This is a rerun. It was originally published on May 23, 2007.

As a break from writing, writing, and writing some more, I’m going to put aside the projects and tell you my Transformers story. This little tale goes a long way toward explaining my feelings about fandom, geek castes, and why I’ll be in a secure bunker as the hype for the new Transformers movie ramps up.

It was the 1980s. I was in college, and working at the comic shop off campus. This was in a rural farming town, with a cultural divide between the students and the “townies” that could fill a dozen bad comedy films. There was a tolerance, though; the college kept the economy running, and while the town was boring (everything was closed on Sunday; there was one second-run theater in town; there was only one bar) the permanent residents were warm and friendly and folksy. It was like living in Mayberry.

Across the street from the comic shop was a gas station. A full-service gas station, where a guy came out, pumped the gas for you, checked your oil, and washed your windows. Believe me, kids, this was rare even in the 1980s. They were also a full-service garage, so you could get your car repaired there. It sounds like a kooky concept her in the 21st century, but that’s the way things used to be. One of the guys who worked at the gas station — let’s call him Junior — was simple. I say that to be descriptive, not to be derogatory. He had an 8th grade education, and his life consisted of working on cars, drinking beer, and watching television. Junior always wore bib overalls, tan work boots, and some grease-smeared cap with a car or beer logo on it.

Junior loved having a comic shop across the street from the garage. Occassionally he’d pop over and page through the funny books. He didn’t like superhero books, preferring funny animals and works in the Archie oevre. Books featuring women with large breasts in tight costumes would catch his eye, but he always seemed embarassed and would try to avoid looking directly at them, lest God smite him or something. What he really loved most, though, were the robot toys. We’d managed to get a slew of Japanese robot toys. Even though we had no idea who the characters were supposed to be, and the anime or manga they came from weren’t available in the United States, the toys were just cool, and we sold a lot of them.

One day Junior was looking over one of the big, expensive robots, a 12″ tall model we were selling for $75, when he asked, “Do you watch Transformers?”.

“No,” I said. “I’m here all day, and we don’t have a TV.” I gesture around the area behind the counter, indicating that we did not, in fact, have a TV.

“There are these robots,” he says, “and they turn into cars. They turn into other things too, like planes and guns and radios and stuff, but I like the ones that turn into cars. Someday, I’d like to build a car that turns into a robot. That would be cool. Or build a robot that turn into a bigfoot truck. They don’t have a robot that turns into a bigfoot truck.” Junior then proceded to spend the next hour or so explaining the concept of the Transformers to me, in detail, complete with descriptions of important characters and what they turned into.

At that point, I just thought Junior was kind of sweet, a nice guy who thought this TV cartoon was cool.

The next day, Junior popped in to the shop. It was odd to see him two days in a row. They had a TV in the garage, he told me, and he watched Transformers while he worked on cars. He’d just watched that day’s episode, and since I didn’t have a TV he’d come over to tell me what had happened that day.

You see where this is leading.

Every day, Junior started coming over after the Transformers was over. Every day, I’d get this man’s recap of that day’s episode. He recounted these tales with the gravitas of Sir Derek Jacobi performing a Shakespeare tragedy. Every single day. It was important to this man that I got to hear about the Transformers, as I was deprived and could not watch the show myself. I didn’t have the heart to tell the guy I really didn’t give a crap; I think it would have crushed him. The longer this went on, the less possible it became to say dude, you don’t have to do this.

The Transformers saga went on for several months. It only ended when I got a better-paying job and quit the comic shop. I’d see Junior from time to time, when I stopped for gas, and he’d ask if my new job let me watch Transformers. I lied and told him yes, because it made him happy, and pre-empted the possibility of him showing up at my new office or possibly my apartment to continue the live recaps.

Some people talk about that under-socialized D&D player who won’t shut up about his 37th level dwarf/wizard/paladin/assassin. Some people have tales about the annoying Trekkie or the obsessive Star Wars fan. I’ll always have Junior, the simple, baby-faced auto mechanics who cared enough to bring the wonder of the Transformers into my life five days a week. As much as I liked Junior, it got to be uncomfortable, obsessive, stalker-ish. It was, to be very frank, more than a little creepy. To this day, I’ve never actually seen an episode of Transformers, but I still know far, far more about them than I ever wanted.

The comment below were cut and pasted in from the old blog system, as they did not convert.

---

Hypnoangel 05/24/07 12:03 AM
Great story. My skin crawled just thinking about months of that but there’s still something tragically sweet about a big hulking manchild who loved Transformers and loved you enough to share it with you. It’s like Of Mice and Men for the late 20th century geek generation.

“Tell me again about the Autobots, George.”

Charlie 05/24/07 5:47 AM
Heh… I wonder if everyone has a story like that… My own involved a guy named Jack.

He’d come into the book store that I worked in every week to pick up a copy of Billboard magazine. Jack was a Special Ed teacher (still is, for all I know). While thumbing through the copy of the magazine (which, he would *eventually* pay for), he would regale those around him with tales and trivia of all manner of songs and their artists… whether we wanted to listen to him or not. The other patrons would often find a reason to speed up their browsing and make haste for the exit. It was *my* pleasure to remain behind the counter and listen.

