As I sniffed in, I was taken back once again to North Carolina, the North Carolina from when I was a kid. On one of our frequent visits, we went to an out-of-the-way used book and magazine "store". This place was a "destination spot", meaning it was in the middle of nowhere and the only reason for being out that way was to go there and only there. It wasn't "on the way" to anything.
I remember this place as basically being a very large, garage size shed, divided into two rooms. To enter, one had to pull open the outside door which was made from planks and was held closed by one of those long springs that you used to see on old cottage screen doors. For some reason I took this as a good sign, that this place was a diamond in the rough. I opened the door and stepped into the entry room, which was the smaller of the two rooms. It felt a little like climbing into a mine or an old root cellar. It was dark with some plastic covered slits on either side of the door that served as windows. As my eyes adjusted, I could see there were boxes of magazines stacked on either side, bookcase fashion. Some of the magazines had spilled onto the floor. The clientele seemed to treat this with indifference.Directly in front of me was another door that went to the larger room.
When this other door was opened, the blinding light of heaven shown upon my face. There, in the middle of this room, surrounded by a narrow path, was a huge table that in a previous life had likely served as a ping pong table. Now it served a higher calling. Every inch of this table was covered by one massive pile of "pre-owned" comic books; a pile that must have been six inches thick at the shallowest point. There was no order, no rhyme or reason to how the comics were strewn about. They were all there just waiting to be perused and it was up to the customers (i.e.: me and Dad's wallet) to find whatever treasure we could dig up. It was much like Uncle Scrooge's vault... and if you don't get the connection, there's not much I can do to help you there. (This is where I would normally post a picture to illustrate, but I hear that Walt Disney sues for more minor infractions than this, and I can't afford it. Look it up).
In my mind, I'm kneeling in the middle of the table with my head tipped back, throwing comics into the air. They gently drift back down around me like autumn leaves. And even though it's the early sixties, there's a disco ball spinning slowly from the ceiling and people are scattered around the table smiling and nodding approvingly at me... all in slow motion. (I'm pretty sure that part didn't happen.)
I don't remember visiting this establishment more than once, though I do remember bugging Mom and Dad for the better part of our remaining visit to go back 'just one more time". I remember treasuring the comics I found there (two of which are pictured here, though sadly, are pictures only. My copies are long gone). And though I'm sure the stories were more simplistic and innocent by today's standards, they were magic to me. I sat reading in my Grandmother's closet, squeezed in amongst the stored away blankets and moth balls, and these stories opened new worlds to me. I remember reading these books over and over again, untill they barely held together, and still reading them on the long train ride back home. That scent of old pulp transports me back in time in an even more powerful way than when I see comic book covers from that era. And that is saying a lot. Yes, the stories were more simplistic and more innocent. And that's a big part of what made them so great.
Now, you'll have to excuse me as I go back upstairs to sniff that old book again.
P.S. Copyright on the above covers, I'm assuming, is held by DC Comics. So please don't sue me.
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