Out to Lunch (24 page)

E

E-

I meant to mention, if you wanted, I already booked out the whole restaurant for a party later this spring, you are definitely on the invite list! I hope you can make it. And you are welcome to bring a date if you like.

So sweet of you to check for me on the room front, looks like I will once again be imposing on your hospitality.

J

J-

You are never an imposition. And I’ll be delighted to join your party. It is very generous of you to offer a date slot for me, but I can’t really think of anyone I know who would appreciate the experience appropriately. So I can be Wayne’s date. If I promise to keep him in line, maybe we’ll get invited to sit at your table.

Looking forward to seeing you Saturday.

E

* * *

C
omic Con is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Thousands and thousands of people, a good percentage of them in elaborate and extraordinary costumes, all going to movie screenings and lectures and panel discussions and shopping at booths and getting books and pictures signed. Elliot has a huge booth, and despite having hired in extra staff, the place is swamped. He seems pleased with how things are going, and blows off my admonition that Wayne and I will be fine if he needs to work.

Instead, he and Wayne tag team taking me to what they consider prime events. We see a special new director’s cut of a movie from the ’90s called
Galaxy Quest
, which I actually think is hilarious, even though I’m sure I’m missing a lot of the inside jokes. But I’ll watch Alan Rickman do just about anything, and the movie is silly fun, and actually pretty smart a lot of the time. Then we stop in to a conversation between Joss Whedon and J.J. Abrams, which is very interesting. We grab a quick hot dog lunch, which is never a bad idea in Chicago, and then we walk the floor, looking at booths, trying out new games, seeing all the crazy costumes.

We each pick out fun gifts for Noah, and I get some quirky stuff for the Library gang. For Lois, a full apron with the famous Leia gold bikini body, which should look hilarious on her round frame. For Eloise, a complete set of Star Wars cookie cutters, including all the main ships, a Death Star, a light saber, as well as Yoda and Darth Vader heads and R2D2. Benji gets a complete set of the
Buffy
DVDs, and a signed shirtless pic of Spike, who according to Benji is a major gay icon, despite his hetero behavior on the show.

Andrea is getting the new twenty-fifth-anniversary DVD set of
Rocky Horror Picture Show
, and a signed copy of a new memoir by a local writer called
Confessions of a Transylvanian
, since she recently admitted that she spent two years in high school playing Magenta in the live cast up at the Music Box. Having seen that production more than once myself in high school, we had a good laugh about it. Especially when we figured out that, of course, both of us budding foodies were most fascinated by the whole dinner party scene, and wondered exactly how one would properly cook a haunch of Meatloaf.

Everywhere we go, Elliot is greeted warmly, and I’m consistently shocked by how many of the people we meet are scarily normal. Even some of the people who are in major costume regalia, we meet doctors and lawyers and architects and an enormous number of people who work in the computer industry. There are artists and actors and accountants. And everyone is having a helluva good time.

I think back to the parties Aimee and I planned, and how all those tuxedos and ball gowns weren’t really that much different, costumewise, than some of these getups. Not as elaborate or out there, to be sure, but not so different. After all, is an hour at Bobbi Brown for the perfect party makeup that much of a stretch from an hour putting on a Klingon forehead or Spock ears? Is searching for the perfect dress, shoes, bag, wrap, jewelry so much different from the perfect jumpsuit, ray gun, ammo belt, and communicator? And unlike most of the regular parties we did, these people are way open to each other and the experience. There don’t seem to be gaggles of people standing back to judge the other gaggles. And while a lot of the subsets do seem to flock together, Star Wars over here, Lord of the Rings over there, I haven’t overheard one snarky comment about someone’s costume. None of the women here, in all of their variety of shapes and sizes, seem to be doing anything other than squeeing at each other and praising how gorgeous they are. And everyone seems to just own themselves. I’ve been at hundreds of events looking at a sea of black dresses because everyone thinks it is slimming. But today I’ve seen a riot of color and skin. Including a 350-pound raven-haired vixen in a chainmail corset, with cleavage you could park a hovercraft in, surrounded by a coterie of clearly smitten men. I wanted to high-five her.

At one point Elliot was grabbed from behind and lifted into the air by one of the most insanely beautiful men I have ever seen.

