The Superhero Within: A Life Related Through Comic Books

The Superhero Within

A Life Related Through Comic Books

Scott Young

Sunn, Lionheart, The Bunch, Lightspeed, Enigma, Vestige, Stalwart, Gospel, Rubberband Man, Trinity, Free Spirit, Anarchy Incorporated, Hardline, Beauty, Paragon, Bloodlust, Jenny Rebel, Astra Luna, The Blessed, Discord, Halcyon, Requiem, Bombshell, Heartbreaker, Shock, The Power Elite, Epiphany and all related logos, designs, descriptions and visual representations.

Copyright © 2017 by Scott Young. All rights reserved.

Published by Gatekeeper Press

3971 Hoover Rd. Suite 77

Columbus, OH 43123-2839

www.GatekeeperPress.com

Copyright © 2017 by Scott Michael Young

All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.

ISBN: 9781619846104

eISBN: 9781619846098

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to my mother, Beth Anderson

For her endless support, encouragement and love

Thanks for always believing in me

Contents

DISCLAIMER

PROLOGUE: Raised By Comics

Part One

CHAPTER ONE: ORIGINS

CHAPTER TWO: SHADES OF GREY

CHAPTER THREE: DESTINY’S CALLING . . . PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE

CHAPTER FOUR: I’LL DO THE THINNIN’ AROUND HERE

CHAPTER FIVE: THE LADY OR THE TIGER?

CHAPTER SIX: TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE

CHAPTER SEVEN: IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES

CHAPTER EIGHT: MY VERY OWN GWEN STACY

CHAPTER NINE: ON A STAKE OF HUMBLE TIN

CHAPTER TEN: YOU’RE A WONDER, WONDER WOMAN!

CHAPTER ELEVEN: A MATCH MADE IN TURMOIL

CHAPTER TWELVE: DEMON IN A BOTTLE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: NOTHIN’ MATTERS AND WHAT IF IT DID?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: NOWHERE TO GO BUT UP

Part Two

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: YOU’LL NEVER GET RICH BY DIGGIN’ A DITCH

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: CAN A LEOPARD CHANGE ITS SPOTS?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: BE ALL YOU CAN BE?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM

CHAPTER NINETEEN: ONCE MORE, FROM THE TOP

CHAPTER TWENTY: SECOND VERSE, SAME AS THE FIRST

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: AIN’T NO MOUNTAIN HIGH ENOUGH . . .

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: SPINNIN’ WHEEL GOT TO GO ‘ROUND

Part Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: WE WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: MY CHOOSIEST CHOICE OF ALL

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: LONDON BRIDGE IS FALLING DOWN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MY REPUTATION

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: LET’S START THE INSANITY

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: I DIE A LITTLE MORE EACH DAY

CHAPTER THIRTY: YOU WOULDN’T LIKE ME WHEN I’M ANGRY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE EPIPHANY

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: THOSE WHO DON’T LEARN FROM HISTORY . . .

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: HEROES AND VILLAINS

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: THE VEIL LIFTED

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: SAME BAT TIME, SAME BAT CHANNEL

ADDENDUM: Life Goes On

EPILOGUE: To Infinity And Beyond

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CREDITS

DISCLAIMER

This book contains my views and opinions about certain comic book characters and storylines. I submit that these are only my opinions and are not intended in any way, shape or form to signify anything other than my own personal relationships with these comics. How I feel about a character or story is not intended to diminish anyone else’s enjoyment of them. I have read and loved comic books since 1976 and my viewpoints are my own. I ask only that you read my opinions with an open mind and understand that it is not meant to be gospel. I have very strong ideas about things and I in no way intended to denigrate or negate the opinions of others. I hope you enjoy the comic book aspects of this book and maybe even see things in a way you haven’t before.

My life story is simply that: mine. I tried to write these experiences from the mindset I was in when they happened. The emotions, thoughts and reactions I share in each chapter don’t necessarily reflect the way I feel right now. If you read the entire book, I think you will see that I have gone through a great many changes and my attitudes and emotional states reflect that. I wrote this autobiography as a catharsis and I endeavored to tell it strictly from my point of view, how everything affected me and me alone. I took great pains not to put arbitrary motivations or agendas on others. I simply wrote what happened in my life and how I, and those closest to me, reacted to it. I sincerely hope you can glean some insight from my story.

I would like to state for the record: I hold no grudge against any person, business, corporation or any other entities mentioned in this book. I may have harbored some ill will or resentment at some point but I have long since moved past it. I have no axe to grind with anyone for anything that happened to me. I have changed some names, mostly to protect the children or other family members of people in this book. I wrote about my experiences truthfully and without prejudice so I will let you, the reader, decide who was right and who was wrong, if you so desire. I am not here to assign blame to anyone or anything. I can honestly say, I rarely think about the situations, people and/or entities mentioned in this book. I wish everyone involved nothing but the best. I’ve moved on.

PROLOGUE:

Raised By Comics

U p, Up and Away! Avengers Assemble! It’s Clobberin’ Time! Shazam! Hulk Smash! These are phrases that I, like most comic book fans, learned at a very early age. They are as big a part of my vocabulary as anything I learned in school. Through the years, dozens of catchphrases (Imperius Rex!), battle cries (Flame On!) and sound effects (Snikt!) became the very foundation of my comic book experience. Unfortunately, that foundation also included an early exposure to other kinds of phrases: Fan boy. Dweeb. Geek. Nerd. Loser. I learned early on that, for most people, a love of comic books came with a certain amount of putdowns and derision.