Jack wasn’t a bad guy and was, in general, fairly friendly. Looked a bit like a young version of Wilford Brimley with a comb-over. He *was* capable of speaking on other subjects, but music was what he stuck to… and the thing was, regardless of the song, he’d found some incredibly deep and profound personal meaning in it. I suspect he felt like everyone else did too, or at least would — once he explained it to them.

I think one of the gals at the store had, at some point, told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to knock it off, but it didn’t discourage him for more than a couple of days. I’d thought about adding my voice to that particular chorus, but I didn’t really have the heart.

Was still a bit creepy though.

Murat 05/24/07 6:02 AM
Tell me again about the Transformers, George…

S.L. Shirley 05/24/07 6:31 AM
The REAL question is whether or not Optimus Prime will have a pretty mouth in the movie.

Ok. I admit that one was cheap, and I really ought to be ashamed, but if I didn’t let it out my head was going to implode.

Berin Kinsman 05/24/07 8:26 AM
>Tell me again about the Transformers, George…

Point taken.

GMFTatsujin 05/24/07 9:30 AM
Mine is also story of running a comic book shop. (It’s like we’re writing Clerks VI or something.)

It seems there was this Born Again fellow who would come into the shop and buy everything with Superman in it. The many, many Superman titles, the cross-overs, the Elsewhere books … everything. The guy loved Superman. He loved talking about Superman.

Every time he came in, he’d ask me what comics I’d read lately, and if one of them wasn’t Superman, he’d ask me why not. He was very enthusiastic about the morality of Superman, and seemed appalled that anyone might find Superman less than completely thrilling. When I told him I liked Batman better, he seemed to think that I had aligned myself with Satanic forces.

(It was useless trying to talk to him about other comics like Bone or Cerebus or Liberty Meadows or … you get the idea. Superman. That’s it.)

If this guy didn’t already have a Jesus, Superman would be his Jesus.

So one day it turns out to be my 21st birthday, and Bear — ever-watchful steward that he is — takes me to a nudie dance joint. That’s what you do on the Big Two-One, you know?

Two weird things happened that night.

First, a pretty lady friend of mine, whom I hadn’t seen since high school, danced for my pleasure. That was odd, but it satisfied a few fantasies.

Second, a few other pretty ladies, who were not my friends, danced for Born Again’s pleasure. On his lap. While he wore his Superman shirt. I can almost her the crinkle of the bills in his tightening fist as he looked in my direction.

The next time I saw him, he didn’t talk to me about Superman very much at all. I can’t understand it.

Hypnoangel 05/24/07 9:50 AM
This is why the small comic shops are dying out.

Berin Kinsman 05/24/07 10:27 AM
>This is why the small comic shops are dying out.

I’d think you were joking, because there are so many economic factors that affect the success or failure of small businesses, and comic shops are niche businesses at best so the odds are even more against them, but…

Down the street from the shop Cameron worked at was another shop. It was much larger, had a broader selection of back issues, and was considered to be THE go-to shop in town. I wouldn’t set foot in the place after a couple of visits, because it was also dirty, disorgized, dark, and the staff were rude, slovenly, and made smartass remarks about peoples’ purchases.

Cameron’s shop was smaller, but it was clean, well-lit, and the staff was polite, respectful, and knowledgable. Cameron may have quietly laughed at the guy for only buying Superman, but like any good retail staffer he chatted up other things to try and get other sales, and he didn’t outright mock the man to his face. He got me to buy several books I hadn’t considered before, suggestions based on why I was already reading and what he knew I liked. At the other shop, they acted like Randall Graves, as if customers wee a necessary evil to be rung up and dismissed as quickly as possible.

The unwashed geek factor is the reason my wife won’t go into a comics or game shop with me. She’s a cute redhead, and invariably there’s some undersocialized mutant who stares and makes her uncomfortable.

Yes, creepy clientele can kill a store, because it drives away other customers.

Uncle Dark 05/24/07 10:45 AM
Huh. You guys are lucky. My “I used to work in this bookstore…” stories all involve teenagers who want to know how to sell their souls or people who got mad at me when I didn’t believe that invisible wizards were following them everywhere.

Charlie 05/24/07 10:53 AM
Strictly speaking, we weren’t following them *everywhere*…

Deidzoeb 05/24/07 11:05 AM
The town had a movie theater? Of any kind? Lucky stiffs. Me and Mayberry are jealous.

Wait, a theater AND a comic shop? LUCKY lucky bostuhds!

I have a good friend who likes to give scene-by-scene synopsis of about half of all the books and movies and tv shows that he starts talking about. It’s like he can’t condense it down to talk about the one or two cool parts in the movie. He has to describe blow-by-blow.

Hypnoangel 05/24/07 1:48 PM
I was mostly joking about creepyguys killing small comic shops, but it’s kind of like “Ha ha, only serious”.

There’s a shop where I live that’s run by four middle-aged clones of the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons. Dead ringers. It got to be where I dreaded having to deal with them so I started going to another smaller shop until everytime I went there was a morbidly obese guy loudly talking about Phil Foglio’s sex comics and yiffy furry art.

Hello, trade paperbacks from Amazon.

GMFTatsujin 05/24/07 2:38 PM
I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

Foglio’s work is awesome in the extreme, and XXXEnophile is kind of charming, but it’s still not my thing. I’ll take Zap Godot any day of the week … especially since the *ahem* art is pretty much the same, but the stories are better.

Damn. I actually read the soft-core near-porn world of comic books for the stories. How weird is that?