“Elliot! You bastard. I can’t believe you sold to that shithead from Florida.”

He looks really familiar, but I can’t place him.

Elliot looks down from his midair posture. “Um, Nathan, this is Wayne and Jenna. Jenna, Wayne, Nathan Fillion.”

Nathan puts Elliot down, takes my hand and kisses it. I do not even want to begin to explain the effect this has on me, but let’s just say that all the girl parts are awake now.

“Nate, man, I’m a huge HUGE fan,” Wayne says, elbowing me out of the way, and shaking his hand so hard I fear his arm may fly off.

“Shiny,” Nathan says. I just gawp at his broad shoulders, chiseled features, twinkly eyes. This guy makes Brian look like a Morlock, which I have discovered today are ugly, underground H. G. Wells characters.

“Shiny?” I can’t help but ask.

Nathan grins. “Elliot? Did you bring a civilian to the Con?”

“She’s doing us a favor. Jenna, Nathan is an actor. You might recognize him from
Castle
? The police show? But he was on
Buffy
, and then had the lead in that show
Firefly
that they were talking about in the panel this morning.”

“The creepy priest!” I say, a vague memory coming back from watching the
Buffy
series that Wayne gave me during my surgery recovery.

“Yes. But that was just ACTING,” Nathan says, with a gracious smile.

“Sorry. I watched
Buffy
with a lot of Vicodin.” Boy I’m really making a great impression here.

“Lucky you.”

“Sorry about the blaster, man, but what could I do? It was for charity,” Elliot says.

“Yeah, well, next time just call me. I come back from shooting and I’m all outbid, with nary a heads-up from my best connection. Gotta go do a signing, you guys coming to the party tonight?”

“We’ll be there.”

“Shiny.” He winks at me. “Maybe I’ll see you. Jenna, don’t let these reprobates lead you astray.” And then he is gone.

“Why does he keep saying things are shiny?” I ask Elliot. He and Wayne laugh.

“Oh, SOMEONE is going to need a
Firefly
marathon,” Wayne says.

“I think so,” Elliot agrees.

“You are officially getting Geek inducted.”

Lucky me. Of course, if it involves spending time looking at that insanely hot man-muffin? I’m in.

* * *

B
y four o’clock we’re dead tired, and despite comfortable walking shoes, after trolling all over the convention hall for hours, our dogs are barking. The three of us pile into a cab and head for the Peninsula Hotel. Elliot’s suite is lovely and huge, and we all agree to meet in the living room at six thirty to head to the gala.

I crash on the soft king-sized bed and nap like the dead for over an hour. Then I take a delicious bath in the large tub, soaking my tight muscles and letting the hot water get the crimps out of my back and neck. I dry my hair and put it up into a simple chignon, do my standard formal makeup, smoky eye and nude lip, and struggle into the two pairs of maximum-hold Spanx I need in order to squish into my only formal dress that fits, a charcoal gray heavy silk, with a 1950s sensibility. Deep scoop neck that hits just at the outside edge of my shoulders, three-quarter sleeves, very fitted bodice to the waist, and then a wide crinolined skirt to just above the ankle. I always feel like Joan from
Mad Men
in it, even though I know it is much more likely that I look like first-season Peggy. I’m wearing my grandmother’s emerald and diamond art deco chandelier earrings, which my mom gave me when I turned forty. A pair of bronze metallic Charles Jordan pumps. A simple pewter beaded clutch. A black wrap shot with tiny matte silver sequins. I head out to the living room.

“Yowza. Hey Elliot! Did you invite Sophia Loren?” Wayne yells. He is wearing an actual tuxedo. Granted, it is too short in both sleeves and pants, revealing white socks and the totally wrong pair of lace-up wingtip shoes, and his bowtie is a clip on, and his cummerbund is on upside down. But he looks elegant in a very Wayne way. He is even clean shaven, albeit sporting what looks like the beginnings of muttonchop sideburns.

“My goodness.” Elliot comes out of his room, looking pretty dapper. His Gary Sandy haircut is feathered impeccably, and his tuxedo fits him well. He has chosen a brocade vest with matching tie, which on closer inspection is a black-on-black rendition of the Gotham skyline. And his velvet slippers have the Batman logo embroidered on them in silver.

