“Being Stan Lee,” Part I

Originally published December 24, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1362

“Being Stan Lee”

Gregor Samsa awoke one day to discover that he was Stan Lee.

Gregor—“Greg” to his friends—had been sorting through back-issue comics, part of his job at Ninth World Comics in Malibu. It was, however, taking Greg longer to do than usual, because he had stumbled over old issues of Fantastic Four that he remembered fondly. The storyline was the immortal “Battle of the Baxter Building” sequence, and reading those issues had led to reading others, both before and after. Childhood memories seized him, and he was transported to those pleasant recollections of the first, heady days of Marvel—back when it was the company that could do no wrong, and every issue was an infinity of possibilities.

He muttered the dialogue out loud as he read it, carried away as always by the style of the inimitable Stan Lee. So many people had tried to diminish his contributions to Marvel’s success, but there was no question that it was his voice that provided the heart and soul of the characters.

Fired by sudden inspiration, Greg used the store’s computer to go online and ran a search under the name of his creative hero. Sure enough, he was quickly led to stanlee.net. He chuckled as curtains opened on the screen and a computer cartoon of Stan Lee—recorded with Lee’s inimitable tone—welcomed him. He surveyed the options and was attracted to the entry of “free newsletter.” It was the description that caught his eye. It read, “Get wired directly to Stan all the time!”

He couldn’t pass that up. Yet, for some reason, the mouse vibrated urgently beneath his hand as he paused over the option. It seemed to be—warning him. He ignored it—and clicked on the invitation to “Get wired directly to Stan.”

A jolt seized him, shoved him to his feet. He stumbled forward, his trembling hand still glued to the mouse, and he slammed his head into a shelf, bringing the shelf’s contents cascading down upon him. The last thing he saw was the boxed set of Origins of Marvel Comics and Son of Origins tumbling toward his head, and then there was blackness…

But not nothingness. Instead, there was a feeling of disorientation and a sliding sensation, as if he were reliving his own birth. And suddenly he was speaking—except he wasn’t.

There were words, but he wasn’t forming them. There was speech, but it wasn’t his voice.

He seemed to be viewing the world through someone else’s eyes, with Greg merely being a spectator. What he was looking at was an eager young man who was waving a comic book in his face. Certainly, it was sight that he had seen often enough, but he immediately realized that he was not in his normal store. Also, he was used to seeing kids with looks of irritation or frustration. Not this guy. There was eagerness, bordering on reverence. As opposed to so many customers who trudged in and out of the store, acting as if they were frustrated or annoyed in pursuing their chosen hobby, this customer was obviously thrilled to be here. And there were more like him, lined up to the door and beyond.

The gaze of the eyes he was looking through shifted from the eager customer to a comic book in front of him. It was Avengers #4. And a voice from inside his own head said, “I remember this one… feels as if I wrote it yesterday. Matter of fact, it might have been yesterday… you know how my memory is.”

The customer laughed. Greg couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t that funny a comment. But, clearly, it had been elevated in the guy’s mind to utter hilarity.

Greg was continuing to look down at the comic book and then he saw his hand, except it was a much older hand. There was a marker in it. It was descending toward the comic book. Nooooo! Greg tried to scream, it’s in Mint condition, keep the marker away from it! But it was too late. Greg’s hand—or the hand that was not Greg’s hand—had already scribbled on it. It read, “To Tony… Excelsior! Stan Lee.”

Stan Lee? But that was—it was impossible. He had been at his comic store. What was he doing now, being Stan Lee? How could people mistake him? How had he come here?

Then a wristwatch—his own—came into view. It had Spider-Man on it. “Whoops!” came that familiar, cheery voice from within his head. “Gotta go!”

There was a collective moan from the fans who were still waving their comics, and then a guy whom Greg took to be the store owner stepped in and called, “Folks, Stan stayed an hour longer than he was supposed to! He’s got other places he’s gotta go! Big hand for Stan Lee!”

The line of customers, even though they hadn’t been satisfied with getting an autograph, didn’t seem to harbor any grudge. Greg couldn’t believe it. At his store, if he didn’t satisfy everyone’s every whim, they treated him like dirt. Like gum on their shoes. But here Stan Lee (Stan Lee? Impossible!) was bolting, and it didn’t diminish their love for him one bit.

Greg watched in amazement as “his” hand pressed the flesh with fan after fan, as he angled toward the door. “And remember,” Stan Lee was saying, “I have seen the future, and it is cyber-comics! Open the door to the 7th Portal, coming soon! Excelsior!”

“Excelsior!” they chorused back at him, like adoring worshipers at a religious gathering.

The moment he was out the door, he bounded across the parking lot, headed for a Range Rover with the license plate “THE MAN.” Why was everything so dark? It had been dim in the store, and now it was dim outside. He vaulted into it, gunned the engine, and angled onto the street.

This can’t be happening, thought Greg, and then he saw himself glancing into the rearview mirror. His confusion about the lighting was immediately cleared up when he saw his face; he was wearing sunglasses. Sunglasses, a wide smile, and someone else’s face.

His face. Stan Lee’s face.

“Running late. He’s gonna kill me,” muttered Stan Lee, as he urged the Range Rover forward. It blended with the traffic, and some passing nubile young women in an open-topped sports car were waving to him. Stan Lee waved back. He seemed quite at ease about it.

Suddenly, there was a steady beeping from a place just under the dashboard. Stan Lee touched the cigarette lighter twice, and a small speaker slid into place. “Yeah,” said Stan Lee.

The speaker crackled to life. “Stan, this is Captain Tangretti, third precinct. We have a situation at the First Savings and Loan. Bank robber’s holding hostages.”

“Again?” said Stan Lee. “Jesus, Jimmy, this is the third one this month. I’m late for a meeting with Bill as it is.”

“Can’t help it, Stan. You’re the only one who can handle it—the only one they listen to…”

Stan Lee sighed a moment, but then the world bobbed up and down and Greg realized that Stan Lee was nodding. “All right,” he said. “On my way.”

He pushed a red button on the dashboard. The vehicle suddenly roared. Some sort of afterburner had kicked in. Greg gulped in silence, as he saw the speedometer jump to 90 miles an hour, inching toward 100. Yet Stan Lee didn’t seem to notice the speed, weaving through other cars as if they were parked. Other motorists would have screamed at anyone else, but they all appeared to recognize him. They pumped the air as he hurtled past, shouting, “Go get ’em, Stan! Whatever it is, you’re our only hope!”

“You got that right, true believers!” shouted Stan Lee.

I’ve lost my mind, thought Gregor Samsa.

To be continued

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He can name at least two movies in which John Malkovich appeared.