The Final Show
Everything comes to an end sooner or later. Today, I put my comic book legacy to rest.


Three years ago, I met a guy named Doug. We had found a common interest in faith and, though very different from one another, enjoyed exploring the things that made us the same. Then we found out that we both grew up on comic books.

I had recently pulled my collection out from the dark recesses of my mother’s closet in NY, and Doug was fascinated. I was considering completing my X-Men collection. Doug immediately began to reminisce about his Spider-Man issues. Before long, we were waging weekly adventures to the local comic book stores, spending as much as forty dollars a week to build upon the fledgling remains of our common past.

Before long, it was less about reminiscing and more about a true and sincere fascination with our newfound hobby. Our weekly outings became eclipsed with quarterly trips to the local comic book shows, where we might spend up to $150 on sacred acquisitions. So much of it was about the freedom of bringing a sum of money and saying “This will be gone by the time I leave today, and I will enjoy every second of my parting with it.” As we both endured some of the scariest financial periods of our lives, we still made a religious practice of liberating $50 a week for our passion. It kept us sane.

Over time, we completed all of the (relatively) inexpensive collections we’d been looking to complete. We turned to each other and thought “is this all there is?” In time, we began to realize that the amount of money we’d been dropping on large quantities of books could also buy us the individual choice issues we’d always salivated over but never dreamed we could own. They were within our grasp!

As our financial situations changed and our pockets became substantially fatter, it became easier to consider dropping $20 for an individual comic book. New Worlds of vintage adventure that we’d previously thought were always locked away from us were now wide open for the taking. In time, we stopped making our weekly comic book runs all together. Instead, we saved for the BIG issues. Eventually, we ended up laying claim to priceless issues with which we could probably open our own museum: the first appearances of Captain Marvel, Magnus Robot Fighter, Punisher, Green Goblin, Green Lantern, Usagi Yojimbo, Spider-Man and the X-Men, to name a few. Each acquisition meant the world to us, and we savored (and savor) them with sincere elation.

But, as said earlier, everything comes to an end sooner or later. Doug is moving to California next month in pursuit of an ambitious career in film. If he succeeds, he’ll never be living in Ohio again. I love him too much to consider an alternative that would bring him back here. As a result, today marked the last comic book show we would be able to attend together in Ohio. And, somehow, the thought of going to a show without Doug just doesn’t make any sense to me. Our deep and enduring friendship was founded in comics. Our love of comics was founded in our friendship. Comics won’t be the same without him.

So today was our last show. It was bittersweet in ways that defy the normal cliché. I swore to myself that this would be one for the history books, and it was. Never before has a convention felt as thrilling or satisfying. Never have I savored every moment the way I did today. Doug and I both walked away with amazing deals (and I spent the most I’ve ever spent at a single show today), but that wasn’t even the real point. While I’m amazed at what I walked away with, I’m equally amazed at what I’m now walking away from.

Doug and I had a real lasting place at these shows. We’d become the high rollers, the big spenders, and everyone knew us as a result. We gave great business to the nice vendors that we loved, and never gave a dollar to the creeps (even when their prices were lower). We traded in karma, making some real friends over major transactions, and while we were all ultimately there for the comics, I will truly miss buying from some of those guys.

Here were a few of my favorite moments from my final show:

John is the biggest seller at these shows. His reputation for buying and selling is national, and all the biggest dealers in the country know him. That’s why we get such a kick out of the fact that he loves us so much. We spend most of the time at each show hanging around his booth, shooting the breeze, watching his booth for him (yes, watching his hundreds of thousands of dollars collection) so that he can go shop around, and (of course) making most of our major purchases from him. Last time, John made me sit down and read a classic Donald Duck comic just because he thought I would appreciate the complexity of the story. Strangely enough, I did. This time, he gave me a lesson in the most kinky, overtly sexual and blatantly inappropriate things they’ve ever put on Archie comic book covers. I was suitably amused.

