The Incredible Owen

Over at the Cartoon Research website, there's an article by Devon Baxter about the comic book work of Owen Fitzgerald. Owen's name is barely known in the comics community, in large part because it almost never appeared on any of the hundreds of comic books he drew. As far as I know, he only got credit on about three comics he ever worked on, all of which were written and edited by me…and I had to talk him into letting me do that.

It's a good article but Baxter couldn't fit in all the impressive things about Owen. The one I would have tried to find room for is that when he worked for DC, his work was occasionally inked or assisted by a kid in the DC Production Department — a kid who went on to become one of the world's great cartoonists himself. The kid, who told me he considered Owen a mentor and a teacher, was Mort Drucker.

Owen passed away in 1994. Quiet guy that he was, we didn't hear about it for a while and it wasn't until the 2/9/96 issue of The Comic Buyer's Guide that I was able to devote a column to telling folks about him. This is a slightly abridged (but still quite long) version of that column. I will meet you on the other side of it with some additional information…

It has been called to my attention by absolutely no one so far that I occasionally tell stories in which the editor of a comic book is the bad guy. And I'll admit: Though I have occasionally had the title of Editor hung on myself, my heart is ever that of a freelancer. And I don't even like to think of myself as a writer-editor…I prefer to be called a writer who occasionally edits. In the interest of Equal Time though, this column is about editors and how they can sometimes be victimized…how the freelancer (writer or artist) can sometimes be the villain.

A new editor had just been hired by the company and given a book to write and edit. It was a comic with a large cast and therefore quite the challenge to any artist. The editor got lucky when he managed to secure his first choice for the art assignment. The end-result was on-time and rather well-drawn.

But the editor was new at this and didn't realize that he should have had #2 well in the works as the art for #1 was being completed. At first, he didn't worry for the artist he'd picked was super-fast and reliable.

But then, the super-fast and reliable artist announced that he was leaving for a lengthy cruise on an ocean liner. He was willing to take work along — and he certainly would have gotten it done swiftly — but he wouldn't be anywhere he could mail pages in for at least six weeks. This clearly would not do and the editor began looking for a new artist.

He needed someone just as fast and just as reliable so he studied all the likely candidates and settled on one who was known for having both these qualities. The editor called the artist, quoted top dollar, warned him about the tight schedule and offered him the job. The artist thought it over for maybe ten seconds, then agreed. He also said he'd have no trouble making the deadline.

A cause for celebration! The editor finished his script quickly and sent it winging to the artist, along with reference on the characters.

A few days later, he called the artist to see that the package had arrived safely. "Got it," the illustrator announced. "Great script! I've already got it all broken-down and I've even got a few pages done. As for meeting your deadline…no problemo."

The editor exhaled, thanked various deities and relaxed for the first time since he found out Artist #1 was signing aboard the Love Boat.

Over the next week or ten days, the editor periodically called the artist. He liked the reassurance that the work was proceeding on schedule and, each call, the artist told him what he wanted to hear. If you've ever worked in comics, you've no doubt already guessed where this is leading.

The artist was to deliver a finished book — penciled — by the 15th. That was the day it had to go to the letterer and the inker and, from there, to a colorist, then through production and on to the engravers. As a general rule, a good editor would never cut it that close; he'd have a little "pad" in the schedule so that if someone got sick or slow, it would all still get to the printers on time. But the editor had gotten lucky on #1 and, well, he was young. He would, however, soon be growing older at an alarming rate.

On the tenth, he phoned the artist and was told, "I just have a few pages to go…you'll have it on the fifteenth, no problemo."

"Could you send me the first half of the book?" he asked. "I can get the inker started."

The artist hemmed and hawwed. "Uh, I don't actually have too many finished pages…see, when I work, I like to jump around and finish panels randomly 'til it's all done. But you'll have it on the fifteenth. No problemo."

The editor grudgingly agreed to wait…and he didn't worry a lot when he got off the phone. The artist was a pro and a pro delivers when he says he's going to deliver. At least, some do.