The overriding stereotype is comic book lovers are overgrown adolescents who spend their time arguing about who’s stronger, The Hulk or Superman. They are most often portrayed as hopelessly uncool, socially awkward, most likely virgins and still living with their parents (usually in the basement). While I’m sure those caricatures do exist, these days comic book fans are a wide and varied group including scholars, writers, movie stars and politicians. It is a growing subculture of which I am more than happy to be a part. Comic books have always played an important part in my life and I’ve never hidden my love for them. Luckily, with very few exceptions, I’ve never felt ostracized because of it. That might be because my love of comics was always just one part of my personality, not my entire reason for being. I think the genesis of the stereotype comes from the select few fans with no other interests who become obsessed with their love of comics. Overall, I was just a normal kid with a variety of interests who happened to be

fascinated by comic books. Of course, my love of comics went a little deeper than just enjoying the stories.

I read my first comic at age 10, in the fifth grade: DC Comics 5-Star Spectacular featuring Batman, The Flash, Green Lantern, Aquaman and the Atom. That book changed everything for me in an instant. Nothing before or after has affected me like reading that comic (with the possible exception of seeing a woman naked). Reading that issue reinforced my love of art, it began my thirst to create new and exciting stories, and it was the impetus for all my childhood dreams. I suddenly went from a boy who wanted to play shortstop for the New York Mets to a boy who wanted to create comic books. It quickly became my ultimate goal in life.

When I got home from school that afternoon, I asked my mom if she’d ever heard of comic books. To my never-ending delight, she was an old-time comic fan. She had read the early Marvel comics featuring the Hulk, Spider-Man, Thor and Captain America. Over the years, having a knowledgeable comic fan to talk with really helped me understand the books better. Mom said she would take me to buy some comics with my allowance. As I walked up to the newsstand, there were dozens of comics displayed before me but one caught my eye immediately. It was Amazing Spider-Man #148 (by the great team of Gerry Conway and Ross Andru). The cover was a true work of art. It had Spidey chained and being thrown off the Brooklyn Bridge by two villains, The Jackal and The Tarantula. One look at that scene and I couldn’t wait to read the story. It cost 25 cents and I read it over and over. I’ll never forget it. It was amazing, no pun intended. While the DC 5-Star Spectacular was a fun comic, Spider-Man by Conway/Andru was an entirely different animal. It opened my eyes to what comics could be. I was hooked.

Over the next few years, I bought every comic published by Marvel, DC and some by the now defunct First Comics. This was the 70’s so there was more than just the superhero faire; there was Horror, Army, Western, Fantasy and even oversized black and white comics. Eventually, I narrowed my focus and weaned out the titles I didn’t like as much. To be truthful, I was a disciple of the superhero genre and definitely a Marvel guy. While I liked a lot of DC comics (Justice League, Warlord, Green Lantern/Green Arrow, Batman Family, Teen Titans, and Legion among others) I simply understood and related to Marvel Comics much more profoundly.

In fact, I credit Marvel comics and its writers for raising me to be the man I am today. I am neither ashamed nor embarrassed by that fact. Back when I started reading comic books, there were actual lessons to be learned. There were morals to the stories. They taught you things. Spider-Man/Peter Parker gave me my sense of responsibility and along with Bugs Bunny, my sense of humor. Captain America gave me my love of country and patriotism. Thor, and Superman too, inspired me with their nobility. I learned lessons about tolerance, compassion, perseverance, forgiveness, integrity and courage from Luke Cage, Iron Man, The X-Men, Iron Fist, Hawkeye, Daredevil and a host of others. These were my surrogate teachers, and the lessons I took from their stories have stayed with me all my life.

But, as we all know, reality isn’t like a comic book story. Things aren’t as simple in real life. Not everything is black and white. Sometimes people do bad things and every human being has the capacity for good or evil. In the real world, people are faced with situations and decisions that just can’t be a part of a comic book hero’s story. You make choices and you make mistakes as you go through your life and you try to find a balance that you can live with. Let me make one thing abundantly clear: I am not a hero. I’ve been a son, a husband, a soldier, an artist, a manager, a boyfriend, a student, a brother, an auto glass installer, a friend and a stepfather among other things. I’m just a man who has tried to do the best he can with what he’s been given. I’ve faced adversity and sometimes, I’ve reacted poorly to it. Other times, I faced it down and triumphed. I’ve made good and bad decisions in my life. I’m no saint, and I’ve hurt as many people as I’ve helped. At times, I’ve reached out to someone in need. Other times, I’ve turned my back on them. I’ve been both selfish and selfless. I’ve forged relationships and abandoned others. I’ve failed as often as I’ve succeeded, if not more. I’m not someone to be idolized or emulated. I’m not a larger than life character who always knows the right thing to do.

I guess that’s what it all comes down to. I’m human. I make mistakes. I’m just a man. I am who I am and . . . I’m okay with that.

Welcome to the story of my life.

Part One

CHAPTER ONE:

ORIGINS

There is a running debate about exactly when comic books began, with some fans believing they started in 1833 with a collection of comic strips in book form titled The Adventures of Obadiah Oldbuck , while others think The Yellow Kid in 1897 was the first real comic book. Most agree the comic book in its modern form began with Famous Funnies in 1934. Of course, for acolytes of the superhero genre like me, the definitive starting point is Action Comics #1 with the birth of Superman in June, 1938.

Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster’s iconic character began a revolution that is still ongoing today, almost eighty years later. It’s an impressive accomplishment for a fictional character. That kind of longevity is only matched by Sherlock Holmes, Dracula and a handful of others. Although in terms of sheer quantity of stories, no one can match The Man of Steel. For decades, they have told stories about Superman in comic books, comic strips, radio programs, television shows, movies, video games and novels. I haven’t done the math but that has to be hundreds of thousands of stories about a single character. Yet, he remains as viable a protagonist today as he was in 1938.

