Pico Drug
by Mark Evanier
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 2/7/97
Comics Buyer's Guide
A few months ago, I told a story about when I was a youth, racing to the newsstand on Tuesdays and Thursdays to procure the new comics. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to receive the letter I just received. It was from a fan who is now the age I was then, wondering why I didn't just go to the comic shop on Friday, the way he does. Sigh.
That wasn't how we got our comic books back then; comic book shops as we know them did not exist. (There were stores that sold comics but they were used book shops that sold every kind of second-hand publication, comics included.) Instead, we trooped to comic racks located in markets, drugstores and even the occasional corner newsstand.
There were regional variations. Some east coast cities had establishments called candy stores, which sold candy, ice cream, sodas…and comic books. Many of them had tables where one could sit as one consumed one's ice cream, and page through a comic book from the rack. (Never having actually been to a candy store, that's about all I can report; perhaps someone with more vivid and eastern recollections can offer more on the subject.)
In 1970, the first time I visited the DC offices in New York, I was quizzed by several execs about the distribution situation in Los Angeles. When I told them I bought my comics at a liquor store, eyebrows shot up; to them, a "liquor store" was a store that sold liquor. In New York, at least back then, one would no more go into a liquor store to buy comic books than one would go to a candy store for a pint of Jack Daniels.
But back then in L.A., many liquor stores were more like mini-markets that also sold spirits. There was a pressing need then for something smaller and more convenient than the block-long supermarkets that were taking over, driving out the independent foodsellers. The 7-Eleven chain was just getting launched, and the following decade would see "convenience stores" sprouting like zits on a teen-ager.
(I don't know that it's still the case but, back when they started, the 7-Eleven chain made a conscious effort to build near schools; there were, at one time, four within a five block radius of my old junior high. They drew a lot of their business, quite intentionally, from kids stopping off on the way home after classes for a Pepsi and a Snickers, and were laid out accordingly. Like the east coast candy stores, this made them ideal places to sell comic books, at least until Pac-Man came along, and the proprietors learned that a video game took the same space as a comic book rack, and brought in a lot more revenue.)
All the comic book racks of the day received their comics via conventional newsstand distribution — a system still much in use, though it is no longer the life's blood of the comic industry. I don't know how they do it now, but the custom back then was to distribute twice a week — Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you were an avid comic collector like moi, you knew every comic book rack within commuting distance and you hit at least one on each of those days.
Often, this required patience. I'd sometimes get to the store after school, around 3:30, only to find that the person in charge of putting out the new comics hadn't yet put out the new comics. They'd be sitting in a bundle with the other new magazines, over by the cash register, waiting for someone to get around to the task. The store made so little off comics that they were rarely a high priority, even when the clerks saw my friends and me moping about, staring impatiently at the wire-bound package.
I purchased a lot of my comics at Pico Drug on Pico Boulevard in West L.A. near Overland Avenue. Like most Southern California drugstores, drugs accounted for a fraction of their commerce. They sold candy and sodas and milk and magazines and toys and there was even a little lunch counter, where I don't believe I ever ate.
Pico Drug had a wonderful comic book rack, perfectly situated where the cashier couldn't see if you loitered there for a half-hour, reading what you couldn't afford to purchase. They carried everything. And they sometimes didn't send back the unsold comics when they were supposed to. If you'd missed an issue of Detective Comics two months back, you might well still find it if you rooted around their shelves.
You might also find something else: Naked women. They had "adult" magazines in another rack, over where the clerks could see, the better to keep kids from paging through them. But someone had taken a magazine full of naughty photos and stashed it down behind the base of the comic book rack, well out of the cashier's line of sight. I found it there once when I was desperately groping about for a Green Lantern I'd missed.
The magazine was devoted to the work of a terrific glamour photographer named Peter Gowland. At various stages in my life, I have wanted to grow up to be Charles Schulz, George S. Kaufman, Bob Clampett, Al Feldstein or Rob Petrie — worthy role models, all. But if you've ever been a twelve year old boy, you can understand how for a time there, I wanted desperately to grow up to be Peter Gowland. I wasn't sure precisely what he did but if he got be in the same room as those women, it had to be the best job in the world. If he got paid too, so much the better.
The photos were mild by today's standards — they were even mild by 1964 standards — but they were riveting. No actual human being, live and in person, could ever look as good as those ladies in that magazine. Again, if you've ever been a twelve year old boy, you understand. For a few months there, I couldn't go to Pico Drug without digging it out for a furtive glance or three. Suddenly, buying the new comics was of secondary importance.
I always replaced the magazine when I was done peeking, so it would be there for my next visit. I suspected I wasn't the only funnybook reader who knew it was there and was having a little look-see when no one was watching.
It turned out I was right. A friend of mine named Carl also frequented Pico Drug. In fact, we'd met when we were wrestling over the last copy of Journey Into Mystery With Thor one month. Once, when I ran into him there and we decided to walk on over to his house, we somehow got onto the subject. One of us told the other about the hidden nudie mag and the other confessed to having known about it and grabbed the occasional glimpse. We theorized we weren't the only ones; that this one copy had attained a truly amazing circulation figure without ever being purchased.
