Basically, it comes down to the fact that we think our stories are worth paying at least a little bit for and we'd love to have the support from you guys to help us write more of this stuff. For the
This process will take at least a six months or more. We're going to be cleaning up and revising the stories with an editor and packaging them in themes. And hopefully you guys can spread the word and make this a successful endeavor. In the meantime, we'll still be posting stories for free every month until the switchover is complete. And if things go well enough, I might try publishing my novel this way instead of going to a traditional publisher...
In any case, here is the latest: Convention Sketches:
From the moment he stepped out onto the pavement in front of the transit station he was clearly lost. He tapped out the address to the hotel into his phone with one hand and guarded his luggage warily with the other, but to no avail. Confusion washed over his face like a cold sweat and it was apparent to everyone.
“Which hotel you lookin’ for?” A voice called out from the void.
“Huh?” He looked around, wondering where it came from.
“Which hotel you tryin’ to get to,” the voice asked again, revealing itself as a lanky black man in an oversized t-shirt.
“Ummm… The Mariott.” The nerd replied, unsure of himself, his voice breaking.
“You here for the Con, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit, man, I could tell jus’ by lookin’ at ‘ya.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, man, come on, the hotel’s this way.”
And without a second to think better of it, the pair of them were off on their way.
“Shit, man, the look on your face, I thought you were stayin’ at some place way out of town, but your place is close, man.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, man. So you ready to party?”
“Ummm…”
“You ever been to this Con, man?”
“No. This is my first time.”
“Shit, man. This place is a par-tay. You guys for the con really know how to party, like, it doesn’t stop, man.”
“You here for the Con?” he asked, naively.
“No, man. I’m homeless. I work the conventions now and again setting stuff up, but mostly I’m just homeless.”
“Oh.”
“This place is always better when the Con is goin’ on, though.”
“It’s a lot of fun.”
They reached the intersection and the homeless man pointed down the street to the right. “Down that way, that’s where the party is all the time. That restaurant, it don’t close. There’s a party going on there from tonight through the weekend, it’s fuckin’ kickin’.”
He pointed down the left, “Now we’re gonna cross down this street, and then your hotel is gonna be right here close. C’mon.”
And they went as soon as the light changed.
“So, man. This is it. This is you right here, man. You just head up that walkway there and you at the Marriot lobby. It’ll be a party in there all weekend, too, for sure.”
“Thanks for the help, man.”
“No sweat, man. But now that I helped you, you think you can help me out, like help me get something to eat tonight?”
“For sure,” he said and without thinking his wallet was out and he had a crisp five dollar bill in his hand.
He gestured for the homeless man to take it.
“For reals?”
“Of course.”
Thankfully, he snatched the bill and offered his hand for a shake. “Shit, man. You’re all right. My name’s Sylvester.”
He took his hand and shook it with “Andrew.”
“Andrew, you should come on down and hang out tonight, man. You’re all right.”
“Maybe. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“For sure.”
“But seriously, thanks for your help. I really appreciate it…”
“My pleasure, man. My pleasure.”
They shook hands again and parted ways, never to see each other again. Andrew left thinking, I feel like that was money well spent, what a way to start a con, and he meant it.
* * *
Of the forty years of the San Diego Comic-Con, Gerald had been to the last twelve, and of the last four, he’d been the proud retailer in booth 1216 who specialized in rare, vintage comics. When he arrived at the convention center on Monday, the exhibition hall seemed deep, dead, and empty. Pallets of materials stood in the center of the carpeted off areas, leaving no hint or promise of what fascinating attraction they might become.
Monday was always spent assembling his makeshift storefront: walls of thin black grating, a table with a white linen cover and a trio of bookshelves that needed assembly to serves as the back wall. This would be his temporary home for the next week. Tuesday was spent sorting through the inventory he’d brought, hefting and sorting long box after long box full of the kind of comics that had brought him joy over his forty-three years of life.
He spent Wednesday putting comics up for display on the shelves and walls. A Stan Lee Daredevil. A Bob Kane Batman. Spider-man. Superman. The Hulk. The Flash. On and on and on and on.
