“Say, that’s a real flashback of a mack daddy jacket you’re wearing,” Chet said, pointing at the lapels of Doc’s frock coat. “Very retro. Need to get you an ascot or neck kerchief and you’d be humming.”
“Before you ask, no, my coat is not for sale, especially to one such as yourself.”
Chet didn’t get the implied insult. “Suit yourself. I wouldn’t give it up, either. My problem is finding apparel that will fit my ample girth,” the fat clerk said.
“That’s what tailors are for, my good man,” Doc noted.
“Tailors cost jack. Any jack I get I spend on collecting,” Chet replied, nodding his three chins as he spoke. “All the good stuff is going up in value. Used to be, I put the word out for baseball cards or comic books and within a month I’d have more than I could handle from outlanders and wanderers going back and forth across Deathlands. Now, my best pickers can’t find dick anymore. Everybody thinks this stuff is worth a fortune, and I can’t afford to pay top jack to have to then turn around and resell it and make a profit anymore.”
“Supply and demand,” Krysty said.
“Exactly!” Chet replied. “All the stores in the mall are occupied. I cannot demand a break in my rent. Instead, I must weather the annual rent increases! Do you know what rent goes for in Freedom?”
“I’ve seen enough,” Ryan said, already bored with the sales pitch. “Let’s go.”
“In a minute, Dad,” Dean replied, his attention drawn to a rack covered with old-style wire coat hangers. An array of T-shirts was hanging from the rack.
“They got any black ones?” Jak asked, stepping over next to Dean as carefully as possible.
“They’re all black,” Dean replied, looking at some of the small white size tags in the collars. “All XXL, too.”
“That’s good,” Krysty said. “Allows you to grow into them.”
“I don’t know,” Ryan said, holding up one of the huge shirts. “I think a boy Dean’s age could pitch a tent with one of these things.”
“So what’s your reading fancy, mister?” Chet said to Doc.
“So many choices,” Doc said, searching his mind for a book he desired.
“I know. And you want to know why?” Chet asked.
“Why?”
And then the portly salesman launched into a dissertation the likes of which Doc had never heard before. Unlike most common reading material such as paperbacks or hardcover books, the mass-published glossy magazines or hundreds of daily newspapers on newsprint, comics had the quantum edge in survival. Starting in the mid-1950s, comics were no longer being seen as just childish diversions to be read and disposed of, but also as pop-culture collectibles to be hoarded.
As the years passed, more and more comics were kept stored away until finally, by the late seventies, practically every comic book sold off the stands was read onceor not at allhermetically sealed in a plastic bag, kept flat by a specially cut piece of coated card stock and stored upright in a specially designed box to avoid any damage.
Millions of comics were kept safe in this fashion, with the more valuable examples receiving extraspecial care. Those were put in stiff Mylar snugs, which were then placed in acid-free archival boxes. Larger collectors even built their very own comics vaults, some aboveground, some below. All were airtight.
Compared to all their paper brethren, comic books lasted because of the extra care taken in the decades before skydark to keep them from deteriorating due to natural causes.
“Yes, well, that’s all very nice,” Doc said, taking the time to speak while Chet gasped for air after his verbal history of the comics. “But I was actually hoping to find a volume of Chaucer.”
“What issues did he draw?” Chet asked. “Did he work for Marvel? D.C.? Dark Horse? Image?”
Doc gave up. He’d had enough. “He’s not an artist, he’s a writer, you overstuffed cretin.”
“Sorry, I get those guys mixed up sometimes. Artists, writers, inkers, lettererstoo many names. Got a title for this book?”
” The Canterbury Tales ,” Doc said respectfully. Chet looked blank for a few seconds, then reached behind him and plucked a chipped brown clipboard from a stack of papers and consulted a list.