Ken Fox writes about his childhood rival, Michael Turner:

The first time I saw Michael Turner I thought to myself – “That idiot doesn’t know enough to be afraid.”

I was in 6th grade, sitting in the middle of music class rehearsing for a ridiculous school musical based on songs of the fifties. Mike wasn’t in my class, but for this particular debacle the music teacher, Mrs. Couch, decided to blend all the 6th grade classes. Apparently she was a strong believer in the idea that humiliation is better all spread out over a larger group of non-singing, lips barely moving, tone-deaf 12 year olds.

Mike didn’t fit. He didn’t quite get some simple truths that the rest of us just kind of understood from birth. Things like – Don’t sing in grade school – ever. If you for some unGodly reason find that you have no choice but to sing – don’t enjoy it.

Mike didn’t get it. Mike actually volunteered for it. What a freak.

I remember seeing him the first time. All of us had been sitting cramped on the floor for long minutes trying to memorize “chang chang changity (changity?) shee bop, ramma ramma lamma lamma iggity boom de-boom” when Mike calmly stood up, and Miss Couch started playing the piano.

I felt so bad for this poor kid that my face turned red (second hand humiliation).

But his face never got red. He just got this peaceful look on his face, looked up at the ceiling like no one else was in the room and let it all flow out. I don’t remember how good he was. I would have remembered if he had sucked. But that memory clip lost the audio a long time ago. What I do remember is that Michael Turner didn’t get it. He wasn’t afraid like he was supposed to be.

A few years later I got to know that weird kid. See, I was the resident artist in our Junior High School (Glenn Martin Jr. High) located in Crossville Tennessee.

Every school has one. It’s part of the pantheon of puberty. Every Jr. High in the country has the Singer, the Fighter, the Playboy, the Cheerleader, the Slut (usually long Blonde hair), the Geek, the Artist, and the Quarterback. Me? I was the Artist. Mike? He was the 2nd level artist (yeah – there are levels). Anyway – sooner or later our Mead brand Sketchbooks were bound to collaborate on some great unfinished project, and it finally happened.

The time I remember most from the Mike days was the weekend he was stayed at my house. That was when I first started to loathe him with admiration. We penciled for a while – he did it very well. We wrote for a while – he did it very well (the story was about dragons). We played Galaxa at a laundry matt waiting on my mom to pick us up for a while – guess what? yep. He did it very well. It became painfully obvious that whatever we happened to be doing - eating hamburgers and fries, tying our shoes, whistling the A-Team theme song, whatever – Mike did it very well.

Even back at school, when we were flirting with a girl named Paige Parvin he would be all “Mike Turner smooth” while I got all “Ken Fox not-so-smoothe-but-oh-how-I-know-in-my-heart-she-belongs-with-me-because-not-only-is-she-beautiful-and-smart-and-reads-all-the-time-but-she-loves-Barry Manilow too-and-even-though-every-other-guy-loves-ACDC-or-Iron Maiden-I-also-love-the Manilowster-and-memorized-every-lyric-years-ago-proving-we’re-meant-to-be-together.”

He even did Paige Parvin very well (that didn’t sound right).

When you’re a kid, you don’t know things as much as you just sense things. Like testosterone – you may not really “know” about hormones, but sooner or later you will get a “sense” of things going on insode you (see Paige Parvin reference). What I sensed about Mike was that his powers and abilities came from one thing. Yeah - this Kryptonian’s yellow sun boiled down to one variable above all – his ignorance.

Mike never had any idea what he couldn’t do.

At the same age when everyone else in parachute pants and legs warmers had to deal daily with massive limitations and insecurities, Mike Turner seemed buried in blissful security. I’d watch him while he was “very welling” something, and it was like the thought of failing never latched onto him, or entered into his arrogant, confident little mind.

Want proof? We lived in Tennessee – a landlocked rednecked state not known for its beaches and championship skiers. Mike was a championship skier. State Champion if I recall correctly. Florida State Champion. Yeah – you got it. He lived in Tennessee and had the audacity to travel to Florida and win their Barefoot Waterskiing State Championship. Who does that?

I moved away not long after 9th grade.

Years later, a co-worker in my design department brought in a comic book magazine that listed the top artists in the comic industry – you know, the movers and shakers. Guess who was high on the list?

My Jr. High art buddy graduated to the big leagues. And now- apparently, he was better than me – “much”, “way”, “uber” better than me. He was starting his own company after helping create a Witchblade craze at Top Cow. There was even talk of James Cameron making a movie based on his latest character. This dude was hot and getting hotter, and when I looked at the picture of him in the article I could see that same look of – “What? Of course I’m a success. Why wouldn’t I be?”

As you can imagine, I was thrilled for the guy that I instantly hated with 20 years of jealousy (interest compounded daily). You see, I was a bicycle graphics designer, a job I was happy to have – until I read the article. I was happy with my paycheck – until I imagined his.

It even made me angry with my father again. You see my dad’s version of artistic encouragement was to throw all of my comics into the furnace because I sucked at math. I’d show him my drawings and he would say – “You don’t really want to spend a life drawing cartoons do you son. That’s a waste boy.”