The last comic to find its way onto the display wall was Gerald’s favorite book, the first one he’d ever acquired to resell. It was an extremely well preserved copy of the first issue of The X-men from 1963. Through the plastic clamshell, one could see the the sharp corners and vivid colors with the first Jack Kirby rendering of what would become one of the most iconic rivalries in modern history: Magneto versus the X-Men.
He’d tried selling it in the past, but it was never in extraordinarily high demand at a show like this, and for the price he was selling it for. He secured it to the metal lattice of his wall with a plastic zip tie at each corner at the end and at eye level so he could glance at it periodically through the day. It would calm him in a way, from the overwhelming nature of the show.
5:30 on Wednesday, the exhibition floor was ready, the doors would be opened, and thousands of four day pass holders would get their first glimpse of the hall, spilling into each aisle, elbow to elbow, a sea of sweaty geeks who had spent all day in line for their passes and then admittance.
Business was always slow for Gerald on Preview Night. The Hall was open only for three hours and the majority of people were on the floor merely to collect swag. At least that’s how it seemed to Gerald. People who stopped by on the first night were there to gawk or browse. For many of those passing by, it was their first in-person encounter with Amazing Fantasy #15, or Detective Comics #27, or whatever. Sometimes, a father would stop with his eight year old son and point to an issue on the wall and say, “That was the first comic book that Wolverine was ever in,” or, “That issue of Secret Wars, yeah, the orange one, that was the first Venom costume, evcr.” It would fill Gerald with a hopeful satisfaction knowing that he was a torch bearer for an art and medium that was important. At the end of the day he was a purveyor of history and culture, “And that,” he’d always add, pointing at his prized issue of The X-men, “Is the first time The X-men ever appeared, and they were already fighting Magneto from the start.”
Things picked up on Thursday and Friday, but Saturday was always the biggest, busiest day of the Con.
Saturday was the day everyone attended. It was impossible to breathe for all the people crammed into each aisle. Traffic would invariably congest right in front of Gerald’s booth every few minutes when someone would catch sight of a rare comic book that was their hearts desire. It was at that moment that Gerald would swoop in, “Wanna see it up close?” he’d ask, always knowing the answer.
He’d be reaching for it before they would have a chance to respond. He could see them straining their eyes for a glimpse at a price tag or marker, and it would always make him chuckle just a bit. He never put a price on it. Not because he thought the asking price would scare people away too much, but because he wanted an excuse to pull it off the shelf and talk to people about it.
It would take a moment for him to loosen the straps that bound it to the wall, but it would always be worth it. Handling it gave him an inexplicable rush.
The sea of backpacks and costumed superheroes was overwhelming by midday. People lapped up on the shore of his booth, interest in his wares waxed and waned with the ebbing tide of potential customers.
Soon, a man arrived carrying a metal attaché case, placing it on the table in front of Gerald. Attache cases always meant business, Gerald knew this game and asked him, “You buying or selling?”
“Buying. Buying plenty.”
Gerald rolled up his sleeves, getting down to business. He was a very focused man and quite honestly didn’t see anything else when he was making a deal.
“What is it you’d like, and what is it you’re interested in paying?”
“Well, I’m looking for four key issues, and I’ve been told you’re the man to see.”
“I may well be, what can I help you find?”
“First and foremost, I’m looking for a Hulk #181, Giant-Size X-Men #1, Uncanny X-Men #130 and, surprisingly, #1.”
“Well, #130’s are dime a dozen, what is that, Dark Phoenix?”
“First appearance of Dazzler. I’ve got a client and he wants first X appearances. He’s a celebrity, wants to remain anonymous.”
“I’ve got a Giant Size here…” Gerald turned and reached down deep into a box and withdrew a clam-shelled copy of the seminal issue. “Hulk #181 is a little harder. That would take some doing. I can’t think of anyone here at the show who has one. If you give me a week, I can probably track one down, probably for about half of what you can get it for on eBay.”
“And Uncanny #1?”
“You’re in luck, friend.” Gerald turned to his happy place…to see nothing but a blank space on the wall.
The blood drained from his face.
“You okay?” the would-be buyer asked Gerald.
“Ummm…”
Gerald looked around, trying to see where it could have gone.
