Judge Colt, The Wolf Man And Me

In her lifetime, my mother had relationships with (as far as I knew) three different men named Bob.

No, not at the same time!

Tonight’s post involves Bob #2, whom my mother courted briefly when I was 14.

Bob #2 had a stocky build that could have intimidated an introvert like me, but he also had a gentle, quiet disposition, evidenced by his soft blue eyes and tight-lipped smile. I never heard him raise his voice, and for that matter, never heard him laugh out loud, either. Despite his low-key mannerisms, he was quite colourful.

He drove a rickety pickup truck that was one loose rivet from a “This could be you” warning in a highway safety film. He lived on one side of a two-story house that was partitioned in the middle of the main floor by a door-sized piece of Styrofoam. His elderly mother lived on the other side. A flannel blanket for a curtain covered his living room window. His kitchen was basically a workshop, where counters were adorned with wrenches and screwdrivers instead of strainers and can openers, save for the dish rack where cups and plates waited in vain to be cleaned. Sometimes, much to his chagrin, his mother would come over and do his dishes for him. One assumed she didn’t walk through the Styrofoam.

His drink of choice was rye and coke, which he always stirred with the little wooden pencil in his flannel shirt pocket. Always. Whenever he’d pour a new shot, we would offer him a spoon or a swizzle stick. Nope. The HB still came out. If pencils hadn’t been composed of graphite, he’d have had lead poisoning.

Bob #2 had these lamb chop sideburns, which prompted me to nickname him Wolf Man. I didn’t intend to be spiteful. This was another of my ill-fated teenaged attempts at hiding awkwardness with humour. My demeanour would be taken the wrong way… but no wonder! Even so, in a few weeks, off went the lamb chops. (In the age our tale unfolds, the day’s fashion trends included leg warmers, purple hair and neon. Birdtown on the other hand, was still a decade or two behind the times. Sideburns and brown corduroy were still “in”. Even at this remove, you could still find hippies playing guitars downtown.)

By the way, these paragraphs weren’t meant as a putdown. I really did like the guy. These eccentric traits I found kind of endearing. The rebels and the oddballs of my native Birdtown always fascinated me. Anyone who shook up the town’s broomstick-derriered status quo was okay in my books.

Bob #2 and I shared common interests- some only became apparent after I knew him. He enjoyed watching westerns, serials, Tarzan and Hercules movies, which were then plentiful on WUTV, Channel 29 from Buffalo. (Readers of a certain vintage in Southern Ontario or Western New York will elicit pleasant sighs at memories of their retro programming, especially their weekends of kaiju and kung fu movies. WUTV originally played on our cable 9, until it was bumped off our VHF dial for the French Channel, and emigrated way up to cable 19, which you needed a converter to see. For years, I was deprived of WUTV, because my mother was convinced a converter would bugger up her television. But, the rest of this story belongs in a future blog post all its own.) The time with Bob #2 predates my full-fledged cinephilia. In another five or ten years, we would have had much more to discuss.

Instead, we had bonded over another medium that told stories and created worlds within a frame: comic books!

Bob had been a serious comic collector for about three decades, and stopped buying new books around the mid-1970s. He still enjoyed the medium, and would pull stuff out of his collection to re-read. It was shocking to me then that he had no interest in long-underwear superheroes. His archive was deprived of obvious things like Spiderman or Superman. Rather, his collection focused on genres that existed in the margins to the current mainstream: westerns, action-adventure (jungle, sword and sorcery), and Disney! Instead of the usual Marvel or DC banners that infiltrated most others’ collections, his would consist of titles from Dell or its sister company, Gold Key.

I was already a Gold Key fan, thanks to their runs of Star Trek and The Twilight Zone; among their many adaptations of TV show properties, from the 1960s to the imprint’s demise in the early 1980s. Gold Key’s appeal was also for their eye-catching painted covers, and the other enticing titles that I had discovered when Woolworth’s used to sell assortments of Gold Key’s in grab bag collections of three or ten. (This too deserves its own post some day, but I’ll briefly mention that UFO Flying Saucer, True Ghost Stories, and Space Family Robinson were among those discoveries.)

It was through Bob though, that I first got a taste of Dell’s long-running, serpentine Four-Color Comics, its series of one-off movie adaptations called Movie Classics, and a similar run by Gold Key, informally titled Movie Comics. Through these adaptations, I was already familiar with the stories of Rio Conchos and The Dirty Dozen long before I had seen the movies they were based on.

