Brief Tales of Comics: The Tarnished Age (Patreon)

The story you are about to read is true. At least, in this case, this is what I was told happened. To protect the innocent, or the guilty, as it may be, and err on the side of caution, names of individuals involved will not be used. 

Today's installment is a brief little bit of embarrassment, both in terms of career circumstance and choice of words:

Back in the 1980's, a friend of mine went to the apartment of a well-known Golden Age comic book creator to conduct an interview with him. The creator in question helped create a number of known-quantity characters in the industry and my friend was looking forward to speaking with him, not just for the assignment, but because this was someone a fan would be excited to meet and hear stories from concerning their vaunted career and history in comics.

My friend was invited inside the man's apartment. He looked around, taking everything in. It only took a few seconds. It was small, cluttered, and depressing. There was an easel in the room, with what looked like a commission piece on it, piles of paper and artwork and books, cheap furniture and a hot plate.  It was not what was expected considering the man's legacy and standing. 

The elderly man, in a sleeveless old undershirt, seemed to read my friend's thoughts -- although he didn't express them in quite the same way. Nodding to the room, raising his arms in the air, the man said, "Hell of a way for a white man to live, huh?". 

If my friend made any reply, he didn't tell me what it was. 

After I heard the story, every time I see or hear the man's name, that's the first thing I think of now. 

Oy gevalt.