As I stated in the preface, I’ve always been more of a Marvel fan, but I have to give respect to Superman. He is as enduring a symbol of pop culture as there is. Superman is the standard bearer of superhero characters, the first and most imitated. The one all others defer to. He is both the moral compass of the DC Universe as well as its most powerful member. This is perhaps the most important aspect of Superman. Here is a man who can do anything, but thanks to the values and principles instilled in him by his adoptive parents, he fights for truth, justice and the American way. He always does the right thing. He is truly the perfect role model. Even though Superman was born on another planet, he represents the humanity in all of us.

I doubt there are many people who don’t know Superman’s origin story but I’ll recap it briefly, for those of you who may have missed it. He was born Kal-El on the planet, Krypton. As an infant, he was placed in a rocket and sent to Earth by his parents Jor-El and Lara, moments before Krypton’s destruction. Upon his arrival on Earth, he was discovered by Jonathan and Martha Kent, a Kansas farmer and his wife. They raised him as their own child, calling him Clark. Very early on, he began to display his superhuman abilities which, upon reaching maturity, he vowed to use for the benefit of mankind.

I was born in the borough of Brooklyn in March of 1966. As an infant, I was placed in a Mercury Comet by my parents Walter and Beth-Ann, and carried to Queens, NY. They called me Scott and raised me as their own (which makes sense, since I was). As I grew, I began to display various abilities which, upon reaching adulthood, I decided to use for the entertainment of mankind.

I will relate details of my beginnings as best I can, but most of it will be anecdotal. I only have a handful of memories before age eight. Whether it’s from various instances of head trauma I suffered while growing up or just because I’ve blocked everything out before then, that’s all I remember. Everything else from my childhood has been related to me by various family members and a few long-time friends.

My father was an auto-glass installer and my mother was a stay-at-home mom. They had dated since high school and married young. I was their second child, born two and a half years after my brother. Both of my parents were born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, more specifically in a rough section called East New York. They weren’t rich so it must have been a big day for them when they bought a house on 117th Street in Richmond Hill, Queens. It was a big, red, two family colonial style house with a backyard, porch and balcony on the second floor. We moved there when I was three, and I lived in that house until I was nineteen years old.

I’m told I wasn’t a typical child. For one thing, I didn’t speak or walk until well into my second year. My mother says I just didn’t have anything to say until then and that I hardly ever cried or threw tantrums. I figure I didn’t walk because I just preferred to be carried. I communicated through pointing and grunting. A few people have told me that if I had been born more recently and exhibited these traits, I would have probably been diagnosed with autism.

According to my Aunt Jane, my first uttered word wasn’t Mom or Dad, it was how. She was reading a picture book to me, and in one illustration, a jet plane was depicted flying through the air. The artist had drawn flames coming out of the rear engine of the aircraft. I pointed to the jet and simply said, How? Aunt Jane was so happy I spoke that she hugged me and made a big fuss, but I kept pointing and saying, How . . . how . . . how? She asked if I wanted to know how it flew. I nodded yes, and not knowing how to explain aerodynamics or thrust and lift to a two-year-old child, she just said, Well, if your ass was on fire, you’d fly too. She’s a pistol, my Aunt Jane.

Another atypical trait for a child was my love of sleep. I always slept through the night and even went to bed without being told. My mother would have to get me up just so I wouldn’t stay in bed all day. I just adored sleeping, something that continues to this day. In fact, it wasn’t until I discovered prime-time television that I even wanted to stay up later. Jaclyn Smith on Charlie’s Angels may have had something to do with my change in philosophy . . . or Lynda Carter on Wonder Woman.

I didn’t like playing with other kids, either. I always preferred to play alone and make up stories for my toys and not have to share creative control; another trait that has lasted all these years. I was never mean or rude to other kids, I would simply move away from them if they wanted to play, something that really bugged my brother for years. I also had a low tolerance for what I considered foolishness. My mother said that even as a four-year-old, I didn’t suffer fools gladly. This is absolutely still true today. My mom describes me constantly rolling my eyes and shaking my head whenever someone, child or adult, did something I thought was stupid. She says that shortly after my first words, I began to use sarcasm. I’m sure by the end of this book you’ll be able to testify to the truth of that statement.

For most of my childhood, my father wasn’t around much. He was much too busy working and cheating on my mother. In fact, one of my earliest memories is eavesdropping on a phone conversation my mother was having about my father. She was crying and telling someone (a friend?) of my father’s infidelities . . . his multiple infidelities throughout their relationship. I was eight years old and, even at that young age, I immediately lost all respect for my father. Did I mention that my mother was pregnant with my sister at the time? Yeah, that’s classy . . . cheating on your pregnant wife. Finally, my mom had enough and threw him out.

Before that crystal-clear memory, I only have a handful. I remember my dad hanging me over Niagara Falls while on vacation as a joke. I remember my brother hitting me on quite a few occasions just so he could see my blood. I remember slipping and falling on the ice when I was six and whacking my head (the last time I’ve ever slipped on ice in my life . . . a fact I’m quite proud of). I remember jumping on my father’s back when he came home from work one day, him losing his balance and sending my head through a plate glass window. I vaguely remember having an extremely high fever and being put in an ice water bath to break it. I think I came in second in a spelling bee when I was seven. I used to take care of my baby sister when she was an infant and reveled in making her laugh, one of the few joyful memories I have of my childhood. That’s about it.