My parents divorced when I was very young. I still saw my father once a week or more, but I have no experience of living in a household with a patriarchal figure. If I was ever subconsciously seeking a “surrogate father” in my mother’s boyfriends, I had no longer sought such a role when Bob #2 entered the picture. By then, I was older, and had learned to live without a father figure. Additionally, several months before she began dating Bob #2, my mother’s boyfriend Frank died suddenly, just days before Christmas. I think Frank was and remained her true love. Admittedly, it felt weird seeing different men around the house for several months afterwards, but I accepted that she rightfully was trying to get on with her life, and sought new companionship. As a result, I had no expectations of Bob #2 being “my new dad”, anymore than he expected me to be a surrogate son. He was a man of few words, but I’d like to think that during his brief courtship with my mother, he recognized a bit of his younger self in me.

One Sunday afternoon, he volunteered to drive me in his rickety pickup to a couple of flea markets around the county.  In both cases, he would stand around with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and chat with people, while I checked out the tables at whatever halls or church basements we infiltrated. That day’s haul was just a couple of Family Circus paperbacks, but it’s about the thrill of the hunt, which any collector knows, and surely he did. My memory of this afternoon persists, because it was one way in which we silently bonded over this same passion.

Quite often when he came over, he would bring me a stack of comics from his collection. With one handful, he would say, “These ones, I want back." And with another handful, “These ones, I don't care what you do with them.” Some titles I recognized from the “grab bag” days (he dropped off almost complete runs of The Jungle Twins and Brothers Of The Spear), while other short-run series were unfamiliar to me. (One such title I recall was The Scarecrow, from the “want back” pile. which I read and gave back the same night.)

Perhaps his aversion to long-underwear superheroes influenced my own. In another two or three years, I would stop collecting comic books once my interest switched to film history. Further, superhero stories had become increasingly stupid and juvenile. Otherwise, a small town comic collector had few other options than Archie. (The blossoming independent and direct market worlds were out of reach.) In the later days of collecting, I slavishly bought the long-underwear stuff because “they will be worth something one day”. I’d read an issue once, shrug, and pack it away. Instead, anything I dug from the archives for re-reading was stuff considered by fellow collectors to be disposable and of little worth: westerns, crime, science fiction, action-adventure, and even some horror, published by Gold Key and Charlton. They spoke to me more. (This too is deserving of a post all its own some day.)

And among those that would get constant rotation was a title run I was introduced to, thanks to Bob: the short-lived western series, Judge Colt, published by Gold Key in 1969-70. (He had three of its four-issue run; I’d eventually track down the stray issue years later.)

I’ve always loved western movies of any stripe: from the tough 1960s revisionist westerns to the 1930s singing cowboys. Western comic books that still existed in the 1970s and 80s were still very much stuck in the 50s, largely because the majority of them were reprints from previous decades. They still adhered to the squeaky-clean “white hats vs. black hats” mentality, and had little room for the moral ambiguity to be found in, for example, DC’s Jonah Hex character.

Judge Colt, on the other hand, was an interesting bridge between the 1950s wholesomeness and the “new” western. To paraphrase a joke made by Henny Youngman around the time, “In the adult western, the cowboy still kisses his horse, only now he worries about it."

Technically, many western comic book heroes were superheroes in cowboy hats, whose amazing superpowers included larger than life stunts or tricky gunplay. In that sense, the Judge Colt series finds our hero in similar slam-bang adventures, but it had a far more psychological edge than, say, The Rawhide Kid. In fact, western comics had far too many “kids”: Billy The Kid, Kid Colt Outlaw, etc.  Judge Colt differed from the rest in age alone. He was middle-aged; hot youth was replaced with greying temples, and world-weary disposition.

Our hero, Judge Mark Colt, the much-feared “hanging judge”, rides the frontier to find the killers who gunned down his wife Maria, who was a bystander during a holdup.  In between the usual western adventure tropes, exists a brooding story of haunted love, as Maria still figuratively exists in the present through omnipresent photographs, flashbacks and Colt’s own nights of self-reflection.

Despite that he is feared for his equal proficiency with guns and ropes, Colt has an interesting Achilles heel, in that his body shakes after every gunfight. He is revealed as flawed, nakedly human, and significantly less than impervious. Colt is often morally conflicted and full of self-doubt. In his constant internal monologues, he questions if his actions are any less morally reprehensible than those of the crooks he sends to the gallows.

I’ve no information as to why Judge Colt only ran four issues. Perhaps this character was too offbeat for its audience, or perhaps he was shelved after poor sales, even though it offered the same quota of action and adventure as its six-gun competition. It would have been interesting to see his character develop in future editions, although perhaps its formula would have been too repetitive after a while. Eventually, Mark Colt would have to find all of Maria’s killers, otherwise try the patience of their readers. Comic book miniseries were more common a decade after Judge Colt ceased publication. A planned twelve-issue run would have best suited this story arc, and kept it fresh.