An incredible coincidence happened that day. My life has abounded in incredible coincidences and I think this is the earliest one I recall. We were walking up Overland Avenue as we talked about the forbidden book, and Carl was wondering how this Peter Gowland person got women to pose like that. Suddenly, at the corner of Overland and Esther Avenues, about four blocks from Pico Drug, I noticed a sign on an office we were passing. So help me, it said, "Peter Gowland Photography."
Carl and I stopped and stared in shock: This was where the naked women came from! In fact, some of those photos had probably been taken just inside that building, not ten feet from where we were standing.
We stood there for I-don't-know-how-long, trying to look casual, hoping that one of the goddesses would emerge, perhaps forgetting to don all her garments. Sadly, the door only opened to let a Sparklett's Water delivery man in with a full bottle and out with an empty. Still, Carl gasped, "His models drank the water that was in there…"
In the following weeks, Carl and I lingered past the Gowland Studios a few times but we never saw anyone else, clad or otherwise, go in or out. Then, one day, it stopped being Peter Gowland Photography — he moved elsewhere — and it became an ordinary realtor's office. We thought of going in and asking if we could look around, just in case Mr. Gowland had accidentally left a nude woman or two behind, but we never did,
The women at Pico Drug went away, too. One day, I reached behind the rack for the magazine, only to find it missing. It was a very sad moment. I supposed that some store employee had found and removed it…though the next time I saw Carl, we simultaneously accused each other of stealing it.
Ever after, I went to Pico Drug only for the comic books, but that was still a good reason. There was a kindly, elderly man who worked the cash register. He looked like a benevolent Keenan Wynn and he called everyone "honey," even the boys, though not in an effeminate way. I never knew his name but I sometimes heard people refer to him as "Pops." So "Pops" he was.
I got my first lesson in comic book sales considerations from watching him ring up my purchases. Most comics were 12 cents when I started buying there. When some went to 15, it created an enormous problem for Pops; he had to stop and search each cover for the price — not always the easiest thing for him to locate.
(I forget which one it was but DC actually published a comic about that time that had no price on the cover, at least on the copies that made it to L.A. Some engraver's error, I suppose. I'm sure Pops wasn't the only clerk thrown into conniptions by this, and he almost didn't let me buy that book; not until I'd explained a half-dozen times that it had to be the same price as the other DCs of like size that were released that day.) Eventually, his life got easier when all the thirty-two page comics went to 15 cents.
The thicker ones were a quarter but they were easier to identify. Each had a flat spine — called a "bridge" in printer parlance. One exception was a brief time when Tower Comics, which published T.H.U.N.D.E.R. Agents and a few other titles, issued some 25-centers in the non-bridged, saddle-stitched format. When I got into the business, a Marvel exec cited that experiment as one of the reasons for Tower's demise. Said he, "A lot of dealers wouldn't even put those comics on the racks. They make so little off their comics that it's a financial disaster if they accidentally sell a 25-cent book for 15 cents."
I could have told him that. I remember how much it baffled Pops.
Pops was very nice to me. When he was on duty, he made certain that the new comics were unpacked before my usual arrival time.
When I started getting letters published in comic books, I started buying an extra copy of those issues for my mother. Pops would go through my pile as he rang up the sale and he'd say, "Wait! You have two of the same here." Each time, I would explain to him that I'd written a letter that had been printed and, each time, he'd congratulate me like I'd achieved something truly noteworthy, and read my letter aloud.
This happened every time I had a letter printed, every time Pops noticed me buying two alike. No matter how many people were behind me in line, impatient to buy cigarettes or pay for prescriptions, Pops would make them wait while he read aloud some letter about who was the best inker for Gil Kane.
One night after closing, as the staff was locking up, some men with guns kicked in the rear door of Pico Drugs. They were after drugs or money (probably both) and when a druggist moved for the phone, they started firing.
The next day, we found Pico Drug closed, with yellow police tape keeping anyone from getting near. A neighbor told me she'd heard that one store employee had been killed. I had a horrible feeling it was Pops.
A week later, the store was open again and I went in, less eager to grab the new comics than to see if Pops would be behind the cash register. He wasn't. A lady was — apparently a new employee. She had zero information about the robbery and wouldn't say who, if anyone, had been killed or what had become of "the old guy." She did, however, point out one actual bullet hole in the wall, just below the ceiling, and she muttered something about bad memories and the owner wanting to get out of this shabby place anyway.
When I went by a few days later, workmen were remodeling the empty shop next door. A sign in its window proclaimed it as the future home of Pico Drugs. Meanwhile, over in the old building, Pops wasn't behind the counter…not that day, not the following Tuesday, not the following Thursday. I was sure he was gone.
Less than a month later, Pico Drug moved to its new accommodations next door and the old site was closed down, eventually to reopen housing the worst delicatessen in which I ever dined.
The new Pico Drug was slick and modern and I found it terribly depressing to go in there the first time. For one thing, it meant my old hangout was gone forever. For another, the new comic rack barely had room for one week's releases — no back numbers, no place to sit and read, no place for another girlie mag to get hidden. I selected the new comics from the new shelves and made my way up to pay. I felt an enormous sadness, right until I got to the front counter.
There was Pops, calling me "honey," telling me I had two of the same comics. I didn't know where he'd been and I didn't care.
Pico Drug has long since been torn down and Pops, if he's even alive, must be pushing a hundred. But every so often, when someone points out one of my old published letters in Aquaman or wherever, I can remember him making the other customers wait while he read it aloud. And I still recall how happy I was that day I found him back behind the register.