Is it a coincidence that almost all my pre-eight-year-old memories are bad and the rest start with the end of my parent’s marriage and the birth of my baby sister? I don’t know . . . that’s for a licensed therapist to decide someday.

All I know is that’s the beginning of the story as I know it.

CHAPTER TWO:

SHADES OF GREY

What is a father figure worth? Several studies have suggested that positive father figures, whether biological fathers or others, are generally associated with healthy child development. While I don’t think it is absolutely necessary for a boy to have male role models in order to grow into a well-adjusted adult, the bottom line is, it does make it a lot easier. Whether it’s a teacher, a coach, a stepfather or your biological father, having someone to talk to when things get rough is always helpful in the long run. It’s surprising there is such a lack of father figures in comic books. Here is a medium whose fan base is predominately male (some estimates have the male/female fan ratio at 9:1) but whose major characters are almost all missing their fathers. It’s almost as if losing your father (or both parents) is a prerequisite for becoming a superhero.

Think about it. Batman’s parents were killed in front of him as a child. Spider-Man’s parents died when he was a child, and Uncle Ben, his surrogate father figure, died in his origin story. Daredevil’s father died during his childhood. Captain America’s father was nowhere to be found. The Flash, Green Lantern, Iron Man, Hulk, Mr. Fantastic, The Thing, Human Torch, Invisible Girl: no father’s in the picture. Wonder Woman didn’t even have a father, having been formed from clay. The only two mainstream characters to have actual father figures were Superman and Thor, arguably the two most powerful characters in all of comics.

Thor’s father, Odin, King of the Norse Gods, wasn’t exactly what you would call a sensitive, caring man. In fact, in Thor’s origin issue we learn the God of Thunder was banished to Earth from fabled Asgard by Odin, in order to teach him humility. Not only did his father banish him, but he stripped him of his godly birthright and memory by transforming him into a partially disabled human: medical student Don Blake. Exactly how do you teach someone a lesson when you take away their memories of their former existence? Over the years, Thor and Odin have butted heads over a great many things, not the least of which is Thor’s decision to stay on Earth to be near the love of his life, Jane Foster. Thor and Odin’s relationship was always one of respect and duty more than a real father/son dynamic.

The only real father figure in all of comics is Jonathan Kent, Superman’s adoptive father. Pa Kent, as he was commonly referred to in the early comics, was entrusted with one of the most important jobs in all of fiction. He had to instill the virtues and morals that make Superman the hero he is today. Can you imagine being faced with the fact that not only is your adoptive son an alien from another planet, but he is also capable of wreaking untold havoc on the world without proper guidance? That if you drop the ball and somehow screw up his development, you could cause the world to be destroyed, or at the very least, subjugated by your own son? That is some kind of pressure. But Pa Kent simply did what he did best: he gave out homespun wisdom to teach his son the only choice was to use his powers for the good of mankind. That is a father figure we can all admire.

Much like the costumed heroes I read about, I never had a father figure in my formative years. Even before the divorce, there weren’t many heart-to-heart talks with my dad. Once he moved out, I saw him sporadically during my adolescence. My mother did get remarried when I was 19 and my stepdad is a decent man. He just isn’t what I would call a father figure. He had his own kids to deal with and, as I grew up, we were never that close. Besides, by the time he became my stepfather, I’d already missed all the father/son chats about life, sex and women. We butted heads over the years for various reasons, but mostly he loved my mom and that was his focus. That was fine with me.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My father didn’t abandon me and my family after the divorce. He stayed around until his death when I was 20 years old. It’s just that he was a terrible father. Even as a child, I got the feeling that he didn’t want to be there; that he was bristling under the burden of it all. Fatherhood seemed forced for him, like he was doing what he thought he was supposed to do, not being a father because he genuinely wanted to do it. Because of this, he wasn’t ever really there for his wife or kids. This should easily sum up just how bad a father he was: his birthday was exactly one week before mine but he forgot my birthday every year. If you really want to show your child how you feel about him, then consistently forget his birthday and they will get the point, believe me.

I remember the moment my brother and I were told our parents were getting divorced. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. My parents never belonged together and now all the fighting would stop and hopefully, things would get better. Unfortunately, I was the only one of the kids that knew about my father’s infidelities. Even my parents were unaware I knew. So when they sat us down and tried to explain it, I knew their reasons were all bullshit. I knew what was going on and why they were really splitting up. Still, at 8 years old, I didn’t really understand what cheating was, but I knew it made my mother cry. That was enough to make me think my father was a jerk. Seeing the pain my father caused is the overriding reason why I never respected or admired him. He was a selfish, immature man who did what he wanted without thinking about the ramifications of his actions.

My first vivid memory of my father is from before the divorce. My dad wasn’t a tall man, but thanks to years of auto-glass installing, he was very muscular. Even at 5’7 he was intimidating. During my childhood, as the pressures of his life weighed upon him, he’d constantly lose his temper with my brother and me. Occasionally, my mother had an appointment, so my father would have to stay home to watch us. One Sunday, he put the football game on and sprawled out on the couch. My father wasn’t even a football fan but I think it was just another thing he thought he was supposed to do." Within minutes, he was asleep and snoring loudly. I was not yet a football fan either, so I asked if I could change the channel since he was sleeping.

"I’m not sleeping, he screamed, as his entire head turned beet red. I’m just resting . . . leave it where it is! He pointed at the large armchair before rolling over to face the wall. Just shut up, ok! Just sit there and be quiet!"