If you’re a collector, any of these books are worth having, although perhaps the fourth issue is the most interesting. In “Trial By Fury”, Judge Colt investigates a series of murders that are made to look like accidents, and discovers that each of the men in these so-called “accidents” are victims of a long-held revenge plot. At this revelation, Colt can only compare the killer’s actions to his own dubious mission to avenge Maria’s death. It is exactly this kind of smart writing and introspection that sets Colt apart from the usual six-gun comics.

It is tempting to say that Judge Colt had to happen so that Jonah Hex could appear, but its short run suggests that he likely didn’t inspire what was to come. The series only exists as an interesting footnote in Gold Key’s publishing history, or the history of western heroes. Still, his character seems a necessary stepping-stone between the squeaky clean 1950s cowboys and the moral ambiguity of Jonah Hex.

My mother’s courtship with Bob #2 lasted briefly, and in a few ways I was the catalyst for their separation. As time unfolded, they appeared to have less in common with each other than he did with me! After they split up, there were still some comics from the “want back” pile left at my mother’s place, although as time progressed I could no longer remember which was which.

I would occasionally see Bob #2 around town, like at a yard sale the following summer, where he bought another dish tray. I couldn’t help but chuckle. But as time passed, and as faces begin to fade, I would wonder what became of him. Only years later did I learn that he passed away, still in his 50s. I’ve no idea whether he still lived alone, or if he had any heirs.

But still, in the years after the brief time I knew him, I would revisit the stash of funny books in my mother’s basement, and he would soon enter my thoughts. I would skip over any titles featuring someone in a cape, and go for the stuff from that alternate four-colour universe that he turned me onto, and silently thank him. And especially for Judge Colt. He was the jewel of the lot.

Shadow Comics and Shmay Dray

For the rest of the year, this blog will intermittently feature pieces serving as testing grounds for a longer format project I'm working on, featuring my experiences as a youth in 1983, for future publication in book form. This is one of them.

After the A&P supermarket moved to the mall on the outskirts of town in the 1970s, its original downtown building was re-used for many businesses over the years- including a bus depot, bingo hall, arcade and taxi office. The more durable enterprises at this address consisted of a pharmacy later in that same decade (as a temporary location while the permanent address had fire damage repairs), and as a T-shirt printing factory in the 1990s (after all those years, still retaining the old supermarket's separate entrance and exit doors).

For a relative blip in the life of that structure, one day per week in the spring of 1983, it was the Simcoe Sales Barn, a bazaar featuring two aisles full of at least two dozen different vendors at the tables. In the height of the recession, this proved a popular place for discount retail, where one could find good deals on shoes, dry goods, various household items, and gifts (there was even a deli counter in the back). For a few assorted teenaged nerds, however, it also provided the closest thing that Birdtown ever had resembling a comic book shop… if only for three months.

Specialty shops are always great for having back issues of titles. In the 80s, they became even more beneficial for two reasons. As the decade began, some publishers released titles only for the direct market (even Marvel had some titles under this strategy), meaning via subscription or for sale in comic book shops. This avoided the usual newsstand routine where unsold magazines would be returned to the companies once the new issues came out, thus causing greater loss and overhead. 1983 was especially a game changing year, as an unprecedented number of independent labels began publishing, thus competing with such juggernauts as Marvel and DC for consumers' hard earned allowance money. Rarely, if ever, did any of these titles make it to regular circulation. To be part of these new trends, one had to live in an urban centre large enough to accommodate a comic book shop. The Birdtown contingent of comic book fans were among the many towns or rural areas who were out of luck to peruse anything less mainstream than Archie, Captain America or Batman. Therefore, for us, the Simcoe Sales Barn was a welcome reprieve.

It was great to access a lot of titles that were hidden from our small town's circulation, and just as importantly, to find a lot of old comics, some dating back to the 1960s. (Otherwise, one could only find back issues at garage sales or flea markets.) I first became aware of the place through a friend during March Break, and promptly went downtown to check it out once I finished my catalogue route. In my first visit, I had picked up two of Mike Kaluta's series of The Shadow (especially elating for this long-time fan of the durable pulp character), and mint copies of the first three issues of Captain Canuck (published in the mid-70s by Richard Comely, who after a hiatus resumed the series with issue number four in 1979, when I began reading it). Afterwards I had informed some like-minded friends about the stand, and before long, everyone I knew (and them some) who collected comics were weekly customers. Simcoe Sales Barn was first open on Wednesdays, then halfway through its lifespan, shifted to Fridays so it could legally stay open later. (Even today, few businesses downtown stay open midweek past 6 PM.) Some friends of mine would go shopping during their school lunch period so that they could get dibs on the new stock, but I preferred to go after the 3:05 bell, so I could hang out longer- especially when the barn switched to Fridays.

