The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl (24 page)

They gave me a program along with my badge, so I sidle up to a potted plant for company and flip through. Even though everything looks chaotic, there's a plan underlying it all. According to the map in the program, the ballroom is divided into two zones. In one zone you've got the booths from the publishers, where the creators sit and marketing guys give away crappy buttons and stuff. The other zone is where comic book dealers are set up, hawking their wares.

There's a list of guests—it's like seeing the credits from a lifetime's worth of comics all coalesced in one place. There are some names I recognize only from websites and interviews, names that Kyra chattered about incessantly. I look around for her, but that's stupid. She's not here.

I do some quick flipping. Bendis's bio has a booth number with it. Back to the map. I locate him, rotate the map to match my vantage point, and do some quick figuring. Then I plunge into the crowd, pushed and shoved and cursed and generally abused. Fortunately, two years at South Brook High and three years at South Brook Middle prior to that have prepared me well for such treatment.

Bendis's table is empty. There's a sign that says "Brian Michael Bendis," but nothing else. My heart slams against my ribs, hard. I check the program again. There's a note: "Brian Michael Bendis will sign at his booth from one to closing on Saturday." I check the program again; he's on some kind of panel in the morning, then lunch I guess. I should have thought of that.

It's not quite eleven yet. Should I go get something to eat? I'm hungry, but I don't want to leave the hotel, and the food here is probably expensive. And what if I spill something on my clothes? I don't want to meet Bendis while wearing my lunch. Or breathing it on him.

So I tell my stomach to stop complaining and I go to the dealers' area. Again: Heaven meets Hell. Too many people clogging the aisles, but the booths that line those aisles are like Mecca to a pilgrim. Endless lines of long white storage boxes brimming with poly-bagged comics, tote boards, and custom shelving and wire racks loaded down with comics and graphic novels. I see porn magazines displayed out in the open, old French science-fiction journals, pulp mags, battered paperbacks. Hunched over the white boxes, fans rifle through the stacks at blinding speed, pausing only to compare the issue numbers with the want-lists they've brought on laptops, PDAs, old notepads.

I kill time going through the long boxes like everyone else, almost gagging on the musty smells that rise up from the depths of old plastic-sealed comics. I can't believe the sheer amount of
stuff
there is!

Cal would go crazy here. The thought of it makes me sad, then angry. He'd be in his glory among all these old relics, these historical documents from the ancient 1980s and even older. But no. He had to engage in the rigorous, vastly more important activity of throwing a ball using a net strapped to the end of a stick. What a waste.

At the end of an aisle I stop at one booth long enough to switch my portfolio from one hand to another. My shoulders hurt and my feet are killing me. I should have worn kicks. I'm hugely overdressed.

"See anything you like?" the guy behind the table asks me.

I'm not buying, but to be polite I look around. He's got the usual long white boxes of comics, three of which are labeled "50¢ each," a real temptation to a guy with twenty dollars in his pocket. That's forty comics if you don't include sales tax.

Behind him, on a board that's high up to prevent theft, are the
really
valuable comics, pinned there through the archival Mylar bags that protect them. I scan them quickly, covers I've only seen in price guides and websites: a Superman comic where there are two Supermen, one red and one blue; something called
Showcase;
an old Spider-Man comic with a blond girl—not the redheaded Mary Jane—kissing Spider-Man.

And in the second row from the top, third book in from the left, there it is. Just sitting there like it's any other comic book.

Giant-Size X-Men
#1.

I try not to stare, but I can't help it. It looks like it's in terrific condition. The background is a very bright white. The blues on Cyclops's costume are deep and rich. It's gorgeous.

I shouldn't even ask. I really shouldn't.

"How much for the
Giant-Size X-Men?
"

The dealer smirks. "Out of your league, kid." He's not nasty about it. He just makes it plain that he doesn't want to waste the energy taking the book down when there's no chance of a sale.

"Come on. Please?"

He yawns and plucks it down, flipping it to look at the backing board, but there's no price there. The comic is maybe three feet from me. Some part of me wants to lunge at him, grab it, and run like hell. Disappear into the crowd, then vanish out into the street, like Gollum grabbing the One Ring.

"Eight hundred," he says after a few seconds.

"Eight hundred? Are you nuts?
Overstreet
says—"

"Don't talk to me about
Overstreet,
kid."

"It's nice, but it's not Mint. Come on. It's not worth eight hundred." Man, this is crazy! Five hundred, tops. That's a fair price.

"It's worth whatever someone pays for it. And I'm asking eight hundred."

"I wouldn't buy it for that."

"What
would
you buy it for?" He's holding it right in front of me. I can almost taste it.

"Five hundred," I tell him, making myself sound as confident as possible.

"OK. Sold." He grins.

I freeze. I don't have five hundred dollars on me. I don't have five hundred dollars,
period.

"Four hundred," I say, weakly. I don't know
what
I'm doing now.

He shrugs. "OK. Four hundred."

From eight hundred down to four? My head's spinning. Can I call someone and get money somehow?

"Come on, kid. Four hundred." He holds the book out to me and gestures for money with his other hand.

Grab it. Just grab it. Disappear. Would anyone really be able to find me?

Of course, I'd have to escape through a crowd like packed tuna. While carrying my portfolio. Not a chance.

"I don't have four hundred on me." It's tough to admit it.

"Yeah, I know." He leans back, pulling the book away. "I was just messing with you. I really want eight hundred."

Great. So now I know what Pete Vesentine would look like if he were twenty years older and sold comics. "Can I at least flip through it?"

