"Too Late For Love," Personal Love #25, page 1

Some art you don't trust to be shipped, you pick it up in person.

In April 2016 I was heading home to Massachusetts, treasure in hand, when my flight departing Florida was canceled without notification. The next available flight got me to Washington DC too late for the connecting flight home. Being a "when life gives you lemons" guy, I called local collecting buddy Lee Benaka in DC. Lee graciously agreed to meet at the airport lounge to grab a bite and talk art.

Except for a few scattered travelers sitting at tables, the airport lounge was mostly unoccupied, so I took the second-to-last seat at the end of the bar, far away from anybody else. I left the last seat open for Lee, and ordered a drink to pass the time. Before long a middle-aged stranger, on the short side but well-dressed with thinning hair and a gray goatee, crossed the nearly empty lounge and took a seat right next to me at the bar.

In time, the stranger turned to me and gave me a half nod. I raised my glass of orange juice to him. He returned the toast with a snifter of malodorous liquid that looked and smelled like something left over from when they made the atom bomb, and replied "It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday." It was Tuesday, and there was barely anyone else there but us.

Thankfully, Lee Benaka arrived and sat in the empty chair to my left. We ordered some food and, during our conversations about art and music, I was vaguely aware that the stranger to my right was downing additional glasses of that volatile compound you see bubbling in beakers in old horror films. After eating, and to my great delight, Lee produced an Itoya portfolio and we pored over a sampling of his amazing and well-curated collection.

When you're immersed in the aesthetic joy of first-class comic art, it's easy to lose track of what's going on around you. I was vaguely aware that a small group of people were forming around the stranger, first one or two people, then others, as indistinct murmuring passed from table to table in the airport lounge.

I was enthralled by his tasty George Pérez Avengers and FF art when I realized that Lee was shooting a concerned look over my shoulder. I didn't want to stare, and turned my head just long enough to observe that the stranger appeared to be jotting down notes on cocktail napkins and handing them out to the bar patrons, who bought him drinks and regarded him with fawning reverence. Lee whispered "Who's your friend?" and I replied "I don't know, he just sat down next to me at the bar when I got here."

We were about 3/4ths through his Itoya portfolio when Lee Benaka said "My daughter is visiting from college, I should head out." I replied "Before you go, let me show you what I sold all that art this year to afford!" I produced a sturdy folio and placed a piece of masonite on the bar between us. Wanting to maintain a modicum of discretion, I removed the art and carefully placed it on the masonite, moving it a bit closer to the light. We both stared in rapturous exhilaration at the graceful forms and supernaturally deft inking on the page. Lee said "Well, I can understand now why you'd sacrifice the Byrne/Austin and all those other pages, this art is truly..."

What happened next will be familiar if you've ever experienced a head-on collision with a tractor trailer during an active volcano eruption. With a balletic grace unexpected for one so intoxicated, the stranger spun on his bar stool into our space and slurred "OK, sure, why not? You next, FINE!" His left arm and shoulder were now between me and the art and, with a sweeping flourish of his right hand, he scrawled his name across the page with a sharpie. The stranger stood up, shouted "Good evening, New York City!" and lurched through the small crowd toward the door, disappearing into the DC evening.

Following a beheading, there is believed to be a short period of awareness for the victim, because although the oxygen supply to the head is cut, there is enough reaching the brain to allow consciousness. Lee Benaka and I stood in voiceless shock as the small crowd dispersed. I was numb. The last person looked at me approvingly and said "You are SO lucky you got that signed! What a once in a lifetime opportunity to meet him, right?" then sat down to watch a hockey game at the bar.

My restoration/conservation guy at that time, future convicted Capital Police assailant Robert Wayne Dennis told me that to remove the autograph, he'd need to paint over it, thus destroying a part of the exquisitely delicate brushwork. He said that an artist who can re-ink the damaged areas with sufficient finesse might come along again someday, but they are not alive now. Dennis said that my choices are to live with the art as-is, or sell it to a fan of Frank Frazetta's stunningly gorgeous 1953 romance art who also enjoys the musical stylings of Grammy-winning pop balladeer Billy Joel.

Next time I'll just have the art shipped.