Traveling Without Moving

(published in the 2005 Review)

Tall blonde women are not the stereotypical comic-book patrons, but then I’m more tourist than patron. I’ve bought a few for my niece, since she already draws her own comics (and quite well for a 10 year old). I never buy any for me. I live vicariously through my super-team of South End basement dwellers. They are rich enough in pulp to keep me well fed off the crumbs. Mostly, I just follow them here to the comic store and swim through the wealth of color-pumped fiction. Mulling silently around racks of cartoon-heroes may not sound like much, and if you just wait around it is quite dull. But, when you take the plunge… open up some random item and dive in to another dimension, you are transported further than any airplane could fling you… traveling through worlds without even buying a bus ticket.

The lot of us file in the front door, the laughing and prodding jumbled into a static of jubilant ribbing without specific words. My mind is off sliding on some funky bass-line from listening to Jamiroquai on the way over. The CD is left behind in Kyle’s beat-up Buick Skylark, but the tune still follows me like background music, matching my footsteps and setting a mellow mood. We hit the shelves and spread through the pulp-sea like oil over water. The chatter fizzles to a few soft conversations between paired-off wanderers. Off on my own, I take one last look around me before picking a random comic book off the shelf. My mind will soon be sucked into an ink and pigment world, so it’s best to know what’s going on around my body before I leave it behind.

I fall into the first page. Immediately, I’m swimming through washes of color, moving in and out of frames, weaving through and around the scaffolds stories are built on. My senses flood and my mind's eye takes over; my imagination as real and more vivid than the floor beneath my worn Skechers. Surreal characters fight massive foes as well as their own internal conflicts, all to the grooving-retro sounds still playing in my mind; X-men stories unfurling to a soundtrack more suitable for Shaft. Somehow it all works in my head. I can see myself moving to the rhythms like dramatic slow-motions shots in movies as my enemies approach. I can feel the metal claws unsheathe, sliding against bone as they emerge from my fists. I feel the wind off the characters’ movements, the adrenaline surging through my blood, and the satisfaction of tension and fury well vented.

Suddenly, I hear Mike cussing to one of the guys at a distant rack. I don’t pull out of the comic enough to hear why. I can’t just leave Wolverine hanging with those nanites sapping his healing factor. Besides, I know Mike isn’t really angry, just making observations in his own colorful way. So, I sink back into the vivid dream of the latest Ultimate Nightmare, letting it inundate my brain with vivid color and movement.

My friends and I meander about the universe, zipping into one portal and out another, explorers of worlds. Some worlds are painted stiff and bright with archetypal patriots… some misfit super-teens in pastel panes with their waists smaller than their wrists… some complex heroes lurking in dark rich pools of color like the algae-packed lake on campus. One minute I’m in a derelict military compound discovering abandoned super-soldiers gone wrong. I feel the pent up anguish of twisted men pushed past all things natural, then left to rot without contact for years. I sense the conflict in a mind making room for both it’s own voice and that of a psychic S.O.S. driven to unbearable volume by hopeless isolation and mounting physical changes. The next moment, I’m peeking around wondering why Bryan didn’t come today -thus in and out of this newsprint grey shop, and the moving, churning worlds inside each comic book.

I fall out of one story, the cold air of reality whipping around me once the 24 pages comes to its abrupt end, and I’m left hanging on yet another plot-cliff. I adjust my eyes to peruse the shelves for my next excursion. I stare at the covers sporting exaggerated artwork, stylized versions of styles. I study the eyes, broad and tipping off the sides of sharp-edged faces, the washes of red making dramatic swaths of cloth that deny all laws of physics… I never open these. Just stare. I glance over cover after cover, wondering which comic might be a gem, which will be more trite, archetypal characters in predictable conflicts. I’ve only recently begun searching the gems out for myself. Kyle made suggestions in the beginning to get my feet wet. Speaking of his suggestions… I wonder if Kyle checked to see if the next Ex Machina is out. Where is he?

