Whenever I drive somewhere, I’ll check for any comic shops between where I am and where I’m going.
Despite knowing every comic book shop within a fifty-mile radius of my home, it’s a habit I maintain. Working in the office? I’ll check the train times to see if I can squeeze in a look into a comic shop. We went to Salem and Boston for a long weekend this summer, and I popped into four comic shops with my spouse in tow. There’s a great comic shop in town (The Rift) that I’ve been known to venture into between drinks while we’re out.
When I disappear for a few minutes while Meg is socializing at a local bar, I’ll return with a big smile and a short stack of comics.
“How much was that?”
“$2.75”
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I love the dollar (and sometimes quarter) bins. As a collector, I’m not looking for anything specific. I’m not even looking for anything valuable. I’m looking for something that sparks a memory, something I’d never read, something weird or interesting, or something by an artist I want to see more of.
The featured image of this post includes The Flash #56 from 1991, which might be one of the dullest books I’ve ever read. Wally West goes to the reading of the last will and testament of Joar Mahkent, the Icicle. Despite being one of my least favorite comics I’ve ever read, my enjoyment from the entire experience far outpaced twenty-five cents.
Flipping through the boxes in a store looking for something new to me is something I’ll always love. Everyone’s got room for a few more comics, right?