I climbed into that chair and watched TV until the family dog, Benji, came prancing into the room. I quietly patted the chair so he’d come up and sit with me. He bounded across the room and jumped up on me, accidentally digging his nails into my knee. It was a pretty bad gash, but I didn’t cry out because I didn’t want to wake up my dad. Instead, I sat there bleeding, trying to keep quiet. Eventually, I fell asleep holding my knee. An hour later, my mom came home to find my father asleep on the couch and her son’s legs and hands covered in blood, asleep on the chair. I could see the anger rising in my mother as she took me to the bathroom to patch my knee before heading back into the living room to wake up my father. Needless to say, it was a big, loud argument. Just one in a series; collect them all.

As bad a parent/husband as he was, my father was well liked. He was the kind of guy you loved to hang out with, always quick with a story or joke. He was generous of spirit and with his wallet. He always threw his money around, paying for things and buying lunches for his workers. In my opinion, he did this as a way of validating himself. And, again, don’t get me wrong . . . I don’t hate my father. He wasn’t an evil man. He was just messed up. He never really had a chance. Because his mother was mentally ill, he was forced to work from the time he was 11. After a miserable childhood, he used the marriage to my mother as a means to escape his obligation to his parents. At 39, he had a heart attack that required triple bypass surgery. Facing his own mortality made him even more selfish. Since he never had any kind of real childhood, he resented his life being cut short. I still don’t think that excuses him for being a jerk to me most of my life though.

There are reasons for everything, but sometimes you have to suck it up and overcome the obstacles in your life. It would have been reasonable for my dad to be single for a while after the divorce, to play the field, and sow his wild oats without having to cheat on anyone. Instead, he immediately married his last mistress and took on the responsibility of her daughter from a previous marriage. Not exactly what he needed at the time. My father is a textbook example of a narcissistic, childish man with just a hint of co-dependency. He always had a chip on his shoulder and was trying to prove something to someone.

He always wanted to be the life of the party, to be the center of attention but, by the time you are in your thirties, that act gets old real fast. My father thought that if he bought me, my brother, or my sister enough stuff, we would be okay with him never being around. He was always trying to buy me something to make me think he loved me, but I never wanted any of it. I had a real problem in my teenage years with him, and we argued incessantly. The only gift I ever accepted was a car, when I turned 19, because my mother couldn’t afford to buy me one. I was grateful but it didn’t change our relationship at all.

I worked with my father in his auto-glass shop for about a year before he died. That was the only time I got to know him as a person. I took to the auto-glass business very quickly, and seemed to be a natural. I could tell he was proud of my growing skills at a job he’d been doing his whole life. Before long, he began trusting me with paying the bills and running the office. Sometimes he’d take me for a ride to scout locations for a second shop. He always said he wanted me to run it for him while my brother took care of the first place. I had no interest in making auto-glass my life, but I have to admit it felt good to finally have some validation from my father. For most of my life, we hadn’t seen eye to eye, but I think he had gained a grudging respect for me because I always went my own way and didn’t need him.

By now my father had been married to his second wife for about eight years. So, of course, he was sleeping with the secretary from the auto-parts store next door to the shop. It was one of the worst-kept secrets I’ve ever seen, something right out of Jerry Springer (even though Springer hadn’t been created yet). I barely remember this woman, but I do recall that she had an overwhelming air of cheapness about her. The term white trash comes to mind. He had gotten her pregnant, so the cat was pretty much out of the bag, and he was under a lot of stress. You could tell he was feeling the heat and that it was truly wearing on him. Most days he looked like a man on death row being led to his execution. He also knew that I’d lost any fleeting respect I might have had for him due to this latest bit of infidelity.

My father and I were sitting in the office at the end of one day and I was ignoring him, as usual. It was pretty difficult to ignore someone in that office since it was only about 10 square feet, but I was doing my level best. It was at this moment that my father said the only thing that could ever be construed as fatherly advice. He said to me, Creep (that was my father’s little nickname for me), I know you don’t think much of me right now but when you get older, you’ll see that the world isn’t always black or white. There are a lot of shades of grey in life and you just have to try to live in a shade that lets you sleep at night. It’s not exactly with great power comes great responsibility, but it stuck with me.

In fact, my father did teach me a couple of things. First, he taught me how to be a great father. He gave me the perfect blueprint of what not to do and it has served me well. Secondly, he taught me a valuable life lesson. My father betrayed me when I was 17 by choosing to help my brother at the expense of me. It was a calculated and premeditated decision; he knew what he was doing would hurt me terribly, but he did it anyway. A man who helps one son fuck over the other isn’t exactly father-of-the-year material. You’ll learn more about what he did later in the book but trust me, it was bad. And it set a trend. His betrayal was just one in a long line of betrayals by people in my life who were supposed to love me and look after me. It taught me early that you can’t really depend on anyone but yourself in life. Sooner or later, when it comes right down to it and it’s a choice between you and them, people will usually do what’s best for them before they do what’s best for you.

So, that’s my father figure . . . my role model. A man who tried to buy my love and chose one son over the other. The sad part is that I don’t miss him. How can I? I never really knew him. Twenty years of my life and I have no idea what made him tick, just theories and guesses. What I miss most is having that true father figure in my life, because I never did. Someone to show me what’s important, how to be a good man, to have that Lifesaver’s moment with me. Someone to be proud of my accomplishments and to tell me good try, son when I failed. That’s one thing comic books could never help me with.

What’s a father figure worth? A helluva lot when you don’t have one.

