Comic conventions are kaput. The country’s major comic book distributor has suspended deliveries. Publishers have told creators, “Pencils down.” Heck, Batman is self-quarantining on a lonely rooftop in Gotham City.

But just when I was beginning to worry about the future of the local comic-book shop – and civilization in general -- Debbie Smith called Thursday morning to explain why she never got back to me Wednesday night.

She was delivering masks to the VA Medical Center and Oregon Health & Science University.

Masks? Superhero masks, a la Deadpool, Catwoman and the ol’ Webslinger?

“Doctors’ masks,” said Smith, who owns Excalibur Comics on Southeast Hawthorne Boulevard. “I have a friend who works at OHSU and she says doctors and nurses are desperate for any kind of masks.

“So, I’m sewing them. Quilting fabric. One-hundred percent cotton. They’re safer than paper, and they can be washed. When I’m not at the store helping customers, I’m home making masks. And trying to entertain a two-year-old, which is quite the challenge.”

The last month has redefined “challenge” for small-business owners. Their shops are shuttered by the pandemic and Gov. Kate Brown’s stay-home order. Their best employees are among the 170,000 Oregonians who submitted new claims for unemployment insurance benefits in the last two weeks.

Supply and demand? They’ve been mugged at both ends of the equation. Even if their landlord has given them a temporary pass on rent, and the feds have promised similar relief on a distant stagecoach, the pandemic is gathering strength.

Cosmic Monkey Comics

“I think we’re going to get through this as a business, but it’s crazy. I’m kind of numb,” says Andy Johnson, who opened Cosmic Monkey in 2003. He’s working each day at the comic shop on Southeast Sandy Boulevard, packaging comics for curbside delivery, but he dials down the heat and lights to save money. “It’s dark and cold and empty. I’m still there, but it’s pretty depressing.”

The loneliness – of isolation, doubt and White House briefings – is as contagious as the virus. That’s why I’m inspired by Smith and her quilting fabric. And hopeful that Portland’s comic-shop owners are drawing strength from the community of readers who will, some summer day perhaps, roll through the door for another uplifting issue of “The Walking Dead,” “DCeased” or Stephanie Hans’ “Die.”

Ken Dyber launched Cloud 9 Comics on Southeast Clinton five years ago, and he admits, “I’m usually a glass half-empty guy.” He has a business degree. He knows the daily toll of brick and mortar. Long before COVID-19 came looking for us, Dyber wondered whether the store was worth the time and stress.

But each time he thought about shutting down, he had another chance encounter with an old comic or a new reader who had just discovered, on Netflix, a character Dyber has known for 40 years.

He desperately wants to believe that when Cloud 9 opens its doors again, his customers will have a shared experience that outweighs everything that divides them.

“In the days leading up to Kate Brown’s order, every single customer was talking about the same thing,” Dyber says. “A natural disaster brings people together. Everyone is afraid of the same thing, regardless of race, creed or socio-economic status. Maybe some good will come of this – a way for this country to heal itself a little bit.”

Debbie Smith at Excalibur

Some small businesses lend themselves to that forum better than others. Debbie Smith grew up, quite literally, at Excalibur Comics. Her parents opened the store in 1974 when they were both working full-time as nurses.

“It’s almost like a first home. I’ve spent the better part of my life in these aisles,” Smith says. “There’s a special kind of community here. We offer people a different kind of world. It’s escapism, yes. But we also give them a place where they’re loved and accepted, whoever they are. My customers have supported three generations of my family. They’re part of my family. We all take care of each other.”

When I asked Smith what she thought has changed forever in the last month, she said, “There are things I hope will change. I hope people will create a better connection with their neighbors and care a little more about the people around them. And I hope people will take things like this a little more seriously, instead of laughing them off, as a lot of Americans did at first.”

Then she signed off as she always does – “Anytime, sweetheart!” – and returned to that indomitable Singer sewing machine.

-- Steve Duin

stephen.b.duin@gmail.com