You take the ferry to Staten Island not for the view—though the view helps—but because Comic Book Jones sits three blocks uphill from the terminal, and inside that narrow storefront with its creaking wood floors, you'll find a first-edition Persepolis shelved next to a photocopied zine about queer skate culture in the Bronx. The shop smells like old paper and the faint vanilla of aging newsprint, and the owner keeps a reading couch near the back where you're genuinely encouraged to sit for an hour with something you haven't bought yet.
The Ferry Makes This Possible
The location matters more than it seems. You're walking distance from the St. George terminal, which means the shop catches a strange mix of commuters killing twenty minutes before the boat and actual destination visitors who've heard whispers on Reddit threads. The storefront window faces a side street that gets quiet after the morning rush, so when you step inside mid-afternoon, there's often just you, the hum of a space heater in winter, and maybe one other person cross-legged on the floor in the graphic novel section. The light comes in slanted through unwashed glass, hitting the dust motes above the indie press table in a way that makes you want to stay longer than planned. The rhythm here is tidal—busy when boats arrive, empty in between, which gives the place a breathing quality most comic shops don't have.
What Gets Shelf Space and Why
This isn't a Marvel-and-manga warehouse. You'll find some superhero back issues in long boxes under the front counter, but the real estate goes to graphic memoir, small-press comics, and things that blur the line between zine and book. There's a whole section devoted to autobiographical work—Alison Bechdel, Lynda Barry, Emil Ferris—and another shelf labeled "Local/DIY" where Staten Island creators share space with Brooklyn risograph artists. The curation feels personal in a way that suggests someone actually reads this stuff, not just orders from a distributor catalog. You'll see titles here that don't show up in Manhattan shops, partly because they're too niche, partly because someone here actually knows the person who made them. The selection rotates based on what arrives in the mail, which means repeat visits reveal different corners of the collection.
The Reading Room Isn't Theoretical
Most comic shops say you can browse, but the body language discourages lingering. Here, there's an actual couch—a sagging gray sectional that's seen better decades—and a low coffee table stacked with whatever's being recommended that month. You can pull something off the shelf, sit down, and read the whole thing. No one hovers. No one checks a timer. On weekday afternoons, you might share the couch with a high schooler reading manga or someone in scrubs from the hospital up the hill, flipping through a Chris Ware hardcover on their lunch break. The unspoken etiquette is simple: if you read it, consider buying it, but no one's tracking. There's a thermos of coffee near the register most days—help yourself, sliding scale donation—and the whole setup feels more like a friend's apartment than a retail space.
The Zine Rack Demands Attention
Near the register, a spinning wire rack holds maybe forty zines at any given time, each one polybagged or rubber-banded to keep the pages intact. These aren't vintage collectibles—they're contemporary, often undated, sometimes still smelling like toner from a copy shop. You'll find perzines about depression and D&D campaigns, cut-and-paste political comics, illustrated essays about gentrification in forgotten neighborhoods. Some have print runs of fifty copies. Some are one-of-ones. Prices hover in the low single digits, and there's a small sign encouraging local creators to submit their work for consignment. This is where the shop's identity sharpens into focus—it's not just selling comics, it's participating in the ecosystem that creates them. You can spend twenty minutes just spinning that rack, discovering tiny publications that exist nowhere online, made by people who still believe in the tactile weight of a stapled booklet.
The Crowd Skews Older Than You'd Guess
You expect teenagers, and they're here, but the median age tilts higher. Lots of thirty- and forty-somethings who grew up reading comics and never stopped, who appreciate that this place stocks the kind of literary graphic novels that win awards and make you think. There's a regular who comes in Saturday mornings, always in a postal worker uniform, who buys one hardcover memoir every visit and sits on the couch to read the first chapter before leaving. Another regular—older, maybe seventy—comes for the underground comix from the Seventies, the Crumb and Spiegelman stuff, and will talk your ear off about the Zap Comix days if you make eye contact. The vibe isn't gatekeep-y or trivia-contest aggressive. It's more like a used bookstore where everyone's united by the understanding that comics are a legitimate art form, not a guilty pleasure.
Practical Notes
The shop keeps afternoon and evening hours most days, closed Mondays, with weekend hours starting late morning. It's a short walk uphill from the Staten Island Ferry terminal—follow the main drag inland and watch for the hand-painted sign. No reservations needed, obviously, but if you're hunting something specific, calling ahead saves a trip. Cash preferred for zines and small purchases, cards accepted for bigger buys. There's street parking that's usually easy to find, or you've already taken the ferry, which is free and frankly half the reason to make this trip. Plan to spend at least an hour if you're doing it right—this isn't a quick browse situation.
Tags: #ComicBookJones #StatenIsland #StGeorge #GraphicMemoir #IndiePress #ComicShop #GraphicNovels #ZineCulture #LiteraryComics #UndergroundComix #NYCComics #FerryTrip #IndependentRetail #SmallPress #TheOddEdit
Sources consulted: atlasobscura.com · timeout.com · nytimes.com
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