Tom’s progress as a seller mirrors my own as a buyer. I began by scrounging around in the bargain bins. He began by selling them. The first time I met him, he was still new and unsure of himself, and so was I. I was astounded by his selection, bought $60 worth of $1 comic books, and then e-mailed him a list and did $60 more worth of business with him between conventions. I was his first big customer. Over time, I moved into middle range issues and he did too. Now I’m one of the three biggest buyers at the local comic show circuit, and he’s amazed that I still remember him. I always take the time to look through his entire collection for issues I need, chatting with his amazing wife all the while and arguing for why Eeyore is a superior character to Tigger (she loves Winnie the Pooh). Tom gets nervous around me. He whispers to his son “that’s a very important customer” and I try to put him at ease. We started this thing in the same boat, after all. Today, he was proudly displaying his first major acquisition: the first appearance of Doctor Doom, a hot book at anyone’s table. Having little success finding much else that I wanted from him (other than a cute $5 action figure), I asked if I could see it. I had been wanting that issue for a very long time. It wasn’t in the condition I wanted, but he was asking $300, which was nearly half of what it was worth. I stood there, thinking about it for a moment. I wanted to help him and he so badly wanted to help me. He dropped the price to $250. It was too much of a steal to ignore. I bought it. He was delighted. It was such a great buy that every vendor and buyer I saw after demanded that I introduce them to the guy that sold it to me. That purchase made me the envy of the show. That purchase bought Tom a new reputation and a mob of interested buyers. Everyone wins.

There’s this really mean guy that does all of the shows. The very first time Doug and I did a show, I was nervous, and attempted to make small talk with him while deciding on an issue. He assumed I was trying to haggle and yelled at me, snatching the book from my hands in the most unnecessary of ways. I was so upset that I almost cried. I was almost ready to leave. I swore then that I’d never give him my business, and that oath became even more important as I became a big buyer. No matter how appealing the issue or how good the deal, I would never compromise that oath. It led me to buy only from the dealers I liked and respected, never the rude, business-like dealers that simply offered the best prices.

I’d never gone back to his stall until today. I was carrying an enormous box of my acquisitions, literally filled with hundreds of premium issues. The box screamed “BIG SPENDER” and even the sellers I didn’t know were tripping over themselves to wait on me when they saw it. I was moving from stall to stall, barely able to see over the box, when I realized that I’d stopped at his. I had his attention. I began the way I do at any stranger’s stall: “How’s it going?” I asked cheerfully. He replied a bit too quickly “Fine! How are you?” walking right to me with an eager look behind his never smiling face. “Great,” I said, and walked away.

George means more to me than any other vendor there. Back when I was a comic book bottom feeder, kneeling beneath the tables of prestigious vendors to rummage through their forgotten discount boxes, never saying hello because I knew the vendors could care less about me, George found me fascinating. He absolutely had to know why in the world I needed Dazzler #21 or Ms. Marvel #17. I loved telling him, and he’d chuckle with a big old smile. People would interrupt to inquire about $200 issues. He’d oblige and then quickly return to me. He loved talking to me.

I got to know him better and soon learned, amongst other things, that he was a retired teacher. I was training to be a teacher. We talked and talked about it. He later told me that his dream had been to retire, play golf, and do the comic book circuit; not to make money, but just to meet other fans and talk to them. I sometimes honestly believe I was his favorite. I also later found out that George was also an unusually eclectic collector, holding on to some of the most obscure old comics I’d ever seen. No wonder he found my adventures in his bargain bin amusing.

Today, I intended to find George’s booth first. He’d been so kind to me through all of those $6 purchases. I just had to give him a big transaction now that I was a bigger player. I had to show him my thanks. I looked and looked for him, doing laps around the convention center, and could not find him. It wasn’t the first time he’d missed a show, but I was sincerely disappointed. Later in the show, I had broke the bank and spent all my money. I was carrying my enormous box of comics, walking with Doug, when I commented on how disappointed I was that I hadn’t seen George. On a beat, Doug pointed to roughly six feet in front of us: “There he is”.

I was so relieved to see George that I threw down the books and started chatting away. I casually looked through his issues as we talked, disappointed that he’d already sold his interesting big issues, but still able to find a few keepers that I would like to buy. After about forty minutes of talking and talking, I reached into my wallet. I’d completely forgotten that I had only $12 left. I looked at the books I had picked up, and none were labeled for less than $8. I bought a crumpled, folded Iron Fist #14 from him. “Why this one?” he asked. I told him it was the first appearance of Sabertooth. He chuckled with a big old smile. In hindsight, I don’t think I would have had it any other way.


Not bad for a last show. Not bad at all. This isn’t the end of my comic book collecting hobby, but it is the close of its greatest chapter. The legacy ends here, and I’m happy to say that it ended damn well.


Thanks for reading this absurdly long post. Writing it meant a lot to me.