CHAPTER THREE:

DESTINY’S CALLING . . . PICK UP

THE DAMN PHONE

"In brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight, let those who worship evil’s might, beware my power, Green Lantern’s light!" That is Green Lantern’s oath. Each section of the universe is patrolled by its own Green Lantern, selected by the Guardians of Oa, ancient immortal beings, who are the founders/administrators of the Green Lantern Corps. Every Lantern must recite the oath every time he/she charges their power ring, the source of all their abilities. A Green Lantern must recharge the ring at least once every twenty-four hours using a power battery (shaped like a lantern). That oath and the recharging limitation have always been my favorite parts of Green Lantern/Hal Jordan as a superhero. It is a very effective way of reinforcing what the character is all about without coming right out and saying it through narrative.

However, I’ve never been a big fan of Green Lantern as a character overall; he is too full of contradictions. He wasn’t interesting enough to hold my attention for very long. If DC Comics hadn’t partnered him with Green Arrow, I never would have bought his solo adventures. Instead, I would have only put up with him in the Justice League. Green Lantern is a hero whose only limits are his own will power and imagination, but he has no imagination (or at least the people writing his stories never did). When you possess a power ring, a weapon that allows you to do literally anything you can think of, and you use it to form a giant boxing glove to punch someone or a giant hand to pick them up, you aren’t tapping into the true potential of the character.

Green Lantern also suffered from the same problem all DC characters had in the fifties and sixties. They were all basically the same character with different gimmicks. Green Lantern was the same as Batman who was the same as Aquaman who was the same as the Flash and so on and so on. They all had the same personality, the same boring dialogue and the same formulaic storylines. I would imagine that’s because it was a formula. There was no real innovation or real growth to the characters because the writers never imagined that superheroes could talk and act like real people until Marvel Comics showed them how to do it.

It wasn’t until the Denny O’Neil/Neal Adams "Hard Traveling Heroes storyline of the early seventies that Green Lantern became something different. The only problem was, he became a naïve idiot. Throughout those memorable issues, he allows himself to be led around by his nose discovering" things that should’ve been obvious to him for years. The fact that he was now questioning his entire life only made it more pathetic that he hadn’t noticed any of these problems until Green Arrow was kind enough to beat him over the head with them. I mean, are we to believe that Green Lantern didn’t know what was happening in America during the sixties? He never noticed the Civil Rights movement, racism, poverty, overpopulation or the drug problem? He couldn’t figure out he was basically a civil servant to the Guardians of Oa, never questioning his mission or duties? While they don’t hold up as well today, those were groundbreaking comics for the time with dazzling artwork by Adams.

But all that aside, Hal Jordan as Green Lantern had one thing going for him that all other DC superheroes didn’t: his origin. Whereas most DC heroes are either aliens, rich guys or scientists, Green Lantern is the only regular guy chosen to be a hero. Hal Jordan was working as a test pilot when he and his flight simulator were levitated by an outside force to the site of a crashed space ship. Inside the ship was Abin-Sur, the Green Lantern of Space Sector 2814, which includes Earth. Sur was mortally wounded and, knowing he needed to find his replacement, sent his power ring to seek out an individual who was utterly honest and born without fear. The ring found Jordan and Hal assumed the mantle and duties of Green Lantern. This is unique in the DC Universe: a hero whose destiny was chosen for him. I always thought that was very, very cool. To know you were chosen for being who you are . . . and who you are is a hero.

I feel like that day in fifth grade when that 5-Star Spectacular was placed in front of me was the day my destiny chose me. It has always been that crystal clear for me. I knew then that I was also born to create characters and stories that would endure after my death. That should be my legacy. As a kid, it seemed so simple, but as I got older and life got in the way, I tried to deny it. But much like Hal Jordan, no matter what I do or where I go, it all comes back to what I was meant to do . . . chosen to do.

Destiny can be a funny thing: hard to comprehend and elusive as quicksilver (the element, not the mutant superhero). So much has happened in my life to distract, divert or impede my journey to where I’m meant to be. After years of struggle and turmoil, I’ve realized that without the divergent parts of my life, any success I achieve in the future would be less satisfying, if not downright impossible. It is the tangents and digressions that will give me the experience and fortitude to finally achieve my destiny. But sometimes destiny can be a real bitch . . . with a vicious sense of humor.

It was late in the school year when I discovered comic books, so I had all summer to lose myself in them, and get lost is exactly what I did. I spent the whole summer buying, reading and drawing comics. I folded over loose-leaf paper and made my own comics about Captain America and Spider-Man. Without even realizing it, I had begun to study the page layouts and dialogue, absorbing every nuance of the storytelling. Every day, I was getting more and more obsessed with comic books. I stopped playing baseball and just wanted to draw all day. I didn’t want to be bothered with anything else.

I wasn’t looking forward to school starting that fall because I was changing schools from PS 51 to PS 90. I was being placed in the IGC class (intellectually-gifted children) and none of my friends from fifth grade were going with me. The first day of sixth grade, I met a kid named Rocco, who is, to this day still one of my best friends. We shared a lot of interests, but we forever bonded over comic books. Rocco introduced me to another comic lover named Cris, and suddenly, I had collaborators. Despite all being funny, athletic and intelligent kids, we set ourselves apart from the other boys by choosing to talk about comics instead of playing sports at recess. We took our fair share of bullshit because of it. Sometimes it bothered Cris, but Rocco and I never gave a damn what other kids said. What we were doing was too important to us. Over the next few years, throughout sixth, seventh and eighth grades, I felt like Stan Lee as I created more than 100 heroes and 200 villains with my friends. Destiny was making this easy for me.

