Read Online Hitchers by Will McIntosh - Free Book Online Page A

he was no artist, that he trotted out the same characters in the same poses year after year, telling the same corny jokes, that the only people still reading were old ladies. That’s when he kicked me out.
    I turned from the window and pondered the two original strips hanging framed over my drawing table, side-by-side: Grandpa’s last, my first.
    You can tell a lot about a cartoonist from the final strip (assuming he or she knew it was the final strip). Charles Schulz’s last strip was mostly text—a polite, sincere, slightly distant note saying he wasn’t able to continue the strip, and that he appreciated his fans’ support over the years. I’d been disappointed—I wanted the characters to say goodbye, not Schulz. But it was fitting in a way, because Schulz
was a stoic Midwesterner. An emotional goodbye would have been out of character.
    Bill Watterson had done a better job saying goodbye to Calvin and Hobbes . Our heroes are in the woods, walking through freshly fallen snow. They climb onto their toboggan, and in the final panel Calvin says, “It’s a magical world, Hobbes, ’ol buddy... Let’s go exploring!” It says goodbye, but it’s also hopeful. And why not? Watterson wasn’t dying, only moving on.
    In my grandfather’s final strip, Tina drops a Christmas ornament while unpacking a box of them. Little Joe, who’s in another aisle, calls out, “Holy smokes, Tina, more ornaments??” To which Tina replies, “No, Little Joe, less ornaments.” He’d left a Post-it attached to the strip: “A good one. Save for last.”
    Grandpa’s last and my first. The end, the new beginning.
    Only it hadn’t been a new beginning; not at first. Same old strip, same Little Joe and Tina. I’d even retained Little Joe’s two outdated signature exclamations— Holy smokes! and zounds! ”
    Readers don’t like it when you screw with their strips , Steve, my agent, had said. Comic strips are supposed to be comforting — people read them over coffee when they’re still waking up and aren’t ready for surprises .
    I wandered into the kitchen, pulled open the freezer to find something for dinner. I tended to avoid TV dinners and chicken pot pies, not because I didn’t like them, but because eating them lent a certain pathetic quality to the act of eating alone. Somehow a frozen burrito or an Amy’s rice bowl didn’t carry the same stigma; they were lazy meals, but not cliches that made me feel pitiful.
    Yet I was holding a chicken pot pie, considering whether to swallow my pride in exchange for something warmer and homier than a Kashi sweet and sour chicken entree, when my phone rang.
    â€œYeah, Finn Darby?” the person on the other end said before I had a chance to speak. The voice had a British accent, cockney-thick to the point of parody.
    â€œYes?” I said tentatively. It didn’t sound like a telemarketer.

    â€œMick Mercury calling.”
    I laughed while I set the pot pie back in the freezer and closed the door. I tried running down a mental file of people who might really be on the other end of the line, but came up blank. “Mick Mercury. The rock star Mick Mercury?” Steve was my only guess. The accent was impressive.
    â€œYeah, that’s right. I got your number from your agent. Hope that’s okay.”
    I hesitated. I didn’t want to fall for a prank; on the other hand the voice sounded an awful lot like Mick Mercury’s.
    â€œOf course.” I sat at my kitchen table, where I’d already poured a glass of orange juice to go with whatever frozen entree I ultimately selected.
    â€œGreat, great,” he said.
    I had no idea what to say, or who I was talking to, so I just sat there turning my glass.
    â€œI’m a great fan of your work,” Mick Mercury said. “It’s art, what you’re doing with that little strip.”
    â€œWell,