I don't remember the exact time of the call. After one, I think. I had drifted off to sleep shortly after the latest show in the CSI franchise, CSI: Band Camp.

“Mmuh?” I said, picking the phone up and speaking into the earpiece. It took a me a minute to realize my mistake and reverse. “Who?”

“Is this Jeff Lester?” It was a man’s voice, roughly my age.

“Spooky?”

“No. Jeff Lester? Who works at Comix Experience?”

“Oh. No. Yeah. Yeah, it's me.” I rubbed at the corner of one of my eyes. I realized my Spider-Man underoos were getting a little tight and I should buy another pair soon. I’d had them since I was eleven. “Who's this?”

“This is Brian Bendis.”

“The Brian Bendis? As in 'Power Man…in Your Butt!' Brian Bendis? As in 'An Entire Issue of Monkey Sex' Brian Bendis? As in 'If It Wasn't For Ultimate Carnage, There Would've Been an Ultimate Threesome' Brian Bendis?”

“Uh, I don't want to, but I guess I have to say yes.”

“Hmmm, right.” I could feel my Spider-Man shirt stretch dangerously thin as I twisted and turned on the light. “And why would Brian Bendis be calling me?”

“Well, I don't know if you've been keeping up with your comix news, but I recently held a panel at WizardWorld in Chicago where I talked about a Batman/Daredevil crossover I have in mind that Paul Levitz won't publish?”

“Uhhhhhh…yes?”

“Until Joe Quesada has left Marvel?”

“I've heard of that, yes.”

“Well, I was just calling to let you know that I am really and truly sorry about the whole thing. I'd intended to start a grass-roots campaign and the whole thing got out of hand and turned into this wrestlemania type thing I had never intended. And I'm just calling to say that I very much respect DC Comics, I in no way support a ban on DC Comics, and I am a big fan of many of the comics and creators at DC Comics.”

“Well,” I said, and squinted over at the clock. “Gee. That's, uh, good to know, I guess. But why are you calling to tell me that?”

“Oh, I'm calling everyone in comics. I fell really bad about it, and it was definitely a mistake.”

“Wait. Everyone in comics?”

“Well, more or less. There's really not that many people and I'm a little ahead on my deadlines so…you know.” He coughed briefly. “It really was a mistake. And I certainly won't do it, or anything like it ever again.”

“You know, I'm, uh, I'm really flattered that you'd call me, but I don't work in comics by most people's definitions.” I said. “By anyone's definition, in fact.”

“No, I'm calling everyone who reads comics. You know. People. Who read comics. I'm calling them to say, hey, that was kind of dumb, and I'm not a guy who makes problems. I'm a guy who solves problems.”

“You're calling everyone in comics? Everyone reading comics?”

“Yup. I know that panel was a dumb thing to do, but Brubaker and I were really excited about this. Oeming, too. Oh, and Mack. He was willing to do cover paintings for it—an extended fold-out for front and back covers—and he was going to have his cover fee go to charity, too. It's really a shame.”

“Man, that sounds pretty cool.”

“Yeah, yeah. And Brube and I had worked out this awesome fight between Elektra and Catwoman, and we were toying with the Black Widow and Batgirl. It was just a buttload of cool ideas. I really honestly think it would have been one of the best projects ever. Seriously.”

“Gosh,” I said and looked at my clock. I would have to be up for work in less than five hours. “So—”

“Hey, would you happen to have Paul Levitz’s home number on you?”

“What? Me?” Stupidly, I looked on my nightstand as if it might be written there. “No, but, um, maybe Hibbs—”

“Oh, wait. Here it is. (212) 782-7269. Boy, I just couldn’t find it for a second.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Look, do me a favor. I didn’t mean to give you that number. I think maybe that’s his home number, I’m not sure. Please do not call that number and bug him about this project. That would not be cool.”

I shook my head, and felt a seam tear in the neck of the underoo. “I would never do that. I couldn’t even remember that phone number.”

“Great. That’s great. Because I thought you might have noticed that number is (212) STAR BOY. That’s—it’s like a vanity license plate thing—and I really wouldn’t want you to call that number, just because it’s so easy to remember, and call Paul Levitz at home, and ask him about that project. Because of my goof-up. That wouldn’t be good.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Hey, it’s late, and I’ve got another couple thousand people to call, but thanks for listening. I just got overly excited about this really terrific project, Batman and Daredevil and Bullseye and The Hand, and the return of Stick because of R’as Al Ghul—I think it all could have been done in a way that really would have made sense. But sometimes these things don’t work out and you’ve just got to be a professional about them.”