The two men responsible for bringing us these weekly treasures were Leo and Peter, business partners from far away Toronto who jointly ran a store in the city's north end, entitled The Shmay Dray Shoppe. The two entrepreneurs and their wares were as colourful as their namesake. Their tables were also full of socks and other knick knacks for sale, but unquestionably their money was made from the comic book nerds (myself included) hungrily raiding their numerous white long boxes. There was an odd, surrogate fraternity among the people who rubbed shoulders at their stand every week and would occasionally fill the air with "Hey, look what I found!" At least for me, there was also a surrogate friendship that evolved with the men who ran the stand. Leo was the more personable of the two: a comical, portly man whose white moustache and wavy hair to match suggested that he was older than his trusty companion Peter, a lantern-jawed, dark-haired, bespectacled gravelly-voiced man, who was nice but often solemn. One cool part of their business was that you could request certain issues of titles for them to bring down next time if they had them. In addition to a list of direct sales titles that eluded us, I would also ask for any more old Shadow-related books they had in the archives.

It never occurred to me to ask how on Earth two men from Toronto found out about this out-of-the-way venue, but perhaps Birdtown wasn't so off the mark for these well-travelled entrepreneurs. Through the week, in addition to running the store, they would also "go to market" (an ambiguous term I interpreted to mean going to wholesalers to stock up on their goods), and would also do business in other venues similar to ours. It was a hell of a way to make a living, no question, with the long hours (and money) spent on traveling, but there was something adventuresome about it that appealed to my teenaged mind. I was fascinated by the life of the drifter, romanticized not only in the western novels I loved, but also the good ole boy movies in vogue at the time. (After spending some time on the road last decade touring my fanzine, I can attest that it is a gruelling but exciting vocation.)

What also made this weekly venture fun, was that Leo and Peter were characters. There was Peter always bugging Leo to get him coffee or make him a sandwich, and then there was Leo the born showman, God bless him, wearing socks on his ears while smoking a cigarette in order to attract sales. They fit right in with the rest of the Sales Barn's quirky charm. The Mexican family that ran the deli counter would play guitars and sing during downtime: once I offered to bring in my harmonica and join them; they seemed delighted at this idea, and sadly, I never followed up. Indeed, the vendors were as offbeat as a lot of the merchandise for sale. I had bought other things at the Sales Barn than just comics, yet the only one that remains in my mind thirty years on is this souvenir tabloid that reprinted the original 1922 newspaper clippings pertaining to the discovery of King Tut's tomb. (Regretfully, that went away in a yard sale many moons ago.)

To puritanical eyes, the Simcoe Sales Barn was nothing but a junk store. My mother especially was less than thrilled with my weekly jaunts there, and would use my hobby as an excuse for my poor grades. (This was false- I studied and did my homework, albeit without passion, since I considered school useless in preparing me for my probable future of working in a cannery.) She even told me once that she had gone by the place with some of her friends, and said aloud, disparagingly, "I know where my kid is!" This statement I think revealed more about her than me, but that is another story.

She may have seen this as yet another way for me to fritter away my allowance on comic books, but there was much more to it than that. This place was magic! There was an ambiance here that I really dug. After a few weeks, an interesting little community evolved, as vendors and customers became familiar to one another. A kinship was felt among the people before and behind the booths, and it was far less superficial than merely the vendors putting the touch on people to part with their money. There was an unspoken solidarity- all of us were just trying to get by! Being there gave one the confidence to take on those economic hard times with a fortuitous joy of life, where we didn't have much, but rejoiced in what we did.

As the weeks went on, Leo and I especially became close, as Peter became increasingly absent from the venue, attending to other parts of their business. Leo would invite me to sit down, and we'd shoot the breeze or tell off-colour jokes (Leo never laughed out loud- he'd always just smirk and shake his head while holding a cigarette in the air). We had even discussed my working for him, as the summer months loomed, and that Peter likely wouldn't be around.

And then, it ended.

Without any warning or reason, our routine Friday trek was met with the shocking discovery that the barn was empty, locked up and in darkness. This sudden departure was abrupt even to me, who hates long goodbyes. Some time in the fall, Simcoe Sales Barn reopened in the same location, but things just weren't the same. Only half the space was filled, and this time a lot of it really was junk. (If memory serves, the King Tut books were still for sale.) Few of the original vendors returned - an East Indian gentleman and I nodded recognition to one another.  No Leo. No Peter. Consequently, the traffic was practically non-existent. In short order, this place closed with as little fanfare as its predecessor.

In hindsight, this microcosm reveals itself as the first of several times in my life where I've been blessed to be part of a wonderful world where the unique ambiance and friendships evolve out of just the right coalescence of things that happened to be in the air at the time. Those moments end just as quickly when just one of the ingredients is subtracted, and any attempts to recreate that magic with other parts results in disappointment. In many ways, this place was a life lesson to a young man; even today, it isn't hard to remember that euphoric feeling which lived there. I hope some of my anonymous fellow travelers can recall it too.