I would secretly and mentally yell back “You’re a manager for Kroger. You sell meat, tampons, and cottage cheese – who are you to tell me that telling a story means so little?” Of course, all of that would come out more like this – “Yeah – I guess you’re right Dad.”

I stopped drawing eventually. Mike didn’t. This article was an obvious move on fate’s part to rub my face in his “do it well” powers once again.

So I did what all pretend-friends do - I contacted Mike. More than anything I did it to prove what an arrogant snub the guy was. I needed proof of his cockiness and vanity to feel justified in my resentment. When he blew me off – I’d have it. I emailed his company knowing I’d never hear from the prima-michael.

He emailed me back. He gave me his number. But I knew better. He wouldn’t really answer or talk if I called. So I called. He answered, and said he would have to call me back. “Sure, man no problem!” I said as I was thinking “Oh yeah – big-shot comic man has no time.” I knew he wouldn’t actually call me back, which made it awkward for me later that night when he called me back.

We talked. He told me about how he had become who he was. He told me about his fight with cancer, his father, his brother (also a waterskiing champ I believe) his current projects, and even seemed sincere when asking about me. I had my own experience with cancer not long before that, so we had some new common ground. Then he sent me a package of his work, all autographed by the man himself.

I had a new respect for the person who had stolen my destiny. I almost admired this man who had been given too much far too easily. I have to admit, after talking to him it was much harder to maintain my distain for the golden singing boy. But, I kept fighting and managed to pull it off.

In the last year it got far easier to dislike Michael Turner.

I almost lost my marriage, had an affair, lost my job, almost lost my house, lost my reputation, self respect, and a woman I thought I loved all in a few months. I didn’t think much about Michael Turner while I was pulling all of this off mind you– but – if I had, I’m sure I would have been able to blame him for the majority of it. As an adult, I had worked professionally as a writer, artist, designer, and even managed to do radio and stand up comedy somewhat successfully. But with time I threw it all away, and had found myself working as a carpet salesman walking through the grocery store at 2 a.m. shopping for anything that gave me an excuse to not go to bed and non-sleep for the next few hours.

While I was sulk-shopping, I did what I’ve done a hundred times before – I picked up a copy of Wizard Comic Magazine (the same comic magazine that let me know about Michael years ago), tore the plastic seal away and started to browse through it as I zombied towards the bakery section.

And then I froze. I was wide awake.

A Michael Turner article. My mature thoughts were as follows “NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!NO! - NO WAY! Seriously…Please God! I beg of Thee - Spare me from having to look yet again at the man who has everything I ever wanted. Don’t make me see him now, when I’ve lost so much of what I had. I know You’re watching God, but I can’t be fake happy for him when I’m so truly sad for me!”

Then I read the article I was so afraid to read.

I’m certain there have been countless times in my life when I felt no shame even as I was doing things no good man would do without feeling shame. This was not one of those moments.

I read about his cancer coming back, and I was ashamed. I read about his countless tests. I read about his attitude, his workload, his prognosis, and everything else that constituted the “his” world I had been so envious of from a distance, and I was very ashamed.

I must have looked like a nutcase standing there in a 24 hour grocery store – an exhausted 36 year old with a comic book magazine crying next to the granola bars and Pop Tarts. I’m sure I looked like a fool to anyone awake enough to notice, but if I did, it would have been fitting.

I owe Michael Turner an apology that I’m not sure he would understand. I’m not sure I could explain it.

It turns out Michael Turner’s ability as an artist may very well, be the least of him. I won’t try to elaborate too much on all of the ways my jealousy made it hard to cheer for a childhood friend. It’d take too long, be too boring, and end up centered back on me like most things seem to wind up. And I don’t want to pretend like one article, one phone call, and an email give me insight into a man I knew as a third tier friend 20 years ago. We’re not close, and we don’t talk. I don’t know Mike anymore and he doesn’t know me.

I’d rather just say I’m sorry to Mike. I’m not sure how to reach him anymore – but I hope it reaches him anyway. I really am a big fan of yours now Mike. And, it’s not because you have cancer. That would be enough to create sympathy, but that’s got nothing to do with admiration. I’m a fan because after I read that article I understood better who you were, even back in those days of Jr. High.

I think you’re still the same kid - almost. But I know better now. I don’t look at you anymore and think you’re that kid that doesn’t know enough to be afraid. Any man would be afraid. You’re just someone who learned a long time ago to carry fear with more grace than most of us. You still don’t seem to understand when you’re supposed to let it weigh you down, when you’re supposed to let it stop or excuse you, and when you’re supposed to get wrapped up ever so tightly in self paralyzing pity.

And just like that kid in music class - you still haven’t learned there are things that can’t be done – you just keep doing them the same way you do everything else you set your mind on – you do them very well.

Keep doing it Mike.

Your fan, and the 2nd best artist from Glenn Martin Jr. High, Crossville TN,
Ken Fox

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