"Are you nuts? If you tear it or smudge it, I can't get squat for it." He carefully pins the comic up on the board by its bag. "Now, you see anything you can
afford?
"

I pretend to consider the box of fifty-cent comics, then slip away when he turns to talk to someone else. It's almost one.

My heart kicks into overdrive. Why did I waste time drooling over something I can't have when I've got a mission?

I head for Bendis's table. Just my luck—in the time since I've been gone, trolling through back-issue bins, a line has already started at his table, snaking around a partition, into the aisle, behind the booth, and into the next aisle. I resign myself to another wait and get in line. I should have just waited here. I could have been first in line.

Pretty soon some other people get in line behind me and I'm not the last person in line anymore, so I don't feel as stupid.

I've got the perfect book to have him sign. But I still need a hook. Something to say. Something that is quick, but immediately communicates to him that I matter, that I'm not just another fan.

As the line inches forward and around and forward some more, I think and think and think. What should I say? Should I just pull open the portfolio and go into my pitch? No. That'll take him off-guard. I need to make a connection first.

As I get closer, I hear someone talking loudly at the front of the line, then another voice in response: Bendis. I'm too short and there are too many people; I can't see him, but I can hear him. Someone is complaining, loud and abrasive. Then Bendis. I know it's his voice. It has to be:

"Yeah, man, OK, but that was
years
ago. Can we stop calling it the monkey sex issue? Please? Can we get past that?"

The fan says something pretty rude, but I expect Bendis to laugh because he always lets fans insult him and fires right back in his editorials. Instead, he just sighs.

The monkey sex issue.
Yeah, the first chapter of
Forever,
the big story that revealed the truth behind the
Powers
characters. There was something about these prehuman superheroes having sex. I don't know why this fan is so pissed off about it. But that's my in. That's it.

"
I thought that the prehistoric chapter of
Forever
was an intricate and powerful examination of sociocultural sexual mores, with its subtle message disguised effectively by apparent crudity.
" Yeah, that's it. How can he
not
respond to that? How can he not smile and shake my hand and say, "
Finally.
Someone who under
stands
what I'm getting at."

I roll it through my head again. Working on inflections. And wording. And tone. I get one shot. One chance.

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I don't realize why someone behind me is saying, angry, "Move it, kid!" until I look up and see that there's no one else standing in front of me. I'm the next person in line. The only things in front of me are a table with a white tablecloth, and Brian Michael Bendis.

So here I am. It's just me and Bendis and the rest of the world.

He's shorter than I thought he would be. Not like a runt or a shrimp or anything, but just a little shorter than I figured. Stocky, too. It's tough to tell that from pictures on a website, where they show one of those "author's photos" from the shoulders up in black-and-white. He's wearing a plain blue T-shirt and jeans. He looks a little tired, but he smiles when he sees me, perking up.

He's bald, which I've known since before I ever saw a picture of him—he makes fun of his premature baldness in his comics, and he drew himself hairless in
Fortune & Glory.
But it's weird to see a bald person up close—I never realized that there was stubble around the temples.

His smile starts to dip a little. I've been staring. I have a moment where I realize that my mouth no longer works and I can't speak and I'll have to use sign language or notes.

But then: "Hello, Mr. Bendis." Whew! My voice hits the right tone. I don't quaver or crack. "It's a pleasure to meet you." I shift my portfolio to my left hand so I can shake hands with my right.

His lips quirk as he shakes my hand. "I don't think 'Mr. Bendis' is necessary, do you?" His first words to me. Do I call him Brian? I've never seen him called anything but "Bendis" (sometimes "BENDIS!" or just "B!") online or in print. I'll just avoid names.

But first I tell him mine and I realize I should stop shaking hands, which I do.

"Well, nice to meet you," he says. "Thanks for coming down."

"You're welcome." This is going great!

He taps a pen against the table. It's one of those silver paint pens, the same sort I used to embellish the portfolio. He's also got a black Sharpie. "So, what would you like me to sign?"

Sign. Right. The perfect book.

I open my portfolio, making a show of letting it fall open so that he can tell that I have artwork inside. I have
Ultimate Spider-Man
and
Fortune & Glory,
both of which I'd love to have signed, but no. It's the
third
book that makes this perfect. I didn't even bring it to have it signed—I just thought I might need something to read if I had to wait around or got bored.

I hand over my copy of
The Powers Scriptbook.

Years ago, Bendis compiled the scripts to the first eleven chapters of his
Powers
epic, had his cohort Mike Oeming do some spot illustrations, and published
The Powers Scriptbook.
It's like a bible for me, an opportunity to see the inner workings of the mind of the master. I've spent hours with the
Scriptbook
and a
Powers
book side by side, comparing Bendis's instructions and panel breakdowns and dialogue with the final, finished product. It's how I learned to write a comic book. It's how I learned to improvise and to be flexible and to think visually so that the art carries the story.

My copy is dog-eared and damaged, the finish on the cover cracked, the spine worn. I have notes scribbled to myself throughout. This isn't a collectible, like
Giant-Size X-Men.
It's a
tool.
An important weapon in my arsenal.

Bendis chuckles as he takes it. "This looks like it's been read a couple of times."

Laugh or don't laugh? I decide not to laugh; it's more professional. "I use it almost every day, when I'm working on my own comic." Wait! "Graphic novel. I meant graphic novel."

"Oh?" Something in his eyes shifts. I press on.

"I, uh, I thought that the first chapter of..." First chapter of what? My mind's gone blank. "The monkey sex issue..." Oh, crap! He
hates
when it's called that. "I thought it was a sexual commentary—I mean, a sociocultural—"