Off the Wall

“Is that a fucking thumbtack?” Fritz said to the Skeleton-and-Roses poster behind me. Some of us regulars from the café were zooming. “It ought to be behind glass. In a vault.”

To illustrators, thumbtacks matter.

Someone had handed it to Adele on Haight Street and I had it up. Push-pin actually.

When I Googled, prices ran from $50,000 to $29.95 at Target.

“Send me a photo,” a fellow at Heritage Auctions said.

I added a poster from a Tower Theater show in 1956. Little Richard, who played a conga drum with his head, had sixth billing. The only photo was of a disc jockey holding a .78. I had torn it off a phone poll and it had been on walls in dorms, apartments, and law offices. I figured it  the only one in existence. Who else would have bothered?

“The good news,” Heritage said, “is it’s definitely a first printing. The bad is its condition.

Heritage had sold a mint first printing for six-figures. It had sold one like ours for a fiftieth of that. It had sold one for low five figures, but it came with a pedigree from a silent partner in The Family Dog. The collection of the author of “The Pirates and the Mouse” paid no premium. “Your Tower Theater may bring more.”

Adele and I thought it over. The money did not mean much. The posters? The money would remain when we passed or they would.

“We could buy something nice,” Adele said.

“There’s nothing I want,” I said. “If I did, I’d buy it now.”

I thought some more. It felt like we had stepped into a story. One way, we would be left with the posters, wondering, What if… The other, we would be left with no posters and regret. But regret what? It was not like I sat in contemplation of them posters. It was the memories. Little Richard. Screamin’ Jay. Riding back on the D-bus with Max Garden and forgotten guys from the neighborhood, singing “Strange Love” loud as we can. I would have those whether I kept the cardboard or not.

Spin the Wheel of Fortune! See how this part of the game ends.

I e-mailed Max’s widow for an arcade photo of him – shades, slouched – for my bulletin board of the gone.