “I think it means ordinary fat, you know, like grease from bacon. It’s used to make glycerine, which they need to manufacture nitroglycerine which is used in explosives, like bombs...”

  Her lips compressed into a thin line, like she was biting back a bullet or two herself. “I was talking about animal or vegetable, genius, and if it has to be fresh. What about shelf life or expiry dates?” The look she gave him made his ego shrink five sizes. He hadn’t thought about any of that. “Then,” she went on, “I decided since it’s going to be processed, maybe the condition wouldn’t matter much. However, my Uncle Gus, he’s a chef at a restaurant, says you have to be careful with fat because it goes rancid.”

  “Rancid?”

  Now Charlie looked at him like he was the slow one. “Rotten.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot,” he lied, none too smoothly.

  She crossed her arms. “If it doesn’t have to be in good shape, then there’s a lot more out there for me to collect.”

  Robert saw where she was going. “I think it would be against the rules to get it from your uncle’s restaurant. That would give you an unfair advantage, Charlie....”

  The second he let her nickname slip, he knew he’d made a mistake. She whirled on him, criminal acts in her eyes and poisonous venom on her lips.

  “Oh yeah? Why don’t you show old Crazy Charlie where it says I can’t tap into family resources?” Her acid tone could have stripped the paint off a battleship.

  She jerked her thumb at the poster and Robert had to admit there was nothing there about where the fat should come from. He saw his war stamps floating away on a sea of grease. “Fine. You need to remember one small detail – two can play at that game Charlene!”

  A crowd of kids had gathered, elbowing one another as they tried to get closer to what they hoped would turn into a knock-down, drag-out battle. From the comments, he knew for once the mob was on his side. A lock of Robert’s unruly black hair fell forward over one eye and he brushed it back with annoyance. Would he have to actually hit her? His mother would shoot him and his father would hand her the gun.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Miss Pettigrew clapped loudly to get everyone’s attention. “Take your seats please! It doesn’t matter where the grease comes from. We need to keep in mind this is for an extremely important cause. Bring your contribution to the home economics room each morning and I will weigh it and add the amount to your total. The winner will be announced at Friday assembly in two weeks’ time.”

  As the crowd dispersed, Charlie glared at Robert and he tried to eyeball her back with equal intensity. Sadly, his attempt to shoot daggers failed. He was more of a butter-knife man.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A BIG HAIRY SACRIFICE

  As Robert sat through the most mind-numbing classes on the planet, he worried about getting
his comic books and what he would do if he didn’t win the fat contest. Winning those savings stamps was his best shot at long-term money. Then there was his immediate battle: getting that Maple Leaf Kid. Robert knew Mr. Kreller wouldn’t sell it to him for just his lone nickel.

  He had no choice. He’d have to use the only piece of ammo he had, even if it was like fixing a leaking dam by jamming chewing gum in the crack. It would be hard to bear but he’d do it. No way would he abandon the Kid.

  _____

  As soon as school let out, Robert climbed on his bike and, gritting his teeth, headed down to Sixth Avenue. His mother had given him money for his back-to-school haircut. He used to go to the neighbourhood barber, Mr. Bert. Then he discovered the Marvel Beauty Academy and Scientific Hairdressing Salon. It was a school for hairdressers. Its claim to fame: you could get a really cheap cut if you were willing to gamble on the competence of the students. Last time the cut had ended up pretty odd, with one side a lot shorter than the other, and his mum had said she was going to have a word with Mr. Bert. Fortunately she hadn’t. Robert had vowed not to chance it again, but he was desperate. He thought of the five cents he would save as danger pay, so he could add it, guilt-free, to his comic book fund.

  Soon Robert sat stiffly in the lady barber’s chair. He refused to call her a hairdresser – a guy had to hold on to some pride. To pass the time, he pulled James’ letter out of his book bag. He’d been unsuccessfully trying to read it all day. Now he could relax and enjoy a laugh; he knew the letter would have a funny story, in code of course, and it did.

  Hi-de-ho Robert,

  Things here are hoppin’. Lots of pretty kittens who’ll trade a date for new mittens. Which reminds me, can you ask mum if she’d send over something a girl would like – silk stockings would be swell. I’m a dead hoofer, but with those, the ladies would think I’m king of the local dance club. Rationing is tough. It’s been a while since I ate real hen fruit. That powdered heifer dust they serve in the mess ain’t like the real deal.