I couldn’t count the times we four kids asked our father, “Could I please have a dime to buy a comic book at Nemitz’s?” But as easy as the request was, I never went there alone — never without the fortification of my siblings, because Nemitz’s Cigar Store was a place I would not have dared to go by myself. It was scary. Foreboding! A venture into the creepy unknown.

Unlike the other businesses on Main Street, there was no store front on Nemitz’s that announced on the outside what was on the inside; no welcoming or teasing displays to let people know what they were in for. Instead there was only a door. A single door that opened with a belch of smoke so powerful, one would have thought a smokestack had just blown its top. The gush of fetid, stagnant tobacco fumes struck like a smack in the face, enough to scare the pants off a kid and precisely why none of us went solo to Nemitz’s.

Squashed together, my siblings and I crept through that door in a huddled clutch only to find ourselves at the top of a steep staircase heading downward to an abyss beyond our wildest imaginations. Mark my words. It was the closest thing Austin had to a dungeon.

Crammed together there on the inside landing — we faced the next challenge: the goosepimply plummet down those stairs through the blinding brume, precisely the kind of stuff Hollywood horror movies were made of! The only thing missing was Norman of the Bates Motel! With the hairs on our necks standing out like toothpicks, we lowered ourselves one step at a time to the underground cave, a place we feared evil dwelled. Only the promise of awaiting comic books gave us the fortitude to continue our terrifying descent.

Upon reaching the bottom step we could make out through the haze the figures of men. Lots of men clustered along the left wall in front of the cigarettes and cigars, each man in a wrinkle-browed tobacco transaction with Henry Nemitz. In their midst, we four kids stuck out like Armour ham cans in the Hormel Hog Kill Department. No doubt about it, we had just invaded their Austin sanctum sanctorum.

Avoiding any eye contact, we forged ahead to the comic books on the right wall. By now our hearts were pounding from both the nefarious plunge into this den of iniquity and the magnetic pull of the dazzling comic display. Their glossy covers beckoned to us through the smoke like slick candy wrappers. Buy me! Buy me!

All my favorites shouted at once — Archie and Jughead, Lil’ Lulu, Donald Duck, and Mickey Mouse each vying for my attention. Meanwhile my brothers zeroed in on Superman, Batman, and Captain Marvel, their content a bit too wild for my 2nd Grade sensibilities. We each had a dime meaning there’d be a total of four new comics. It was as close to hitting a quadruple jackpot as we ever got!

Over the next sixty minutes, we scrutinized every comic Nemitz’s had in stock. You would have thought we were selecting our life mates! When the choices were finally made, we had to bolster ourselves up all over again to face our next challenge: crossing the twenty-foot wide basement to where the wheezing tobacco buyers were congregated around the cash register.

The man in charge was Henry Nemitz. I remember him as an old tall man. An old tall gray man with hair and skin the color of dust. But, then, I figured if I had to spend every sunshine hour stuck in the depths of this foggy bottom, I’d be gray all over, too. We paid him as fast as we could then, with our treasures in hand, scampered up the steps from the shark infested waters below and into the bright Main Street sunlight. As our young pink lungs filled with fresh undefiled air, we rejoiced at having once again survived another hellish comic book shopping spree.

But, that was not all. You see, the comic book quest was the easy part of going to Nemitz’s. There was one more confrontation so traumatizing, it was enough to trigger a lifetime of professional counseling. At the very distant back of the dungeon … er, basement … was a barber shop. It catered to men only. But anyone whose father owned a store next to another store knew that is where you did your business. Naturally this included us kids even though two of us were girl kids with girl hair.

Due to the limitations of the sole barber’s tonsorial skills, my sister and I wore hairstyles the spitting image of Prince Valiant’s, with bangs and a straight cut just below our earlobes — one step up from the bowl cut. But do not think it was the haircut that traumatized us so. No, no! It was the ominous path that led back to the barbershop. You see, once we ventured beyond the far end of the comic display, we were immediately plunged into the daunting pool hall section of Nemitz’s, a place where we knew true evil lurked.

Dodging the stabs of the men’s pool cues as they jabbed through the nearly impenetrable Lucky Strike smudge, we felt as if we were crossing an alligator infested swamp. And really now, we wondered, was it worth all that angst to come out in the end looking like Prince Valiant?

The good news is that I survived both the comic anguish and the hair cut humiliation. But as I grew older (about nine), I will admit to developing a certain literary smugness. No longer did I want to appear empty-headed in my comic preferences, so in an effort to impress, I switched from Huey, Dewey and Louie to Classic Comics. This required asking my dad for an additional five cents, a request I figured would impress him with his daughter’s intellectual pursuits. Fifteen cents was a significant amount of money and I poured over the thick Classics hoping I looked the intellectual I believed myself to be—even though what my heart really desired was a love comic, something Mom wouldn’t allow in our house. In order to quench this longing, I clandestinely lived on the edge by devouring the romance stash that was hidden under the bed of my best girlfriend!

One of the oldest business establishments in Austin, Fred Williams opened his cigar store in 1906. His one employee was Henry Nemitz who eventually became his partner. In 1937, Henry purchased the shop and named it after himself.

Next in line were his grandsons, Gary and Larry, who took over in 1959. The boys, recognizing an encroaching pallor to their skin, expanded the store ten years later by taking over the old Griffith Pharmacy next door. There they created a classy two level establishment which appealed to the fashionable masses. Above ground, the sunshine streamed through the windows, its rays highlighting their inviting inventory.

When I moved to Tokyo in 1962, Gary became my touchstone with America, a veritable beacon of light in my Far Eastern sky as he supplied me with all the latest best sellers, equaling the post office as my link back to home.

An interesting look into Gary and Larry’s progressive thinking was when their installation of a closed circuit TV monitoring system. The first of its kind in Austin, it cost a staggering $2,800! But even more staggering was the sum which Nemitz’s figured they lost annually to shop lifting: $5-8,000! They estimated that one out of every sixteen upstanding Austin citizens stole from them.

What I wouldn’t give for Gary, Larry and all their books to once again be on Main Street. Why to have them back here, I’d even consider cutting my hair … like Prince Valiant’s!

Peggy Keener of Austin is the author of two books: “Potato In A Rice Bowl” and “Wondahful Mammaries.” Peggy Keener invites readers to share their memories with her by emailing pggyknr@yahoo.com. Memories shared with Keener may be shared or referenced in subsequent editions of “Full Circle.”