The first time I came in wearing my office casual khakis and asked for my comic book “pull” at Local Heroes, Meredith exclaimed, with perky school teacher delight,

Meredith, Superman, and Greg.

“Oh my gosh! I didn’t recognize you in grown-up clothes!”

I’ve been going steady with Local Heroes for almost a year now, reliving a comic book childhood that I never really had–I came of age in the rocking ’80s of comic books, when alternate chromium covers, bagged and boarded, were all the rage. With little allowance money to spend, I skipped the collector-edition X Men, and saved up for Scott-Lemond Drop-In handlebars. I was a bike geek, not a comic book geek.

Most days I swing by Local Heroes on my bike, on the way home from work, or as a break during weekend errand runs. I had inadvertently trained Meredith and her husband, Greg Thompson, to recognize me in my bike helmet, knickers, and t shirts. So when I parked our green Honda Element at the front door and walked into the store with my lanyard ID around my neck, Meredith wasn’t ready to hear me ask for, “Pull #59, Cheney.”

Wes' pull shelf.

“I didn’t know that was you!” Meredith said again in the slightly raspy voice of a hockey coach. With her welcoming charm, she reminded me of my junior high band teacher: the young, cool teacher who ran half marathons and rode centuries. In real life, Meredith is a high school Spanish teacher, but by night she’s the fourth, unpaid, Local Hero.

The first time I took my daughter to Local Heroes in her bike trailer, she fell asleep clasping a half-empty juice box. I parked the bike right in front of the wide open front window and stepped inside to the front counter, keeping an eye on my napping child. The next few times we went in, Abby shyly buried her face in my shoulder and would only give Meredith and Greg a tiny goodbye wave. But soon she was running to the “all ages” section in front of the comic book bins, sitting herself in front of a bookcase filled with Muppets and Star Wars comics.

If Meredith is the extroverted popular teacher, her husband Greg is the introverted AV Club techie. He was awkwardly shy when I asked him for comic book recommendations on my first visit, saying, “Well, take a look around. I don’t want to sell you something you don’t like.” It was so charming how he didn’t want to hurt my feelings.

As it turned out, Greg and I don’t share much in comic book tastes: I read DC’s Vertigo line, “for mature audiences,” avidly, while Greg has a broader taste for mainstream, impossibly-physiqued superheroes (think Stan Lee’s Marvel). I prefer my (ahem) “graphic novels” to be equal parts existential angst and gore (think Neil Gaiman or Alan Moore). Stan Lee gave us Spiderman and The X Men. Neil Gaiman gave us Coraline, and Alan Moore, The Watchmen.

Greg catered to my tastes, though, holding the latest Doctor Who and DMZ titles for me. I introduced my wife to fun and quirky British comic books, a literary equivalent of the BBC: out-funded by American media monopolies, but still able to produce cultural masterpieces. A stop by the comic book store became a family treat, followed up with beer and pizza next door at Cogan’s.

Abby Cheney, the author's daughter.

On a Saturday afternoon about a month ago, loyal, local customers were spilling out the door of Local Heroes, celebrating its first anniversary. With its high, bright ceilings and brick-road yellow walls, Local Heroes felt as sunny and inviting as Oz (Baum’s Oz, not HBO’s). The overstuffed leather Scandinavian couch and chair at the front window were filled progressively by kids, college students, grandmothers and toddlers. Greg was circling the hardwood floors as host of the party, with all hands on deck: half a dozen customers queued up at the till, and a dozen more waited to tell Jason Aaron author of award-winning titles such as Punisher, and Scalped, how awesome they thought he was, and could he please sign a book for Pooky. The newly-hired staff kept the pizza boxes in constant flow from Cogan’s to Local Heroes and back out to the dumpster.

In the mix and noise of the party, Abby turned shy, and wouldn’t make eye contact with Meredith as I passed her a handmade birthday card (drawn by Abby, dictated to Mom),

“Happy birthday, Local Heroes! A stone cave present for you! I love my Doctor Who comic books!”

With glee, Meredith pinned Abby’s card to the cork board at the front door, saying, “Thank you!”

No, thank you, Local Heroes. Happy birthday, and may you have many more.