Stan Lee, the man from Marvel

First Friday joy

When I was a kid, the first Friday of the month was a red-letter day.

That’s when new comic books arrived at the local 7-Eleven, a short bicycle ride down Birdwell Lane from my parent’s house in Big Spring.

And by comic books, I don’t been the anemic, boring and predictable DC staples like Superman or Batman, or the childish and ridiculous Archie.

I mean Marvel – Spider-Man, Iron Man, Incredible Hulk, Fantastic Four and all the rest of Stan Lee’s ground-breaking superheroes who redefined the comic-book industry.

Marvel heroes were multi-dimensional – full of ego, angst and self-doubt. They spoke in the vernacular of the early 1960s –  clever taunts, witty comebacks and lots of attitude. Unlike the steady, sturdy and dependable Superman or the dull-as-dishwater Batman and the insufferable Robin, Marvel characters were imperfect and rough around the edges. They kept you guessing – and reading.

And behind all of these wonderful characters stood the grinning face of Stan Lee, the man who along with artists Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko and a few others, transformed a moribund comic-book company into an industry giant that took on and eventually eclipsed market-leading DC Comics. Today, it seems like every fifth movie released from Hollywood is about one of the compelling characters who emerged from Lee’s fertile imagination.

Stan Lee died today at the age of 95, a great man who lived long enough to see and understand his impact on his industry and on the entertainment community.

I mourn his passing because with him a little more of my distant youth slip slides away. But I also celebrate the brilliant creativity – and quirky sense of humor – that helped transport a pimply face kid out of the dusty oblivion of West Texas into the wonder of a wider and more magical world.

On those first Fridays so long ago, my friends and I would wait impatiently for the trip to 7-Eleven to catch up on the adventures of our favorite Marvel characters. I was a Spider-Man devotee. Scott liked Iron Man, and Eugene favored the Fantastic Four (mostly the Human Torch).

We knew from experience that the newly arrived comics wouldn’t be displayed on the racks near the checkout counter until mid-afternoon. Our regular activities were put on hold. The anticipation made it too hard to concentrate on anything else.

We had saved our money for weeks in anticipation of this day. And we knew to the penny what our budgets could bear.

Comics sold for 12 cents a copy. Candy bars were a nickel and cokes (a generic term despite the efforts of Coca-Cola) were 15 cents a bottle. If we were lucky, and if we had managed our limited cash supplies well, we would be able to buy all our favorite comic books and still have enough for a Dr Pepper, a package of peanuts and several candy bars.

When the magic hour finally arrived, we’d leap on our bikes – mine was a stripped-down Hawthorne from Montgomery Wards – and race to the store.

Selection was quick and easy. We didn’t have to look at the covers to make our choices. We simply grabbed our favorites, hit the candy rack and pulled drinks out of the refrigerated case.

Three minutes later, we were back on the bikes and headed home.

Routine was rigid – and strictly followed. First, the peanuts went into the Dr Pepper, then the candy was unwrapped. Only then, refreshments at the ready, did we examine our treasures.

We carefully perused the covers. If Stan Lee was listed as a writer, our hearts leaped. Lee wrote the best stories, his plots were the most imaginative, his dialogue the most fun and idiosyncratic. Our appetites whetted, we carefully opened the magazines and submerged ourselves in the delightful Marvel universe.

Hours later, we would emerge, our souls replenished and our imaginations re-energized. It’s possible, of course, that our soaring spirits were simply sugar highs from the Dr Peppers and candy. Possible. But no. Mostly, it was Stan Lee and Marvel. Of that, I’m sure.

Once our reading marathon was over, I carefully would wrap my comics in cellophane and place them in a drawer in my room where I kept my growing collection.

By the time my comic-reading days were over, that meticulously preserved collection – which included dozens of early-edition Spider-Man books – numbered close to 200. I often wonder what it would be worth today.

I’ll never know. During one of my trips home from college, I discovered to my utter horror that my mother had tossed out the entire collection, convinced that I had put aside such childish things and moved on.

Even now, the memory brings a dull ache. My sweet mother, when she saw the anguished look on my face, was horrified in turn. I tried to reassure her, as best I could through the pain, that it was no big deal. I doubt she believed me.

Here’s the irony. My treasured Spider-Mans were dispatched to the garbage bin. But the Playboy magazines I had hidden for years in the back of my closet – which I’m sure my mother discovered during one of her cleaning binges – remained untouched. I’ve often wondered why, but I was always too embarrassed to ask.