My girlfriend, Casey, and I caught a cab on Sunday morning to Pier 94 on 55th Street and 12th Avenue in the middle of a drizzling, pissing rain. I could only really afford to attend one day of the Big Apple Comic Con in light of all the nifty consumer electronics coming out this month (Barnes and Noble e-reader, Windows 7, Slim PS3). I made sure to bring next to no cash with me. I knew from experience how quickly hundreds of dollars could vanish into the coffers of a comic con merchant and I didn’t want to once again become a slave to the wailing need of my geek impulse.
After running in from the gray muck outside with Casey, I quickly bought my ticket at the door and grabbed a couple of Wizard-published books for free swag. This was Casey’s first con and she squeezed my hand tightly every time she saw an elaborate costume, a celebrity from one of her favorite sci-fi shows, or a particularly “hopeless” attendee.
My hand in hers was starting to feel hot and sweaty by the time we made it to an autograph booth to purchase a ticket for the Billy Dee Williams signing. I had already promised Miklos, my childhood friend-turned Chemistry grad student, a signed 8 X 10. I figured it would be a nice surprise after all the birthday well wishes I missed. I bought a promotional picture that dated back to the first days of The Empire Strikes Back and a slip cover to hold it. Lando Calrissian grinned at me though the mylar, wearing a sky blue uniform straight from a Moebius illustration and sporting a slick mustache.
After a few perfunctory walks around the venue and several t-shirt purchases we made our way back to Billy Dee’s booth. We waited half-an-hour for the smoothest Cloud City administrator to arrive. By the time he ambled in, a grayed and barrel-chested gentleman in a fine suit, a line had formed around the booth. I was second.
Casey took a few snapshots with my iPhone as I sheepishly outlined the dedication for the photograph.
For Andrew, the Smoothest Administrator in this System. -Billy Dee Williams, “Lando”
Bent over the photo, wearing a Punisher T-shirt and my leather motorcycle jacket, I felt more like a strange-looking nuisance than a real fan. After exchanging my red autograph ticket for the signed photo, Casey and I took one last walk around the Pier and then headed for the cargo elevator that would take us back to ground level.
In the cab ride back to Midtown, her head on my shoulder, I considered the grayness of the adventure. The recession had hit the merchants and the con organizers hard. Manned by sleepy-eyed skeleton crews, the booths had been austere and fewer in number. After two days of constant promotion, the B and C-List celebrities doing promotional appearances looked lackadaisical and ready to head back to sunny Los Angeles to work or to throttle their agents. Times were tough, especially for the heroes of four-color funny books and epic space operas.
“I had so much fun!”
Casey looked up at me with a big grin on her face. Somewhere in her eyes I found my sentimentality again and used it to lift the fog from my thoughts. I remembered the baby dressed as Yoda, carried by two Jedi Samurai parents. I recalled the sister and brother dressed as Batman and Batgirl respectively and Casey’s teasing reluctance to let me near the booth of a professional costume designer. I kissed the top of her head.
“Me too.”