Some time in seventh grade, with Rocco in another class and less interested in comics, Cris and I became a creative team. We took turns writing and drawing different parts of stories. He would draw what I wrote and I would draw his part. We worked well together and created a lot of characters, bouncing ideas off each other and arguing about origins and character development. We even created an Avengers-like super team named The Guardians. We spent weeks plotting out the first 200 issues of their comic, complete with deaths, marriages, children and the total disbanding of the team and their replacements. The Guardians represented something unique for us because it was the first time we shared characters. Of the six members of the super team, three were created by Cris and three by me.

It was the first time I realized I didn’t like other people playing with my characters, even one of my best friends. Cris was talented, but I didn’t like the way he drew my stories, and I hated the way he wrote. I was very particular, even back then, and I had very specific ideas about how a story should be done. I wanted to have complete creative control over our projects. I’ve always had trouble with the give and take of collaboration. I prefer to give direction and take charge. After eighth grade, Cris and I went to different high schools and he eventually gave me all his characters as his love for comics dwindled too. Both Rocco and Cris liked comics, but it wasn’t what they were meant to do.

I was alone in my dream again, and now I kind of liked it that way. No matter how long I’ve gone without drawing, writing or creating, it always comes back to that for me. It starts as a kind of gnawing at my psyche and eventually it becomes a full-blown compulsion to create. I take great solace in this. It comforts me to know that I can’t give it up, can’t ignore my talents and abilities for too long before they roust me back to what I was meant to do. I’ve tried to drown it in beer, distract it with women and rationalize it away, but it won’t die for long and it never lets me down.

I’ve never understood how people go through their lives without knowing what they are meant to do. I look at my friends and family and the jobs they have and I realize that most people don’t have careers that gnaw at them or roust them or choose them. Sometimes I envy that the way I envy guys who can walk up to women in bars and get shot down over and over without it bothering them. I’ve always been too self-aware for that. I have to do this. I don’t have a choice. If I don’t do it, I’m incomplete. I’m unfinished. I’m not being who I’m supposed to be . . . and that can be a bit daunting at times.

I haven’t always been secure in my talents. I had a real sense of doubt for quite a while. Even the accolades and support from teachers, friends and family never made me feel better about it. It took a while for me to understand that I had something to say, something to offer the world. That’s where the journey comes in. The twists and turns my life has taken have only reinforced my belief in my destiny. I needed to experience the victories and losses to understand what they meant, to be who I am.

Despite what people think, the thing about destiny is that it’s never written in stone; it’s a process. I started out wanting to be a comic book artist. In order to be the best I could be, I studied sequential art, layout and narrative, as well as figure drawing, perspective and general art. These learned skills helped me to widen my focus and I can utilize them in any number of ways. In studying to become what I thought I wanted to be, I discovered where my true talents lie and what I love to do most. I’m now not strictly an artist or a writer; I’m a storyteller.

I never had a choice. It’s my destiny.

CHAPTER FOUR:

I’LL DO THE THINNIN’ AROUND HERE

In the early days of comic books, almost all heroes had sidekicks. Most of the time, they were teenagers and mirrored the adult hero in powers and, sometimes, name. Captain America and Bucky. Flash and Kid Flash. Green Arrow and Speedy. Aquaman and Aqualad. You get the idea. The sidekick served mainly two purposes: they gave younger readers someone with whom they could identify and it allowed the writer to provide exposition to the story through dialogue. Sidekicks also performed tasks not ideally suited to the main hero, such as keeping a look out or untying a hostage while the hero saved the day.

Of course, the most famous and best pairing is Batman and Robin. Robin, or his alter ego Dick Grayson, is the gold standard of sidekicks. While it helps he’s been featured not only in comic books, but also radio shows, movie serials, TV shows and major motion pictures, the strongest reason for the longevity and appeal of Robin is the characterization and growth that Dick Grayson was allowed to experience. It is truly unique in comic book history. Dick Grayson is the only major DC character to ever change in a significant way and stay changed.

Dick Grayson was a 12-year-old acrobat, the youngest of a family circus act called the Flying Graysons. A gangster named Boss Zucco had been extorting money from the circus. Zucco killed Grayson’s parents, John and Mary, by sabotaging their trapeze equipment, as a warning against defiance. Batman investigated the crime and, as his alter ego millionaire Bruce Wayne, had Dick put under his custody as his legal ward. Seeing much of himself in the young Grayson, Batman rigorously trained the boy, teaching him physical fighting and detective skills. During this time, Dick came to love Batman as a second father. Together, they investigated Zucco and collected the evidence needed to bring him to justice.

As origins go, this is pretty standard for comics in the Golden Age. Robin debuted in 1940 and, as much of a purist as I am, I find almost all those early stories unreadable. As flawed as they were, those stories laid the groundwork for his character. Over the years, there were instances where decisions about the direction his character should take were made almost haphazardly which inadvertently led to Dick Grayson becoming the lynchpin for the DC Universe. It is truly one of the things I love most about comics. Different writers and editors all collaborate across decades without even realizing it and sometimes, something special happens. Of course, most of the time it turns out to be a hot mess that needs to be retro-fixed.

In 1964, wanting to cash in on the popularity of the Justice League, DC had Robin become a founding member of the Teen Titans, a group of sidekicks also consisting of Speedy, Kid Flash, Wonder Girl and Aqualad. By 1969, just after the lighthearted Batman TV series was canceled, the DC editorial staff wanted to return Batman to his darker roots. Since Dick had aged about seven years in comic book time, they had him enroll in Hudson University, and Robin was relegated to backup stories in Batman comics. A few years later, Robin was featured in Batman Family comics, and this is where I was first introduced to him. I can’t remember a single issue of those comics, but I know that I instantly loved Robin, the Teen Wonder. I thought he was so cool, even if he wore short pants, little booties and a yellow cape.

