He was lucky if he could draw stick figures. Doug was the artist in their group. He 'd been working on the map for the last four months, and couldn' t wait to unveil it. Timmy couldn ' t wait, either. Doug was much more talented at drawing than Timmy, but Timmy could write, and comic books needed writers to tell the artists what to draw. Maybe he'd grow up to be like Steve Gerber or J. M. DeMatteis or even Stan "the Man" Lee.
At twelve, Timmy's entire world pretty much revolved around comic books. His father had bought him his first two when he was sixan issue of The Incredible Hulk, in which the jadejawed giant fought a group of villains called the UFoes (before that, Timmy' s only exposure to the Hulk was the television program on Friday nights, and the Hulk hadn 't been able to talk in that) and an issue of Star Wars that featured a blastertoting, mansized, talking bunny rabbit named Jax who had helped Han Solo and Chewbacca ward off a bounty hunter.
After finishing these comics, he was hooked. Like any other young boy's hobby, it soon became an obsession.
Each week, he rode his bike down to the newsstand and bought his weekly fix of comics. His selections varied, but his favorites were Transformers, The Incredible Hulk, Sgt. Rock, Marvel TwoInOne, The Amazing SpiderMan, Moon Knight, The Defenders and Captain America.
He supplemented his newsstand purchases with mailorder comics from a company called Bud Plant. He preferred underground books like The First Kingdom and Elfquest, and wished he could figure out a way to get their Xrated, adultsonly material like Omaha the Cat Dancer and Cherry Poptart without his mother' s knowledge. In addition to the new monthly issues, he bought every back issue he could find. Sometimes he saw advertisements in the backs of comics for comic book stores, but the closest one was Geppi 's Comic World in Baltimore, and he' d only been there twice (but the visits were enough to impress upon him that the proprietor, Steve Geppi, was a god among men). The next closest was in New York City, four hours away. Instead, Timmy scrounged back issues at yard sales and the Colonial Valley flea market. On Sundays, he'd ride his bike there and buy old back issues for fifty cents each. The woman who ran the flea market had roughly 5,000 comic books at home ranging from the 1950s to the mid1970s. According to popular rumor, they 'd belonged to her son, who was killed in Vietnam. Timmy didn' t know much about Vietnam, other than that both his father and Barry 's had fought there. Timmy' s dad had been in the Airborne and Clark Smeltzer served on a riverboat. Timmy was sorry her son had died, but he liked to think that whoever the guy was, he 'd appreciate his comic collection now being enjoyed by kids like he once was. Every Sunday, she'd bring in a new box. She was beloved by all the neighborhood children, and loathed by their parents, whom the kids begged for more money. Last Christmas, his grandfather had bought him a copy of the Overstreet Comic Book Price Guide.
When Timmy saw what some of his comics were worth, it fueled his obsession even more.
Needless to say, Timmy had amassed quite a comic book collection. His father often groused about getting rid of them, that they took up too much space, and that a boy his age should be more interested in sports than reading "funny books," which is what Randy Graco insisted on calling them. But Timmy had no interest in playing professional sports. Anybody could throw a football or baseball, but making up a story about how the Devil had taken over Earth, like J. M. DeMatteis had done in The Defenders #100that took real talent.
Riding beside him, Doug panted, out of breath. His bike's spokes flashed in the sunlight.
"You need to lay off those Twinkles," Timmy teased.
"Screw you."
"Your Calvin Klein's are sticking to your thighs, man. Gross."
"Least I got designer jeans. You're wearing those same old Levis from last year."
"Only reason you got Calvins is because your mom bought them at the thrift store. It's not like she shops at Chess King."
"Bite me."
Laughing, they punched at each other, almost crashing their bikes in the process. They found Barry near the end of the cemetery, right on the border between the graveyard and the budding cornfield. Over the next three months, the stalks would go from anklehigh to towering over their heads. Barry was raking two car tire tracks out of the grass, smoothing out the damage. He waved as they approached, and flipped his long blond hair out of his face. Even at twelve, his lean muscles flexed beneath his black Twisted Sister Tshirt, the result of many days of hard labor. Although they 'd never admit it, both Timmy and Doug often felt selfconscious when standing next to their blueeyed friend. The girls at school paid attention to Barry, and ignored them, for the most part. As they got closer, Timmy could hear the tinny strains of Def Leppard's "Die Hard the Hunter" coming from the earphones around Barry's head.
"Hey guys." Barry stopped his Walkman and removed the earphones, letting them dangle around his neck.
Timmy and Doug skidded to a stop.
"What happened here?" Timmy stared at the rutted ground.
"My dad says some teenagers must have drove through here last night. Went off the road and through this section of grass where there aren't any tombstones, and then kept on going right on through the corn."
"Mr. Jones is gonna be mad when he sees that," Doug said, eyeing the bent and broken stalks. "They messed his field up."
"Nan. Corn grows back so fast, he won't even notice it. By this time next week, the stalks will be twice the height they are now.
Timmy and Doug agreed that he was right.
"How'd you guys know I was here?" Barry asked.
Timmy nodded back toward the church. "Your dad told us." Barry's face darkened. "Oh. Did he say anything else?"
"Yeah."
"How bad?"
"Well, he was pretty angry…"
"He was up late," Barry apologized. "I went to bed after that special Friday night Family Ties was off, but I couldn' t sleep. I was in bed listening to Doctor Demento on the radio. I heard Dad get up around midnight and leave the house. He didn 't come back till early this morning. Said he' d chased some kids out of the cemetery. Same kids that did this, I guess."
Timmy shrugged. "Was he drinking?"
"I don't know. He stayed awake long enough to tell me what he wanted me to do today. Then he went to bed."
Barry refused to meet his stare, and Timmy knew then that he was lying.
"He was pretty pissed off," Timmy repeated. "More than usual."
"I don't want him anymore pissed than he already is," Barry said. "My birthday's coming up, and he said I could get a Yamaha Eighty dirt bike if I listened." Timmy frowned. Since when did the Smeltzers have the money for a dirt bike?
"Was he angry at you guys for waking him up, or just angry in general?"
"Both," Doug said. "He called me a fag, because I don't play baseball and stuff. Said that's why my dad left."
"I'm sorry, man. You know that's not true."
"I know," Doug said softly, "but it still hurts sometimes. Just cause I don't play sports, that's no reason to say mean things like that."
Barry squeezed his friend's shoulder. "I feel bad. He was probably just really tired."
"He was acting weird." Timmy refused to let Barry make excuses for his father's behavior.
"Said we weren't allowed to play here anymore, and you weren't allowed here, either, after sundown."
"That's true," Barry confirmed. "Some new rule about trespassing. Guess these teenagers were the last straw. Nobody is allowed in here after dark. He called the church board this morning, right before he went back to bed. Sounds like they were in agreement.
He got permission to get some signs made up and everything." Doug dismounted. "What about during the day?"
"Well," Barry said, finished with the raking, "he told me we weren't allowed to play around here anymore, especially not after dark. The way it sounded, he didn' t want me here at all, except to work. No bike riding. No skateboarding."