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 He'd be in his glory among all these old relics, these historical documents from the ancient 1980s and even older.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 understands 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.
Meeting 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—"
"Wait a second. Wait a second." He holds up a hand to stop me. "The monkey sex issue? You read that?"
"Not when it first came out. I read the Forever trade paperback." Forever! That's the story! Now I remember.
"Wait. How old are you?"
What does that have to do with anything? "Fifteen." He looks at me skeptically, and I guess I don't blame him. I'm small for my age, and skinny, and if I've shaved I guess I look a lot younger. "No, really."
"Do your parents know you read this?" He waves the Scriptbook at me.
"I don't know." It's the truth. I have no idea. My parents don't care what I read. I read all kinds of stuff.
"Because this is..." He stops, as if unsure how to go on. "Look, I mean, I appreciate that you like my stuff—"
"It's more than like. You're my inspiration." That sounded gay.
"OK. But look, Powers is really written for adults. I mean, you could read Ultimate Spidey or—"
"I read that, too." Should I show him the one in my portfolio to prove it? "I read everything you write."
"That's great. I appreciate it. I mean that. But I don't want you to get in trouble with your parents for reading something that's—"
"My parents are cool with it."
"But you just said—"
"No, really, they let me read whatever I want."
We both stop. I feel like I've been arm-wrestling. This whole thing has gotten off-track.
My portfolio is resting on the table, partly unzipped. I tug the zippers down the rest of the way. "I'd really like to show you something," I tell him, forcing my voice not to tremble. Best to cut right to the chase.
Holding my Scriptbook, Bendis watches with a helpless expression on his face as I flatten the portfolio to reveal the first page, the cover mockup for Schemata.
"What's this?" he asks. And before I can answer, he says, "I'm sorry, man. I really am. But I'm not doing portfolio reviews."
"I don't want you to review my portfolio. This isn't even my portfolio." Which we both recognize is sort of ridiculous because it's clearly a portfolio. "I mean, it's in a portfolio, obviously, but it's ... Let me show you." I flip the page, a little aggravated because I wanted him to be impressed by the cover, but maybe I was a little too slavish in my Sam Kieth impression. He'll like the interior pages better; they show my individual style.
"Seriously," he says. "I can't do a review. I mean, there's a line like you wouldn't believe ..."
"I know. I stood in it."
"Well, then you understand. I have to get to everyone, you know? I have to be fair. A lot of these people traveled really far."
"But I just want you to look at my graphic novel."
He looks at me sadly. "I understand. I do. I wish I could spend more time with my fans, but—"
"I'm not a fan!" Ugh. That was wrong. "I mean, I'm not just a fan. I'm a creator. I'm a writer/artist. Like you. See?" I flip another page. Courteney shrinks from a student as the kid's overwhelming fear of Grandma dying of cancer comes alive in three dimensions, threatening the entire page, shaking the panel borders. It's a really great page.
"I get you, man. Look, you obviously put a lot of work into this stuff, OK?" He's barely looked at it. How can he tell? "I really don't want to rain on your parade, but I gotta be fair to everyone in the line. If I looked at this now, I wouldn't be able to spend any real time on it. I wouldn't be giving it the attention it deserves, you understand?"
Despite myself, I find my head nodding up and down. Yes. That makes sense. The solution is easy: I want him to be unfair and screw everyone else in the line.
"Your best bet—seriously, I'm not BS-ing you here—is to find one of the editors at one of the publishers' booths and see if he'll do a portfolio review."
"But it's not a—"
He holds up a hand again. "I know. That's just what it's called, OK?" He grins at me. "That make sense to you? That sound cool?"
No. No, it doesn't. He's supposed to read it. He's at least supposed to read it! He opens my Scriptbook. "I'm really flattered that my stuff has influenced you. I remember being fourteen, man. Frank Miller's Daredevil. God, I thought that was part of my blood. I would see it in my sleep. " He scribbles with the Sharpie, pauses, then scribbles again.
"I'm fifteen," I remind him.
"Right. I'm sorry. Did I say fourteen? It was still Miller's Daredevil for me." He hands over the Scriptbook. "It takes a few minutes for the ink to dry, so hold the book open like this until then, O
K?"
What can I do? He's holding the book out to me. I take it.
"Don't forget your ... this." He points to the portfolio, still open to Courteney's moment of terror, on the table.
Is this it? Is it over? All my work, all my time, for this? What did I do wrong? I don't understand what I did wrong.
I gather up the portfolio.
"It was really nice to meet you," he says, and he seems serious and sincere. I want to shake his hand again, but both of my hands are filled.
Say something! It sounds like Kyra's voice in my head. But I can't think of anything to say. And he's already looking over my shoulder, making eye contact with the person behind me.
I step out of line.
I've met Bendis.
Chapter Forty-Three
I'M CONFUSED. MY HEAD'S BUZZING with crowd noise and befuddlement. What happened? How did I botch it so badly? It was so simple: Shake his hand, introduce myself, make a connection, show him Schemata. And bang, that's it! Simple.
I don't get it. I'm the smartest kid in my school. How did I mess this up?
I'm numb as I head to the bathroom. I feel like something's going to happen and I don't want to be in public when it does. I struggle with the door, my hands occupied with the portfolio and the book. I shove the book into the portfolio, zip it up, and go into the bathroom, which is, thankfully, unoccupied.
I'm trembling as my stupid, ugly face floats into view in the mirror.
"What did you do?" I whisper. I'm snarling at myself. "What did you do? You didn't do anything right. Not a single thing. You messed up your one chance. You dumb, ugly piece of crap. No wonder no one wants to be your friend. No wonder everyone hates you." I'm starting to tear up. I wipe my eyes so hard that it hurts. "Don't cry. You little baby. Little momma's boy. Don't cry. It's your fault. It's your fault and no one else's."