“I’ll come back,” the buyer said as he slid his business card across the table while sliding his attaché case off.
Gerald rose from his stool, not even noticing the customer fleeing. Could he have been responsible? No. That was absurd.
Suddenly, it seemed as though each passer by was a suspect. Could it have been the pimple-faced teenager with the green backpack, the Thor with the bad wig, the overweight Deadpool? Panicked, Gerald went back to the wall, inspecting the ties he’d so carefully unbind each time he pulled it down to see that they’d been cut.
Slowly, it hit him like a kick in the chest.
His book was gone.
Never to return.
He slumped back onto his stool, defeated. His posture left him, he was hunkered down as though his spine was giving out. Someone had just walked off with thousands of dollars worth of one comic book.
Gerald buried his head in his hands and wondered quietly where he would get the strength and inspiration to carry on for the rest of the show.
* * *
The most fascinating moment from the Con was my encounter with perhaps the most socially awkward and retarded human being the world has ever known. There I was, standing next to a friend at an exhibitors booth on the dealer room floor where we were both admiring items we wanted to purchase as much as the reasonably attractive young lady who was helping us. She was blonde, freckled and of a slight frame. Her face was plain but cute and she wore a tight black corset that created a mesmerizing effect with her bosom. In short, she was beautiful.
“I want to get it,” my compatriot told her, of the overpriced Darth Vader snow globe she’d pulled down from the top shelf for him to look at.
“And I’d like to get this,” I added, indicating the shirt I wanted from the table.
“All right, let me find out how much with tax,” she told us in her faux-British accent, no doubt practicing for some Renaissance fair or another.
“Ummm…” A voice interrupted our transaction, clearly begging for her attention.
“Yes, can I help you?” she asked the boy politely. Though “boy” may be a misnomer, the unkempt, mouth-breathing “boy” was easily in his mid-twenties.
“Yes, I would like to know how much that Musha Cloth Heavy Weapons Gundam behind you is,” he said in a voice that was stereotypically nerdy: nasally and unsure despite the matter-of-fact tone. He pointed at a massive gray and red box behind her that looked like it could fit four or five board games inside of it.
“That’s $230,” she told him quickly, “Would you like to see it?”
“No. I have a friend who has one. He already built it, I know what it’s like.”
“Uh-huh,” she said as we emptied money from our wallets to make our purchases.
“I think I might get it. My parents owe me the money.” It seemed painfully obvious he wanted to impress her with his story, but to what end we couldn’t be sure.
“Oh,” she replied, trying to pay attention to our transaction, and not him.
“You see, I need to babysit my grandfather this weekend and they owe me money for that,” he continued his intended courtship.
She nodded at him, still calculating tax for our items.
“He’s 94.”
I suppressed a laugh, realizing that this was about as bad things could get for this poor kid. At least that’s what I thought.
“He’s incontinent and doesn’t like to wear adult diapers.”
My companion and I shared a wide-eyed look as our cashier blushed badly, trying her hardest to make eye contact with us and not the boy. And just as I thought things couldn’t get worse, the boy opened his mouth again.
“Somebody has to clean up that mess. And they pay me to do it.” Completely disarmed, her hands dropped to her side, unable to concentrate on her customers.
“Yeah,” the unfortunate boy continued, “I’ve already spent $400 at this con. I think I’ll get that Gundam. I just need to ask my parents. Maybe I’ll be back.”
“Okay,” the poor girl said, sheepishly, as he walked away without a graceful goodbye of any sort.
After holding our breath for fear of laughing, finally the dam broke. “Wow,” my companion said after bursting into torrent of laughter. “You know where I come from,” he told the girl, “when you want to impress a pretty girl, there are a lot better ways to do it.”
Her face was flushed and red, her eyes were darting about, not sure of herself. She laughed nervously, trying to let some of the emotion escape.
Finally, I asked her, “Does, uh, that happen to you often?”
“I don’t think anyone has ever tried to impress me by talking about poop.”
The tension broke as she said it and we all broke out into a deep and hearty laughter over the whole episode. Once the laugh was over, we completed our intended task, I stuffed my new shirt in my bag and we walked away, wondering how the awkward boy felt about his top game in attracting girls.
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