“Very handsome, both of you,” I say, and I can’t help but smile. They both are pink from hot showers, and Wayne has shaving cream on one earlobe. Elliot’s vest is straining a bit over his tummy.

“Are you ready for the geek prom?” Elliot asks.

“I’m ready,” I say. They both offer arms to me, and the three of us head out, and I suddenly have a flash of Dorothy with the Scarecrow and the Tin Man.

* * *

T
he gala is in the large ballroom at the Hilton, and the place is done like every sci-fi and fantasy movie ever made threw up in here. There is a strange mishmash of décor. The tables seem to be paying homage to generic wizardry and witchcraft, with wands and cauldrons, and the place cards looking like little brooms. But there is a bank of blue photo booths that Elliot explains are the iconic TARDIS time machines from
Doctor Who
. The appetizer buffets seem to be based on the Lord of the Rings movies, but the bars are decked out in Steampunk, a sort of amazing hybrid of Victorian and Industrial. And, as you can imagine, the band is doing a classic bar scene from Star Wars thing.

“Wow,” I say to Elliot.

“Yeah. More is more,” he says.

We get drinks, green something or other with dry ice in it for me, and red beer in bottles labeled TruBlood for the boys, and find our table. Georgie is already here, as are the other couples from New Year’s, which is nice. Georgie is wearing one of those tuxedo T-shirts, Ronald and Carolyn are sporting Clark Kent and Lois Lane. They all look kind of weirdly fabulous, and again, I’m struck by how much fun everyone in the room is having. Elliot was right, there is everything from Stormtroopers with bow ties, to pinup girls with lots of tattoos, a very funny zombie version of Buzz Lightyear, a bunch of people in versions of the black patent leather suit from
American Horror Story
, plenty of vampires, even one guy who turned himself into Han Solo in carbonite, which made Wayne and me crack up.

There are some speeches, some awards, some charitable donations. The food is fine, but unmemorable. They wheel out a cake that is a huge replica of Hogwarts. There is dancing, which we thankfully skip, but is entertaining. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a Cylon dancing with Cinderella. Sadly, my new boyfriend Nathan Fillion is nowhere to be found, but our table is lively and excellent company, and the people-watching is spectacular.

While we are poking at our half-stale Hogwarts cake, Elliot spots a big client he wants to touch base with, Georgie goes to flirt with a large girl in a Catwoman suit that is straining to contain her ample frame, and couples take advantage of a slow song to go dance.

“So, what do you think?” Wayne asks.

“It’s fun, Wayne, thank you for inviting me.”

“What do you think of the party? From your professional opinion, I mean, the execution and stuff?”

I think about this. “Honestly?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, I think it’s fun, but sort of disjointed. It’s all over the place. And I know that the convention incorporates everything from sci-fi to fantasy to comics, from Disney to
Twilight
and stuff, but I think there should be a way to unify the event so that it is less chaotic. And you know how I feel about standard hotel catering.”

“Guess who planned the party?”

For the first time in years I realized that I hadn’t even checked the program to see. “Who?”

“The CMG outfit from LA.”

“Okay.” Not really sure where he is going with this. “Do you think I should be telling Peerless to bid on it for next year?”

“No. I think you and I should plan it next year.”

“I don’t follow.”

“This is the business I want to start. I want to start an event planning company. But one that specializes in theme events like this.”

“Wayne, no offense, but you were never really involved in the business, event planning is really hard, with a lot of moving pieces . . . and if you want it to be worthwhile, you need clients with decent budgets.”

“Hear me out. I’m talking about a niche market. Only theme events, catering specifically to the kinds of people in this room. A lot of these folks? Have a TON of money. Georgie? His company does ten mil a year. Ronald and Carolyn must make mid–six figures between them, Beth and John at least that. Hell, look at Elliot!”

“Well, I know that sometimes he does a pretty big sale of a rare comic, but how much can the store really make?”

Wayne laughs. “Um, Elliot is probably worth more than you. The store is his version of the Library; it’s his clubhouse, and his office. He has been brokering high-end comic and movie collectibles for over twenty years, and his clients are the richest guys on the planet. He probably does a half a million a month in sales in Asia alone.”