I lost my good friend Mark Bell to Covid three weeks ago. On the day Georgia called to tell me that, shortly before noon on the Tuesday, I sat in front of my computer staring at the same page of the book I was reading for three hours. I cannot tell you the page number, not even the book title. It was a white page with black text. I think. A grief counsellor would tell me I was in the first stage: Shock and denial. But that counsellor would be wrong. I believed Georgia, having let loose with a sorrowful "Noooooooooooo!!" even before she told me. She told me nicely. And I believed her and shortly thereafter hung up the phone.
Mark Bell wouldn't be checking up on how things were going with me ever again. I rarely asked for anything, telling him "I didn't want to abuse the privilege." Didn't stop him from asking next time we talked. And sometimes we talked once every couple of weeks. Sometimes months passed by. But to me, Mark was one of my best friends (from a fairly small pool). On the other hand, he would have described me to other people as one of his friends. Best friend? No. Not at all. You see, Mark Bell was friends with just about everybody he came into contact. He was a good man.
He wasn't perfect, nobody is. But he wanted to be the best he could be within that understanding. He formed a partnership with Andrew Stanley to sell comic books and that company eventually morphed into The Comic Warehouse, where you could by comics, graphic novels, action figures, cards, games and just about anything else a kid of any age could possibly want. Georgia McDonald entered the picture later, splitting time in Brampton at Mark's and her other home in Kingston, Jamaica. Hurricane Georgia I called her because she is a force of nature, who liked cruises and sitting on the couch with Mark on Friday nights binge-watching something or other with a never-empty bowl of popcorn at hand.
The last time I talked to Mark was about three weeks before his passing. Georgia and he were on a break from the night's marathon of something or other, one headed to make more popcorn, the other for a bathroom break. Mark got back first and picked up the phone and dialed my number. It wasn't our first conversation this year, but being only the second wasn't good news. He and I had been under the weather this year. And at our age, under the weather is a euphemism for being pretty sick. I normally would have played a game of 'Can You Top This' with him, but something in his voice troubled me. A lot.
First, he described what had happened to me back in May to a 'T' as he described his symptoms and weight loss. For me, being weak isn't anything new. Mark, the brawn of the store in may ways, was describing his legs turning to jelly in the aftermath and seemed astonished such a thing could happen. I knew just how he felt. But instead, I let him give me the laundry list of 2021 malaise. I didn't want to add my complaints to his long list of things rotten from this year. Despite still not feeling his best, he then did as he always did. He asked me whether there was anything he could do for me. I demurred. Usual reason, and I REALLY meant it this time.
"Hey, we've been buddies for what, 30 years now? If you need something, just say the word. Talk to ya later, buddy." And with that little giggle-cum-laugh, he hung up the phone. I didn't even correct him. It was closer to 35 years. It just felt wrong.
I have been customer, provider, customer, employee, customer, reluctant provider, and friend through tout. I think I have the sequence correct. Being a comic buyer, with a 200 buck a month habit when comics were largely less than a buck apiece, made me a fairly big customer of the store. I bought graphic novels, both for myself and for gifts. Each Christmas I give the O'Neill family a game, usually after advice from Mark and Andrew. In many ways, the stores Andrew and Mark operated were my idea of the ultimate playground. I wish there had been a golden ticket to let me sit in a back corner and just read. And read. And read. There was even a little café at the front of The Warehouse for any needed sustenance. But no Willie Wonka stepped forward to give me the ability to completely shut the real world out.
Having jumped ship from the Brampton Guardian, I started writing for the Brampton Daily Times. They took my Bridge column and my Comic Book column and were due to start with my Trivia column when the paper folded without warning. Mark and Andrew paid for the comic book column.
Later, when I was between jobs (again), having quit the CKMW-790AM radio gig, and not yet headed to Memphis to take over the Media Liaison job with the American Contract Bridge League, I needed somewhere to go and get out of the house. A new comic shop was opened on the other side of Brampton, not far from the old Dixie Cup factory. Mark handed me the keys to be the counter guy there. IF memory serves, that was something like six months of me calling him Boss.
When the ACBL gig went south, I was okay with it because I now had a social life. At least I did until an unexpected death knocked me for a loop, the first time that had happened to me. I didn't get over Laura's death for three months. By that time, I was doing computer consulting by being one page ahead of the others in the manual. And I was programming, systems software. And that led me to being a service provider for Mark once again. He wanted me to do a Point of Sale program for his operation. He disliked the software he was using and couldn't get any modifications made. For a solid six months, I found reasons not to do the software.
But I eventually ran out of excuses and said yes. The result was software that was used at multiple stores connected to the Warehouse and was modified as needed. For most of the first part of this millennium. Around 2017, the business that Andrew and Mark had built up and weathered through rotten weather, crooks and worse financial times, was changing. I have the logo I created for Mark17, the replacement I started for cwRegister. And still haven't finished.
And now, I am not sure it will be. That discussion is still to be had with Andrew. I'm not even sure the Warehouse survives Mark's passing. I don't want to talk about it with anybody because not talking about it means Schrödinger's cat is still alive in the box. I guess that covers pain and guilt. I've put off until tomorrow, until there are no tomorrows left on the calendar. Not something to be proud of.
At some point, I told Mark my worst problem, something I've never told anybody else. Not Patrick, not Marilyn, not James nor any member of my family. To the best of my knowledge, Mark never broke the confidence I had sworn him to. But he did come back three days later with a solution, albeit not one I wanted to act upon. Still, the knowledge that there was an approach made sleeping that night and most nights since then a lot easier. That was Mark. Don't judge, figure out a fix.
When I made out my will earlier this year, Mark, Andrew and Georgia were part of it. I expected my brother Rick to get them to curate my collections of books, magazines and comics, as well as electronic media, and disseminate parts of the library to assorted other people in my will, and then the rest of the SF-oriented material would head for Kingston to Georgia's local library down there. I was thankful they all agreed to help in the event of my passing.
Never thinking for one second that any one of them would pre-decease me.
If I'd been raised to curse in public forums, I would be swearing up a blue streak right now. I know a LOT of the words and I've used them in private. But I just can't turn a memorial to Mark into a place where I get my anger out. He doesn't deserve that. I do. But not Mark.
So, I remain right where I was when I head the news. The only differences are that I have moved away from the computer, even got dressed. I have seem Mark's memorial service on the web (Thanks to Georgia's son). But I am still depressed and I'm not going to try and play 'Can You Top This.'
Mark Bell was a good guy. He was my buddy. And I miss him and will continue to miss him, even if it's only at the other end of a phone call. Covid-19. A killer of good buddy phone calls, a murderer of the good guys.
RIP Buddy.