“Right. Well, thanks for calling, uh—”

“You can just call me Bendis.”

“Right, Ben—”

“And please forget all about that (212) STAR BOY number.”

“Right.”

“Great, great. Thanks again.” And then he hung up.

I looked at the phone, sorry I didn’t have Caller ID. Had that been Ben playing tricks on me? A Ben Diss? I got up and peed. There was no way I could know. I got back into bed. Unless, I thought, I actually called that phone number—

The phone rang again. “Hello?”

The phone made a soft swallowing sound, and I could hear the echoing background of an international call. “Hello? Jeff Lester? Who works with Brian Hibbs?”

“Yes?” I said.

“Ah, fine. This is Mark Millar, mate. How’s everything?”

“Mark—”

“Yes, that’s right. Mark Millar. Listen, Jeff, I’ve got the latest issue of Wanted in my hands. Top Cow sent me a copy by Fed Ex. It’s beautiful, just lovely work. And I’ve got the first two issues of Wolverine here. This John Romita Jr. art is just making me cry, Jeff. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted to do in comics. And JR just nails my last page twist perfectly. I have to admit, I was afraid he wouldn’t be able to bring out the subtlety of that betrayal, but he really is tops, that one.”

“How did you get—”

“What’s that? The Ultimates? Oh yeah, I’ve got The Ultimates. I’ve got the first four issues of The Ultimates right here in my hands. Lettered and colored. And I’ve got both issues of The Unfunnies, and the rest of my first arc on Spider-Man. Frank Cho is just on fire. He calls me every night and thanks me for giving him such super stuff to draw.”

“Wow. What time is it there?”

There was a pause. “Oh, it’s early, just a bit after nine. But I was so excited about having all these great comics in my hands, right in my very hands, that I had to call someone and tell them about it.”

“So you called me.”

“Well, you and everyone in comics, yes. You know, it’s just so gratifying, really, to hold up a bunch of your own books, a bunch of really terrific material that’s the best stuff you’ve ever written, and say to all those people who accuse you of being late on your deadlines, or of being an almost-pathological liar about your scripts being done and worked on by very slow artists, it’s great to hold up a fistful of books and say, ‘See, you fucking bastards! I’m not lying! I’m not behind on my deadlines because I spend all my time trolling my own forums and pretending to be a nineteen year old fetish model so I can cyber Warren Ellis on IM! It’s not that I spend three months hyping my own projects, and then another three months completely blocked because of all the unrealistic expectations I’ve put on myself, and can only produce a script after watching 24 hours of Cinemax and ripping off whatever’s on! That’s completely mad! See? I’ve got the thick stacks of books in my hands right here to prove it!’ You know? It’s great to be able to prove that. I can’t tell you how great that is.”

I felt the rip from my collar move down the back of my Spidey-shirt. “Yeah, but, uh. It’s not really proof, though, is it?”

There was another longish pause. “Of course it is. It’s bloody proof. Right here in my hands.”

“But I can’t see it, Mark. So it’s not really proof. It’s just something I have to take your word on.”

“You can’t see it?” Millar asked. “Don’t you have a videophone, then? Because I’ve been holding up a big pile of comic books and showing off some of the pages to the camera. You didn’t see any of that?”

“No, I didn’t. You have a videophone?”

“Everyone in Scotland has videophones. Don’t you have them in the States? They’re all the rage here. Those and my comics. I’m up for a literary award, you know. Two, actually. I think Chosen would be up for a Booker prize but the movie deal put the kibosh on that. So I’ll have to make do with just two literary award nominations and all these movie deals.”

I felt the back of my torn shirt. “I’m confused. If you had a videophone, why didn’t you know I didn’t have a videophone since I wasn’t sending any picture?”

“Good question. But sadly, I’ve got more people to call. That’s the problem with calling everyone in comics, you know. Not nearly enough time to idly chit-chat as one would like. Well, I’m off, then. Keep an eye out for these books. They’ll be shipping soon. And The Ultimates will be on the stand slike clockwork, you know. Just rock-solid.”

As he hung up, there was a bit of feedback from the phone. I twisted away from it, and felt the final seam in my Spider-Man underoos give way completely. I guess I’d had them for far too long, but I’d always worn them and loved them and, I don’t know, maybe took them for granted a little. So if it hadn’t been for those two phone calls, there’s a chance I never would have truly appreciated what I’d lost.