My comic book shop was in the “eclectic” part of town, so I was used to odd characters. But that afternoon, one of the oddest I’d ever seen walked in. I was minding the store myself, while my employee Ian went over to the Texas Taco and Chili Company for lunch. The cook was a good guy and would occasionally make us random dishes and deliver them; the only downside of the place was they were inexplicably a restaurant in Birmingham, Alabama that didn’t serve sweet tea. Seriously, when you ask for sweet tea and they point at sugar packets on the table, someone’s taking their life into their hands.
The trio that walked in, well, two of them were pretty much on-brand. There was a young man in jeans and a t-shirt with a few piercings and tattoos, and an attractive young woman with a similar aesthetic. The third member of their trio, however, looked like someone cosplaying a character I’d never heard of. He had a beard and dreadlocks, and he was wearing an elaborate jacket and—I shit you not—a velvet top hat.
“Welcome to the Lion and Unicorn,” I said. “Can I help you guys find anything?” I immediately made myself a bet, and lost it when instead of asking for Vertigo horror books or indie titles, they wanted to look at cape books. I walked them over to the back issues and started going through Avengers and Spider-Man titles with them.
We talked about the comics for a while, and I noticed the dude in the top hat kept kind of smirking at me. Whatever, maybe he was an asshole, we certainly got our share of those in the place. I ignored it and fielded all their questions, dug out some issues they were interested in, even recommended a few arcs we had complete runs of. They picked out a stack of comics, and walked up to the register. The guy in the top hat paid cash, and kept smirking at me.
I saw them off with a wave, and muttered under my breath about manners. And then Ian came rocketing into the shop. He slammed the front door open and wailed, “Why didn’t you come and get me?!”
I was mystified. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He dove past me into the back room and there was a loud clatter as the stack of CD cases flew everywhere. He came back, holding one of the albums he’d brought in to play over the store stereo. It had a psychedelic design—and there, front and center on the cover, was the dude in the top hat.
I’d just sold comic books to Rob Zombie.
Not only that, I’d just sold comic books to Rob Zombie while having no idea who he was.
Not only that, but I’d just sold comic books to Rob Zombie while having no idea who he was and while playing “La Sexorcisto: Devil Music Vol. 1” on the shop stereo.
Either he thought I was the coolest cat ever or the dumbest motherfucker alive. (I’ll leave it to you, dear reader, to place odds.)
Fortunately, Ian was able to grab his CDs and catch up to them. They were playing a concert nearby, and Rob graciously gave him a couple of autographs.
Ian never let me hear the end of it, though.