Two things happened to solidify Dick Grayson as my favorite DC character and start him on his journey to becoming one of the most important characters in the entire DC pantheon. First, the Steve Engelhart/Marshall Rogers run on Detective Comics came out and Engelhart wrote Robin as a capable, mature badass, not as a boy sidekick. Secondly, DC relaunched the Teen Titans. Creators Marv Wolfman and George Perez set Robin up as the responsible, resourceful and always in-control leader of the team. These two series began the changes in Dick Grayson’s character that continued until he chose to give up being Robin and adopted the identity of Nightwing in 1984.

This was a huge deal. The comic book genre is replete with deaths and the inevitable resurrections, identity and costume changes that are always reversed back to the status quo, and the regurgitation of storylines and characters that have been done to death. Shockingly, Dick Grayson was allowed to significantly change and stay that way. In fact, as Nightwing he became a much more sophisticated character, but remained true to his beginnings as Robin. Robin-Nightwing-Dick Grayson is an example of everything that can go right with a fictional character. For me, that is inspiring.

Being the second-born son in my family, I grew up with the whole sidekick scenario front and center. Comparisons, as well as hand-me-downs, are inevitable when you have an older brother. My brother is two-and-half years older than me so every teacher he had throughout grade school eventually became my teacher as well. Fortunately, by fourth grade, any comparisons between us were decidedly one-sided. I was a better-behaved student, got much higher grades, excelled in sports and generally had a much easier time with school. My brother and I weren’t all that close, even as kids and, to be honest, I think he resented the hell out of me. Since I was always perfectly happy to be by myself, we never spent a lot of time together playing in the backyard or flipping baseball cards. In fact, it wasn’t my brother that made me feel like a sidekick at all. It was a status I assigned to myself.

As a young boy, I was introverted and painfully shy; a slight boy with strawberry blonde, almost red, hair. I just wanted to fade into the background in every scenario. At school, I was constantly worried about standing out and being the target for scorn and bullying. I couldn’t leave the house unless I was sure that there wasn’t anything about me someone could mock. I always made sure that there was no gap in the back of my pants so no one could ever see my underwear when I sat down. I made sure my pants always covered every inch of my socks (didn’t want the high-water comments). I even went so far as to cut all the stray hairs sticking up from my head just to make sure everything was in place. At school, I never participated in the classroom, steadfastly refusing to raise my hand, even when I was sure I had the right answer. You could always count on the unsatisfactory box being checked next to the participates in class section on my report card. I hated meeting other kids, and I am truly thankful that the idea of the play date hadn’t been propagated yet. The thought of being forced to interact with another person whom I didn’t know sounds awful to me even now.

Part of my behavior was conditioning instilled in me by my mother and, to a lesser extent, my grandmother. They were forever telling me to behave so I wouldn’t make an idiot out of myself and embarrass them. I remember being mortified by my mother or father talking loudly in a store or restaurant. If, God forbid, they ever yelled at me in public, that was the worst thing that could happen to me. By age 10, I was more obsessed with making sure that didn’t happen than either of them could’ve ever been. As a result, as I got older, I learned to pick my spots, only saying something when the timing was right and I could maximize its impact. I became a master of the one-liner, using it to disarm the neighborhood bullies. My humor saved me from quite a few ass-kickings throughout the years.

I did feel at ease around my close friends (Cris, Rocco, Kevin, Rob), but I would always defer to them in social situations, going so far as to feed them jokes or comments. In my own little clique, I was popular and everyone thought I was very funny. Like I said, I was scholastically inclined and good in most sports, so it’s not like I was an outcast or recluse or anything. My teachers all liked me and frankly, I doubt if there was anyone in any of my classes who had a bad thing to say about me. It was never very difficult, to be honest, to avoid being the center of attention. Most young boys crave the spotlight and seek out attention, so I just let them have it. As far as girls went, I was a mess.

My first crush was in the third grade, on a little redheaded girl named Nanette. She was just the cutest little thing, with her freckles and glasses. My third-grade classroom was set up so that there were four rows of desks with two pairs of rows facing each other. Nanette sat right in front of the blackboard, and from my vantage point, I couldn’t help but see her every time I looked at the teacher standing in front of the class. I never made eye contact in class and barely ever spoke to her, even during her birthday party at her house (back then, everybody in your class was invited to your birthday party).

Then one Sunday, I spontaneously decided to ask her to go roller skating with me and my family. I rode my bike over to her house and quickly rang the bell before I lost my nerve. When she came out, I stammered and stuttered through the invitation to go with us. She was very sweet about saying that she already had plans with her family for the day and couldn’t go, but thanked me for asking. I’m not sure what I would have done if she would’ve said yes. I’d never roller skated a day in my life and my family had absolutely no plans to go skating that day. That was the first of many occasions that I did something crazy for a girl.

Nanette changed schools after that year, and I didn’t notice girls again until sixth grade. However, in fourth grade a girl noticed me. There was a girl named Gladys who apparently liked me. I say this dripping with sarcasm, because for months, every time any girl in my class passed me, they would say Gladys likes you. It drove me crazy. Gladys likes you. Gladys likes you. All I wanted was to blend into the crowd, to not stand out, and suddenly I was the subject of a relentless campaign by every girl in my class. It was not Gladys’s fault. She was just a young girl with a crush, but she bore the brunt of my frustration. I lashed out, screaming at her in the middle of class. I didn’t stop until I saw the tears welling up in her big, brown eyes. I didn’t mean to hurt her but I had to make them stop