The Miser

For a few years now, I have been running a free ad in a local online and print weekly called The Recycler. Back in the pre-Craigslist days, the Recycler had a huge role in buying, selling, getting jobs, forming bands (I think I read X was formed when John and Exene ran an ad), etc. Nowadays, it's a creaky anachronism not used by anyone under 50, and rarely by anyone without a major daytime drinking problem. For my purposes, this is PERFECT! It's a place where folks who have no idea how to check the market value of their cards on Ebay might stumble across my ad while hitting their 2nd or 3rd 40 oz of the morning.

My ad says: Buying Sports Card Collections Buying sports card collections. Nothing 80s or newer. Vintage only. I typicaly get 2-5 calls/month, and 98% of them go something like this:

Caller: "Hi. I seen your ad in the paper. You buy sportscards?" Me: (suppressing pre-emptive sigh) "Depends. What do you have?" Caller: "Okay. I have a lot of Barry Bonds and Mark McGwire, and- Me: (interrupting) "So, you didn't actually bother reading the ad?"

And then I hang up. At least 50% of the time, they try calling me back 3 or 4 times, but I don't answer, and they get the picture. There is a common alternate version that starts:

Caller: "Hola. You buy cartas de beisbol?"

So, why the hell do I continue to do this, you ask? Every onnnncccee in a while it pays off. This is a story like that. I get a call last week, and the guy tells me that he used to own a number of shops in the 1990s (during the heyday), was a lawyer, dealt in antiques, but now is in poor health and needs to sell off a book of 50s cards that he dug up from his storage. Sounded promising, so I drove to Culver City with the 5 year old (caller mentioned there was his favorite frozen yogurt place next door, so I had a bribe).

The Miser's apartment was on a busy 4-lane thoroughfare, in the front apartment of a very depressing joint where no one lives unless very down on his luck. Tiny efficiency with hot plate. 150 square feet, maybe. He was about 60, and from the moment we began talking, I realized that he wasn't full of shit. Well educated ex-lawyer who clearly had had means once. The cards were great. The stuff I always look for, but never find, and in very very good shape.

While looking them over and taking notes (while the 5 year old inhaled inhuman quantities of yogurt with candy toppings), he started telling me way too much of his personal history, which included that he had been diagnosed with M.S. late in life, can no longer drive, falls down sometimes, and has lost a good deal of short-term memory. Also, he had just undergone $275K of cancer surgery with no insurance, and was now recovering, broke, and scrambling to put together cash. Here's where it gets good - while looking the book over and trying to figure out what to offer, he explains to me that his really good stuff, not only cards, but also some original paintings, etc., were in his safety deposit box. Those were things that he didn't want to part with (and was evidently willing to live in semi-squalor to hang onto them). His prized possession was given to him as a Bar Mitzvah present in 1962: issue #1 of Superman (Action Comics). He had gotten it graded many years ago 8 out of 10.

"Wow! I have no idea about comics, but wouldn't that take care of some of your money problems."

"Yeah, it would. I have had cash offers of 8."

"Thousand?"

"No, 8 hundred thousand. But I really don't want to sell it. Heritage Auctions told me that based on previous sales, they would probably gross $1.4 million, so I'd clear about 1.1. So, I guess, I will have to wait it out until their next auction."

Now, what I wanted to do was leap from my chair and shake the living shit out of this guy, screaming "What the hell are you waiting for? You're dying and living in an efficiency craphole for fucksake!!!" But I managed to hold it to, "That seems like a pretty good plan." He agreed. Epilogue:

So, we made a deal the next day, and I returned with cash. I walked in and it smelled like someone had been eating Tommy's triple chili cheese burgers all day and then systematically shitting them into his pants. He was embarrassed and left me with the book to take a make sure look, telling me, "Excuse me. I have to take care of a colostomy thing."

So, I sat there reading, thinking about how a horrible person, would run out with his book of cards, and then thinking more about how this guy is living this brutal existence with a million dollar comic book in his safe deposit box. Wow.