by Jeff Strand
There are no delays in the second leg of our flight, so we arrive in San Francisco just after 4:00 PM on Thursday. After a lively cab ride with another insane driver, though without the giggle, we arrive at our hotel.
It's a budget hotel for sure, but it's really not that bad. The room is small but carcass-free, at least upon our initial investigation, and there are no appalling scents. The towels have fewer than three holes each. The water is the proper clear color. When we toss our bags onto the mattress there is no crunch of bedbugs.
The room is perfectly fine. It's really just a place to sleep, anyway. The Exit Red panel isn’t until Saturday, so we've got plenty of time to enjoy the sights and sounds of the city.
* * *
We do not enjoy any of the sights and sounds of the city. Not one. We enjoy the tastes and smells of the mediocre pizza place next door. We'd do some sightseeing, but that would involve leaving the room for a while, and leaving the room would involve not having sex.
I'm not saying that we have a non-stop festival of intercourse. We sleep part of the time. We snuggle while watching TV. We share a relaxing bubble bath. But when one of us says, "Gosh, perhaps we should venture out and see the Fisherman's Wharf," the other usually agrees, and yet before we can quite accomplish the task of getting dressed, we're back on the bed, having sex.
Or in the shower. It turns out that when you have the right partner, showering together is not overrated. And I've never been quite so clean.
We stick to gentle lovemaking instead of frenzied fornication, not because we necessarily want to, but because it seems like a wise idea considering our recent health issues, and the doctor's warning that I should not exert myself. This is not the time for Yeah, baby, I'm gonna fuck your brains out! Strap in and hold on! Not that I would say something like that even if I were in prime physical condition. Just not my style. But it's our shared desire not to return to the hospital that molds these into the kind of lovemaking sessions where I make statements about wanting to be inside of her, rather than statements about wanting to tear up that ass.
I know I'm not the world's greatest lover. If Don Juan and/or Ron Jeremy watched me perform, they wouldn't say "Damn! That was frickin' amazing! Mind giving me some pointers, dude?" But, all ego aside, I have to say that this is going remarkably well. Nobody has been injured, the orgasms are inequitably distributed in her favor, and my own climaxes are so intense that at one point I think my penis has actually jettisoned off my body.
(Okay, I don't really think that. I'm just saying that my climaxes are extremely intense.)
It would be nice to think that I'm the best lover Amy has ever had. It's possible; at one point, while we're cuddling in post-coital bliss, she shares that her ex-husband was her first and only prior sexual partner, so I only need to be better than one other guy. But she doesn't tell me that I am, and I don't press her for this information. Ignorance is probably the way to go.
It's all very vanilla stuff. There's no Fifty Shades of Grey in our hotel room, which is fine with me, because my attempts at such things have generally failed. So what if we're not using whips and candle wax, and not giving attention to every single orifice? Everybody involved is having a delightful time.
I do occasionally start to worry about the fact that I'm unemployed and homeless, but then Amy goes down on me and all is forgotten. It's amazing--amazing--how effective a blowjob from a beautiful woman can be in making one's problems seem not so bad. It's like, "Oh, God, I don't even know where to start with a job hunt, and maybe nobody will hire me because I'll have to tell them why I was fired, and eventually I'll max out my credit cards and not be able to buy food, and I'll end up--oh, hey, what's that Amy's doing down there? I have not a care in the world!"
Finally, though, it is Saturday morning. Time to get up and get ready for...actually, we have sex again. However, Amy is on top and she makes sure it's a quick one. We shower together to save time, which ends up not saving us much time, but eventually we're dressed and waiting for our taxi.
This time, our taxi driver is not insane. He is, however, an angry gentleman. Very angry. Every other vehicle on the road seems to fill him with rage; not a violent road rage, just a seething inner fury. He's not going to run anybody off the road, but he may break into their home and poison their pets.
We arrive at the convention center and then get in the very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very long line for PhaserCon. The population of the United States is only three hundred million people, so it's probably fewer than that, but not by many. There are a lot of fellow geeks here.
And then we wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"Put the gun down. Seriously, put it down. Let's discuss this like--c'mon, really, put the gun down. If you're not willing to put it down, could you at least point it someplace else? Just three inches away from me, that's all I ask. Please. This is starting to get upsetting. Just put the gun down. Put the gun down for one quick--"
--Exit Red, Season 6, Episode 7
The line for PhaserCon is where lifelong relationships are forged. Couples meet, fall in love, get married, have children, and die together in the time it takes to get through the Will Call line.
I suppose I am exaggerating, but not by much. Our morale remains high even as generations pass. It's good to know that Amy and I will grow old together.
Some entertainment value is provided by two guys in front of us, who are arguing over who is the bigger Exit Red fan. One of them, a curly-haired ginger in his early twenties, pulls up his shirtsleeve to display a tattoo that covers his entire upper arm.
"Check that out."
"That tat looks like crap," says the other guy, who is also a curly-haired ginger but about ten years older. "You can barely even tell it's Darwan."
"I know. Anybody can get a good Exit Red tattoo. It takes a special kind of dedication to permanently mark yourself with a terrible one."