Came the fifteenth and there were no pages on his desk. He called the artist. "Just need another day," he was told. "I had to redo the first page…you would have hated it."

"I wouldn't have hated it if it were here," the editor responded. This was a Friday and the artist promised to have it in on Monday. "No problemo," he said seven or eight times.

Monday morn, there was a problemo: Not a page in sight. The editor called. No answer. No answer at the artist's number all day.

No answer on Tuesday.

By Wednesday, the letterer was coming by, asking the editor when that book would be in. The inker, who was holding himself available for the job's imminent arrival, also was inquiring. "Any day now," the editor told them…for indeed, that is what he believed.

Thursday arrived. The pages didn't.

Nor were there any on Friday, at least in the morning. He dialed the artist's number every ten minutes all day. Finally, long after quitting time, someone picked up.

"I'm coming over for the pages," he told the artist.

"No, don't," said the artist, who had only answered his phone, thinking it couldn't be the office calling at this hour. "I don't have them all done yet."

"You were almost done a week ago."

"Yes, well, I had some problems…personal things. I'd rather not go into them. But I can have it all in on Monday."

"Fine," said the editor. "Get me the last pages on Monday but I'm coming over now for whatever's done." It was a two-hour drive to the artist's house — four hours, both ways — but things had gotten desperate.

"No," the artist barked. "I don't have enough to make it worth your while."

"I'll take whatever you've got," the editor said. "How many have you got?" The book was twenty-four pages.

"Well, let me see…" The artist went through the sounds of apparently counting out a number of pages. "I only have ten finished," he said.

"Okay…I'll drive out and get the ten."

The artist gulped. "Well, they're kind of rough…"

"I'll live with it. The inker can tighten them up."

"Oh no, I wouldn't want an inker to do that."

"I'll pay him extra," the editor said.

The artist's voice grew firmer. "I'll tighten them up and have the whole job to you by Monday. No prob-"

"I know, I know — no problemo! Well, I have a problemo. The inker has been sitting around with no work for a week. He turned down another job because you assured me the pages would be here for him last week. So he's already lost a week's pay. And the production department is ready to burn me in effigy. I have to have those ten pages. I'll be there in about two hours."

"Well, I don't really have ten pages," the artist said.

"A minute ago, you had ten pages."

"I just counted again and I guess I miscounted."

The editor raised his voice, ever so slightly: "How many do you have?"

The artist paused and answered, "Two."

"Two?"

"Two."

The editor queried how "almost finished" had turned into ten pages and how ten pages had now turned into two. "I think you're using the wrong end of the pencil."

"I have it all drawn…but only in my mind. I can put it on paper real fast. If you'll give me until Monday…"

"I'll be there in two hours," the editor said. "I hope the two pages haven't turned into one panel by then."

The editor jumped in his car and started driving, pondering en route just what he was going to do. After a while, he stopped thinking about what he was going to do to the artist and began wondering what he was going to do about getting a book to press. He decided that trusting this artist to have anything in on Monday would establish new high scores on the Stupidity Meter.

Eventually, he found his way to the artist's house. It was dark and there was no answer when he rang the bell. A manila envelope was on the porch. It contained the script, which meant that the artist was not going to attempt to draw any more of it. There were also two penciled pages — not good but not bad. The editor got the distinct impression that all or most of them had been drawn in the past two hours while he'd been on the freeway.

There are few feelings more awful than sitting there with a deadline long past and no way to meet it. The editor felt more than a little helpless that night as he returned home late and paced the floor of his home, alternately fuming at the fibbing artist and pondering how to get twenty-two pages drawn in record time. He momentarily considered publishing a reprint instead but didn't figure that the readers would be too thrilled to have the second issue of this comic be a reprint of the first issue of this comic.

The next morning — a Saturday — he began phoning artists, looking for someone fast who could do some or all of the pages of this book with the huge cast. One after another proved unavailable…but then one of them said that he'd heard somewhere that Owen was looking for work.

