Free My Kind of Crazy by Robin Reul

after Mickey died, Dad stopped going altogether.
    Most days Dad makes it clear that sharing a house doesn’t mean we have to share a conversation. So last year when he invited me out for a pizza and we found ourselves at the comic store, it was kind of a big deal. That night, Monica was working, there was no game on, and Dad wanted company. Sure, he spent most of the evening draining a pitcher of beer, ranting about how the Pats weren’t gonna be able to take it all the way to the Super Bowl, and checking out the boobs on our waitress, but it was progress. He didn’t ask me a single question about myself, but I was glad to be there with him. He’s pretty much all I’ve got.
    On the way home, we passed Metropolis Comics. They were getting ready to close, and Victor, the old guy who owns the place, waved at me as we walked by.
    â€œWho the hell is that?” my dad asked with a belch.
    I waved back. “That’s Victor.”
    My dad leaned in to me and grabbed the inside of my arm near the elbow, steadying himself. “He a friend of yours?”
    â€œKinda.”
    He snickered and added, “Ain’t he a little old for you, Hank? What’s a guy his age interested in some young kid for?”
    â€œDad, he owns the comic book store. I come here a lot. He knows me.” Probably better than you do , I’d thought.
    Dad stopped in his tracks and eyed the neon sign as if he was noticing the store for the first time. “Metropolis Comics, eh? I used to like comics when I was a kid. Who’s your favorite?”
    I tried to play it cool. “That’s a tough call. So many great ones, but I’m going to have to go with the Silver Surfer.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? That the guy on a skateboard?”
    â€œSurfboard, actually. That’s why they call him the Silver Surfer.” Dad had shared so little of himself with me, and now that we were finally speaking the same language, I didn’t want to mess it up. “Who was your favorite?” I asked him.
    â€œJeez, it was so long ago. I was about your age, maybe younger.” Dad shook his head.
    I tried to imagine my dad as a teenager. I saw a photo once a long time ago. He actually looked a lot like I do now. It’s as if his life was divided into before and after Mom and Mickey died. Everything that came before was put in a box and closed up tight like the door to Mickey’s room. It’s different for me. I like to think about my mom and brother, to imagine the things they’d say or do if they were still here. It comforts me in a way I can’t fully explain. But for Dad, I guess the memories are too painful to revisit.
    â€œI used to love the classics. You know: Hulk, Wolverine, Iron Man, Spider-Man.”
    â€œSo you’re a Marvel guy then?” Who knew?
    â€œAbsolutely. Superman and Batman were all right, but DC lost me with Aquaman. I always thought, how can you take someone seriously who rides a sea horse?”
    We shared a laugh, and I felt excited, hopeful. Neither of us was yelling. We were having fun. I wondered what he’d think about Freeze Frame . I’d never shown it to him, but for the first time, I thought that maybe I could. I’d always been too worried he’d discount it the way he had the drawings I’d made as a kid.
    â€œYou like Captain America? That guy was wicked cool.”
    â€œI do. He’s one of my favorites.” He grinned and slapped me on the back, saying, “Let me buy you a Captain America comic.”
    â€œThat would be awesome!” It was big. I remember thinking that maybe, maybe he’d forgiven me a little bit. I wasn’t even nervous that he’d upset a display or talk too loudly.
    We spent about a half hour there, sifting through comics together and talking. Ultimately, the one he bought me set him back about fourteen bucks. I wondered if he’d even remember it in the morning. More likely,