"Takes a special kind of stupid."
"Do you know anybody else who would get a tattoo like this? Anybody else in the world?"
"Nobody smart."
Ginger #1 taps his tattoo with his index finger. "This is passion. This is commitment. People get tattoos all the time where they don't even know what they mean; they just think they look cool. Well, this tattoo doesn't look cool. Nobody would get this put on their arm unless they were the ultimate fan."
"Or unless they had a moderate to severe form of mental retardation."
"You don't think that what I'm saying makes sense?"
"I think that you went in to get a cool tattoo, and you got a shitty one, so you tried to figure out a way to justify the astounding shittiness of your tattoo. Wouldn't it be easier to keep your sleeves down?"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
This is how their relationship starts, but by the time we reach the point where we can see the front of the line, they're friends.
A security guard nods at me as he walks past. "Love your Breath Mint Man costume."
I turn to Amy. "What did he mean by that?"
"I don't know."
"Who's the Breath Mint Man? That's what Chip kept calling me."
Amy shrugs. "Maybe he wears a blue shirt like that."
"I wasn't wearing this shirt in the hospital."
"I guess you just look like him. You should enter the costume contest."
"Do I sleepwalk? Maybe I star in commercials while I'm asleep."
"I'm sure that's it."
And then, old and decrepit, we reach the front of the line.
"You're in the wrong line," says the guy at the Will Call table.
"I beg your pardon?" I ask.
"The other line's behind the building. This is the line for people with yellow passes."
"Nobody said anything about yellow passes."
"I'm just messing with you. You're in the right line." He snickers. "I tell that to every tenth person. Some of the reactions I get are priceless."
"The line would p
robably move faster if you didn't tell that to every tenth person."
"That's what every tenth person says. But I'm a volunteer. I take my fun where I can get it. Here are your wristbands."
We take our wristbands and walk into the convention center. The scope of it is mind-boggling. People in costumes are everywhere. I've never been much of a collector, but if I were a collector, I'd be having a nervous breakdown over the variety of items that were available to add to my collection.
If I had income, I could be Amy's Exit Red sugar daddy. I had no idea that this much merchandise existed. The mauve aliens from Season 2 were only in one episode, and they've got a sixty-dollar limited edition action figure. For thirty-five bucks, we can get our picture taken with a character I don't specifically remember.
We wander through the dealer's room for about twenty minutes, and then it's time to get in line again. We don't want to get shut out of the Exit Red panel, which is only eight hours away. If this works, it'll be worth every second. If it doesn't...well, quite honestly, I'd find value in spending time with Amy in a Dumpster behind Waffle House, so what's wrong with spending time together in a ridiculously long line?
The curly-haired gingers are in front of us again. Their friendship has apparently crumbled since we've seen them last, and now the tattooed one is explaining that eight hours is nothing, eight hours is for amateur fans, he once spent an entire week camped out to get into an advanced screening of the Season 5 premiere. The non-tattooed ginger pokes a lot of holes in his story, and I have to admit that some of the details ring false, although the question of why somebody would make up a story about spending a week camping out into get into an advanced screening of a television show goes unanswered.
We wait some more.
I wish we could ask somebody to hold our place in line while Amy and I sneak off to have sex, but that would be morally wrong.
"What if this doesn't work?" Amy asks.
"It'll work," I assure her.
"What if it doesn't? What if I stand up there and ask, and I look like a complete jackass? What if everybody boos?"
"People aren't going to boo."
"They might! I can't handle four thousand people booing me."
"It won't happen."
"How do you know? I thought it was a great idea before, but now that we're standing here I'm thinking that if I were in the audience, and some chick asked to see the last episodes before she died, I'd probably boo her."
"You would not boo some poor girl with a brain aneurysm."
"I think I would. What makes her so goddamn special?"
"It'll be fine."
"I appreciate your reassurance," says Amy, "but we both know that I could end up looking like a complete idiot. And that assumes that I get to ask a question in the first place, which I probably won't."
"You're just nervous."
"Duh!"
"If you don't get to ask a question, we'll try something else. But the audience isn't going to turn against you. You're adorable."
"To you."
"To anybody."
"When you talk about me being adorable in empirical terms, I know you're full of shit. They're going to hate me."
"Nobody is going to hate you. You're being ridiculous."
"Will you hate me if I wuss out?"
"No."
"Because I feel like I'm close to wussing out."
"That's fine. Wuss out if you need to. We're here about to see the cast and creator of Exit Red! How amazing is that? I mean, this is something we should be doing even without the whole element of wanting to see the end of the show before you die."
"You're right, you're right. And, technically, if four thousand people do think I'm a complete douchebag, I'll be dead soon."
"That's the spirit."
Halfway through our eight-hour wait, the friendship of the gingers has reincarnated into something mildly homoerotic, which would be fine if they didn't look so much like brothers. They seem to be flirting in a manner that they can pass off as a satire of flirting. Or maybe it really is satire. I don't know. I just wish they didn't look so much alike.