Suddenly, there was sunlight…

"Owen" was Owen Fitzgerald. When I started this tale, I intended to keep everyone unnamed but, as I wrote, I recalled the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed me that night — yes, I was the naive editor of our tale — and I remembered the way Owen saved my hind quarters, as he saved so many in his long, incredible career. For most of that career, he was utterly anonymous and, in gratitude, I decided I shouldn't keep him anonymous here…even if it means admitting to you that I was the guy who was so stupid as to get himself into this predicament.

Owen Fitzgerald was the fastest artist I've ever known.

And I know about fast artists: I've worked with Jack Kirby, Dan Spiegle, Pat Boyette, Alex Toth and others who have been hailed as the fastest ever. Many say that my best buddy Sergio Aragonés is the fastest artist alive and in a recent column here, I suggested that the late Mike Sekowsky might be due that honor. I forgot about Owen when I wrote that.

It was easy to forget about Owen. He was quiet and unassuming…and he talked with a slow, Arkansas drawl that didn't suggest he could do anything quickly. Still, put a pencil in his hand, blink, and you totally missed the creation of the picture.

Owen worked mostly in animation. He'd worked at Disney, worked at DePatie-Freleng, worked everywhere. In director Chuck Jones' autobiography, Chuck Amuck, there's a group shot photo of all the artists working with Chuck at Warner's at the time. Even Chuck forgot about Owen and had to identify him in the photo caption as an unnamed "Talented layout artist."

When I met Owen, he was the all-purpose trouble-shooter at Hanna-Barbera. Whenever a show was in deadline trouble, they'd put him on it and the show would suddenly be on or ahead of schedule. His work was so good, he'd have been hired anywhere, had he been one-tenth the speed. His velocity was an extra bonus as was his versatility. Some guys can draw humor but not adventure, some can draw adventure but not humor. Owen could do it all.

He was a layout artist and in animation, the work of a layout artist is measured in scenes: "How many scenes did you do today?" A good, competent layout artist ought to be able to do forty scenes in one week. A fast one does fifty or maybe even sixty. There were tales of Owen doing well over a hundred without breaking a sweat and that's with extra-long lunch breaks. All he needed was a pencil, paper, his cigarettes and an unlimited supply of Coca-Cola.

At one point when H-B was producing Jana of the Jungle, two episodes had to be done quickly and simultaneously. The supervisor put seven artists on one of the shows; on the other, he put Owen along with Jack Manning. (Jack was another fast artist; in fact, he was the guy who drew #1 of my comic and then got on the cruise ship.) Owen and Jack finished first. And they were both in their sixties, whereas the seven guys on the other crew were all in their twenties or thirties.

Owen worked occasionally in comics, mostly in the fifties. He was the first artist on DC's Bob Hope comic book. He also drew Ozzie and Harriet and a few issues of The Fox and the Crow. For a time, he assisted Hank Ketcham on the Dennis the Menace Sunday page and ghosted those wonderful, unsung Dennis the Menace comic books. Shortly before his death, he drew the Bugs Bunny newspaper strip for a while.

That Saturday morn, when I heard Owen might be available, I did figurative cartwheels. I got his number, called him and explained my predicament. "Can you draw this book and can you jump on it right away?"

In his slow, measured way, he asked, "Would Monday morning be okay?"

I gasped. "You can't start until Monday?"

"Hell, no," he chuckled. "I'll finish by Monday." I would never have thought that humanly-possible…but this was Owen.

I drove out and met him at noon in a parking lot midway between his home and mine. I ran some errands afterwards and when I got home at three, there was a message from Owen on my answering machine: "Hey, this is easier than I thought…already have three pages done. I'll have it finished by tomorrow afternoon, easy." Darned if he didn't.

For the issue to be done at all in that time was amazing but as it happens, he also did excellent work — no short-cuts, no cheating. It didn't look at all like a rush job.

By now, I'd learned my lesson. I quickly wrote #3 and gave it to Owen to draw. He took his time on this one. He took three days. I could have gotten the whole first year of the comic done in a month if Owen hadn't gotten another animation job and declined further comic book assignments. In the year or two following, he occasionally had a few days free and I'd rush out a script for him. I am said to be a very fast writer but Owen could draw 'em faster than I could write 'em.

