...Comic Book Character...

It wasn’t drugs that initiated my 

descent into self-debauchery 

but rather, comic books. 

Of course, at the time, 

I didn’t know I was involved in debauchery. 

Thank God, my second grade teacher Mrs. E. 

was more than happy to inform me 

of my wicked, wicked ways. 

 

I wish I could confide that 

what I held in my hands that day 

was a copy of ‘The Silver Surfer’. 

Somehow that might make the incident 

a bit more tragic… but no. 

What Mrs. E. tore to shreds 

was a Peanuts comic book. 

Yes, I was on the highway to hell 

and the guy in the driver’s seat 

was Charlie Brown. 

I guess I shouldn’t put 

all the blame on poor ol’ Charlie. 

I mean, if there was anyone cooking 

in that literary meth lab, 

it was Charles Schulz. 

 

I suppose when Mrs. E. stood there 

in front of the entire class 

screaming what an idiot I was, 

it really came down to 

the severest form of tough love. 

I should have been sitting there 

feeling awash in the bathing warmth 

of her all-embracing bosom, 

but I guess I was just too young. 

All I managed to pick up on was the 

“I will squash you like a bug” precursor 

to said pending compassion. 

 

Although I was strangely never 

cured of reading comics, 

the special moment shared 

between Mrs. E. and I 

that glorious afternoon 

did manage to make me 

a better person. 

It was equally strange 

that this same compassion 

had an adverse effect on 

Mrs. E.’s own daughter and son.

 

As we kids progressed into high school, 

the daughter blossomed into both 

drug addict and prostitute. 

 

The last I heard of the son 

(equally enamored with drugs), 

he had taken to lying in the 

middle of the highway late at night 

with hopes of being run over by a truck. 

It had become a sorry nuisance 

to the town sheriff  and deputies. 

Yes, as they once again found themselves 

shooing the young man off into the darkness, 

they surely had to ask themselves 

what sort of childhood nurturing 

brings a boy to seek solace 

in an asphalt pillow? 

 

There now, 

I hear the sound of paper 

being shredded. 

There now, 

a long strand of inked comic 

twirls to the floor and 

lands at my feet. 

There now, 

the sad face of a cartoon boy 

stares up at me. 

 

Poor ol’ Charlie Brown. 

Poor ol’ Charlie Brown. 

 

Ó 04 Jack David Hubbell