The Card Shop (Pt. 1)

When I was ten I used to go to the local card shop as often as possible. I remember the owner as a somewhat crotchety but altogether benevolent old man with white hair, though I realize now that I've blended his figure in my memory with that of my first boss. As if their type overlapped enough that my mind consolidated them. The owner essentially ran an unofficial after-school program, since so many of us would gather at his shop to buy and trade cards to build up our decks. Of course, most of our time there was for battling those decks against each other.

I remember all of this through a child's view, when adults tower and have a default position of respect. Rebellion hadn't crossed my mind yet. But I did enjoy a chance to beat an adult opponent at the shop, especially because of their reaction to losing a game to some kid. I remember, probably selectively, defeating many adults.

Bob, an assistant at the shop who specialized in comic books, could not be beat. He had a ripe smell, and greasy hair that would touch the shoulders of the perennial flannel that strained on his round torso. I thought he was awesome. He'd make witty remarks during the game, and tell his opponents how he would beat them. You knew you were in trouble when his words got shrill and rapid in excitement. If he were a card, it'd be Wall of Flannel: "Target Thirtysomething Always Wins."