I was sad to hear he'd passed away recently…and not just because I might someday need his services again. I was sad because he was a very nice man and he came to my rescue in a desperate hour of need. Wherever he is today, I'll bet their comics are all on schedule.

Okay, that's the story and by now you've figured out that the comic book all this panic was about was Hanna-Barbera's Laff-a-Lympics. The inker, letterer and colorist were — in that order — Scott Shaw!, Carol Lay and Carl Gafford. They were also all heroes in getting #2 and #3 done and off to press in a hurry.

Still, through no one's fault but mine, #2 got in two weeks late. When I published this article originally, I left out part of the tale because I thought it might be in bad taste just then. Enough time has passed that I think it's okay to share it here…

This, of course, is a story about me screwing up and engaging in much panic and worry about the consequences. The main consequence I was worried about was not me getting fired. It was me getting yelled at by John Verpoorten. My job as an editor in the Hanna-Barbera Comic Book Division in Hollywood was to deliver a publishable, ready-to-print comic book to Mr. Verpoorten, who was the Production Manager for Marvel Comics back in New York.

Mr. Verpoorten was a much-beloved gentleman who was very good in the thankless job of getting freelancers to hand in their work on time.  He handled so many comics that probably every day of his life for years, he dealt with much the same problem I had.

I suspect that part of the reason he was hired for that position was that he could look very menacing. He was large — taller than me and I'm 6'3" and he was even wider than me. When he was perturbed or it was necessary to get tough with a tardy writer or artist, he could sport a really chilling scowl and be a very effective Bad Cop.

I was really afraid of him. I'm not sure specifically what I was afraid he would do. He was 3,000 miles away from me so I didn't think it would be physical but…well, let's just say I was dreading the phone call demanding to know where the hell the issue was. Really dreading it.

Okay, so let's scroll back to the point in the story where Owen has drawn the comic over the weekend. I have Carol and Scott working madly on finishing it with Carl standing by but it's still going to be late…perhaps two weeks late. I decide that instead of waiting for that call, it will be more professional and less painful if I call John and tell him the book's going to be late. "Might as well get it over with," I muttered to myself. And also, I didn't want to do to him a version of what Mr. "No Problemo" had done to me.

I put it off until Wednesday I think but that morn, I steeled up all the meager courage I ever possess (about a gerbil's worth) and dialed Marvel's number in New York. An operator answered and I told her, "Mr. Verpoorten's office, please." She said she'd connect me. It rang and another woman answered, "Production Department." I asked for John Verpoorten. She asked who was calling. I told her and then she said…

"Oh, Mark, I guess you haven't heard. John died over the weekend."

In my life, I have never celebrated or even grinned at the death of another human being; not even folks who have seriously wronged me…not even serial killers or torturers or people who call you up and tell you they're with Microsoft and you have a virus on your computer which they can remove if you give them remote access.  I have never been happy when anyone dies…

…but for just one moment there after I heard what the lady on the phone told me, I did a little mental fist bump and went, "Yessssss!"

Then I settled down into proper reverence along with the guilt about the mental fist bump.  I sent in the second issue as soon as it was done and no one said anything.  Not a word.  We got #3 done A.S.A.P. and then…

Well, remember how the artist on the first issue, Jack Manning, drew it and then left on a cruise?  I had a couple days before he left so I wrote two Laff-a-Lympics scripts in two days and gave them to him to take along and to draw on the boat.  Around the time we finished #3, Jack got back from his trip and he turned in the pencil art for the two issues so I had #4 and #5 all drawn…and plenty of time to find a new artist and get him to work on #6. (Jack was too busy to do any more just then.)  I remained well ahead of schedule for the rest of the book's run.  Almost.

Anyway, that's the story of how Owen Fitzgerald saved my hide when I made just about the dumbest mistake a boy comic book editor can make.  If you ever become the editor of a comic book, don't count on anyone bailing you out the same way.  They don't make 'em like Owen anymore.