I remember the first time I went to Frank & Son, I thought passingly of P. (you like that? that Victorian novel affectation? so pretentious.), who I had known in junior high and high school. Mainly junior high since we had a falling out in 8th grade and he refused to acknowledge my existence from then on, which, considering we had all the same classes of about 30 students for three years and were in the same clubs and had mostly the same friends, was quite an extraordinary feat. When I went to Frank & Son that first time, I thought "wouldn't it be funny if I ran into him?" Not ha-ha-funny but oh-crap-run funny because it felt like a place he'd frequent and I was pretty sure that even then, twenty-five years later, he would still be angry. I kept an eye out the whole time I was there, searching the faces in the crowds and the vendors, just in case. Even though last I'd heard, he had studied to be an engineer.

I found out last week that P. is, of course, a grown man now, still lives in the area and owns a comic book store. And, AND, also owns a booth at Frank & Son and has for the past few years. Say what? You heard me.

Mind ... reeling ....