I spot Kyle slumping quietly over the latest Astonishing X-Men, which I know I’ll borrow the instant he’s finished. His woodless pencils peer from the unzipped pockets of those atrocious nylon pants of his, hanging at his hips like revolvers. He’s a comic-book gunslinger; always ready to draw should the inspiration call him out. Danny wanders over to inspect Kyle’s find, but Kyle doesn’t raise his backwards hat an inch as Danny dances beside him. Danny looks about the racks and drags his gaze casually across the room, checking over all the guys, then returns his concentration to the floor a moment, doing another buoyant foot-shuffle to amuse himself. Danny’s the energy of the group… on a constant natural buzz; half night-shift sleep-deprivation and half electric personality. Always equipped to throw in a peppy sound-bite or silly banana-phone song.

I smile silently as they look at me, no doubt wondering what I’m staring at, and I pick up the next comic on the shelf. We’ll try Mystique. She seems like an interesting character. Let’s see how they write her series. Only three pages into the comic, I find myself staring instead at the black wool coats that seem to be becoming a pattern with the guys - mostly navy-style coats and blue jeans. A lot of them dress pretty similar, although the bright red dragon on the back of Dobbins’ long-legged jeans stands out. Thank goodness they don’t all wear those awful nylon pants like Kyle. I realize I’m watching them and forgetting to read. This story sucks… next.

My next pick is much more gripping. Page one wraps around my psyche, envelopes my vision, and I’m sucked into yet another world. I’m dropped from the sky onto a city in chaos, my keen senses peak, supernatural… my muscles are strong and rigid. I feel like some super-human potential is unleashed from my subconscious. My long legs tense with anticipation, ready to leap into action… my imagination so consuming all lines between waking world and fantasy dissolve. Kitty is doing her best to help stop some gruesome beast, while still mulling around in her mind the curious behavior of her friend. I’ve followed her story enough that this is like hearing a workmate talking around her cigarette about her boyfriend while on smoke-break, familiar and natural.

Wolverine seems to be getting some pleasure out of the fight, which is more in line with my thoughts. I often join these fights only to sink my fists into tangible villains, a refreshing contrast to the real world with all its grey areas where our foes have no body to battle, where our enemies are cancer, bills, sickness and the worst enemy of all, our own weaknesses. Here I am empowered against evil. Here, even if I lose, I first get to stare my tormenter in the eye and get in at least one solid hit. Here, inside these vibrant creations of pigment and pulp, I can direct all my rage and angst against the embodiment of evil. I am liberated from the smoky haze of reality’s limitations.

In the midst of battle, Wolverine (Logan) is thinking about beer, of all things. I laugh, and of course I’m with him. After this blessed purge of fury, I am exhilarated and ready to laugh and relax. Though, for me, the beer would be Guinness… a little fancy for Logan’s taste. I’d also pass on the cigar.

I roll out of that comic and remember my feet are still glued to the white tile floor. I check to make sure …yes… I kept my hand under the bridge the whole time… One must hold a comic correctly. It almost takes a minute to remember where I am whenever I hit that last page and come falling out of the story, feet-first, into my body standing here by the rack.

After nearly an hour, I decide I’ve had enough traveling, and that seems to be the consensus as the guys start to gather and pay more attention to each other than the walls. The chatter starts to rise, again, as the travelers coalesce on one common world. They shuffle through the line to buy their respective picks and we move towards the door, ready to rejoin a world not so slippery with dimention-trancending shifts.

We step out into the cold January weather, and I’m back here on planet earth, where my friends are still heroes, but without capes or dramatic foes to fight. They fly through my days and replace the mundane with the unexpected, generously feeding my newfound comic habit all the while. I watch them like they’re part of some warped Kevin Smith movie, playing out to the funk soundtrack in my head. As for me, I am just myself, mild-mannered chick about town, although I can feel the metal wrapped around my bones… the claws lingering just under the skin, between my knuckles.