The truth is that I have no idea how the audience will respond. I can't imagine that they'd tell her to shut the hell up and sit down. More likely, she'll have them in tears, right? Tears are way more likely than boos. She'll capture their hearts and be the talk of PhaserCon.
Or she'll be completely mortified.
I'm not usually one to downplay the potential for public humiliation, and I'm also not one to offer reassurance without having carefully analyzed the situation to be certain that my reassurance is merited. But I really believe that this is going to work.
And if it doesn't, well, she looked silly in front of four thousand people she'll never see again. So what?
Okay, and perhaps in front of the unlimited audience of the Internet.
Crap. My girlfriend could become a meme.
It'll be fine. Completely fine. She probably won't get to ask her question anyway, and this whole part of the plan will be moot.
We continue to stand in line.
A rumor has circulated that Nathan Fillion is walking around the convention center in a Boba Fett costume, so every time we see Boba Fett, which happens frequently, there's a rush of excitement. But none of them remove their helmets and say, "It's me, TV's Nathan Fillion!" so the rumor remains unconfirmed.
The romance between the gingers disintegrates when the tattooed one punches the non-tattooed one in the stomach during an argument about Doctor Who. The tattooed one is removed from the premises. The remaining ginger looks smug and satisfied as his enemy is dragged away, but later he looks a bit forlorn.
We continue to stand in line.
I'm not comfortable with public displays of affection, so Amy and I really don't do much except hold hands and exchange the occasional quick kiss on the lips. Envisioning this scenario on the taxi ride over, I'd thought that it would be cruel to go into PhaserCon with a girlfriend, since nobody else would have one. But I think the girls may actually outnumber the guys here by a narrow margin, and there are handholding couples all over the place. This sure isn't the geek culture I experienced as a kid.
We continue to stand in line.
Amy puts her arm around me. "I just want you to know that however this turns out, even if I don't get anywhere near a microphone, I really appreciate what you've done for me."
"It's no big deal."
"It is a big deal. This isn't a once in a lifetime opportunity. I could've done this anytime, but I needed the kick in the ass."
"Well, I'm glad I could kick you in the ass."
We continue to stand in...no, wait, the line is moving! We begin to file into a huge auditorium, as conference volunteers tell us repeatedly not to run. I really want to run, but instead I follow the safety guidelines.
We get seats about twelve rows back, which isn't too bad.
Amy wiggles with excitement. "I can't believe we're here."
"It's awesome."
She points to the empty stage. "They're all going to be right there."
"I know."
"I could run up there and dry-hump two or three of them before they dragged me away."
"Please don't."
"I won't. But I could."
A woman walks up onto the stage. "If you would like to ask a question during the Q&A portion of this panel, there are microphones on the left side and on the right side of the stage. Please line up now. There will only be a limited amount of time for questions, so there are no guarantees that we'll get to you."
"Good luck," I tell Amy as she stands up.
"Thanks," she says. She gives me a kiss on the cheek, which is not a good strategy because it costs her a fraction of a valuable second. She joins the stampede.
As I watch her make her way to the microphone, I discover that Amy has an amazing skill for navigating her way through a crowd like a ninja. She doesn't shove or bludgeon; she merely darts and weaves her way through, securing hersel
f the third spot in the line on the right-hand side of the stage. So if they alternate lines, she'll either be the fifth or the sixth question.
She looks over at me, grins, and gives me a thumbs-up sign. I return the grin, the thumbs-up sign, and one-up her by blowing her a kiss.
A man in a yellow suit walks up onto the stage and the crowd goes absolutely apeshit. "Hello, Exit Red fans!" he says, and the apeshit-level of the crowd doubles. "I'm Jack Wilky, host of the Wilky's Exit Red podcast, and have we got a treat for you! Are you ready to meet some people?"
The crowd indicates via clapping, cheering, whistling, screaming, and stomping their feet that they are, indeed, ready to meet some people.
"I can't hear you!" Jack shouts, although I suspect he's being disingenuous.
The audience, concerned about Jack's ability to hear them, freaks the hell out.
"Oh, yeah! Let's get this party started!"
Jack brings out each of the attending cast members, introducing them as if they're Jesus Christ giving the Beatles a piggyback ride. The audience is going absolutely berserk, and I'm unashamed to be going berserk right there along with them. I mean, the cast members are right there! Breathing approximately the same air as me! As their eyes roam the crowd, at least one of them has probably registered my presence! This is unbelievable!
The loudest cheers of all go to Blake Remark, the series creator and executive producer. He's a short pudgy guy with greasy hair, a bad complexion, and crooked teeth, but based on the squeals I'm guessing that the number of times he's getting laid tonight is limited only by the number of erections he's able to achieve.
The panel begins. The guy who plays Darwan, Jerry Previn, has a facial expression and body language that says "Contractually Obligated Appearance," but everybody else on the panel seems to be having a lot of fun. Blake Remark tends to dominate the discussion, but he's interesting and witty and, after all, he did create the show.
I notice Previn glancing at Amy every once in a while. At least I think he is. He could just be looking at somebody in the vicinity of Amy. It would certainly be ironic if I convinced Amy to come to PhaserCon, only to have her hook up with a TV star.
