Doug looked up, but his glasses went foggy from the smoke suddenly rising off his cheeks.
"AAH! Dammit!"
"Sorry."
It was still ten minutes until the doors opened, but they walked to the front of a grumbling line of fanboys, cosplayers, furries, goths, and a smattering of girlfriends that were there out of curiosity, or there to be supportive of their boyfriends, or maybe there because they had assumed they’d be a singularity — the only queen in the anthill, with all the power that implied. This last type was easy to spot, dressed in clothes so brazenly revealing they could pass for Halloween costumes. Doug knew there would be a lot of girls here who genuinely liked comics, too, though they never seemed to like the same kind he did. Still, it gave him hope that he’d eventually get lucky. He’d be at his local comic shop or maybe (why not?) even at this very convention. He and some beautiful girl would reach for the same back issue of Young X-Men at the same time. They’d have a laugh about it. They’d get to talking and discover they shared a great love of anime and customized action figures. Then they’d have sex on the fucking Batmobile or something.
"No cutting!" shouted Doctor Doom, or someone dressed just like him.
"That’s a really good Doctor Doom costume," said Jay. "Look at those rivets."
"Movie or comics version?" asked Doug.
"Comics."
"Hold on," said a large bald man whose costume was a simple black T-shirt that said his job (or name or personal motto) was Security. "Are you an exhibitor?"
"No—"
"Do you have an exhibitor’s badge?"
They didn’t.
"Back of the line, then."
"My friend can’t stand out in the sun like that," said Jay. "He has really sensitive skin. See?"
Jay lifted the hood of Doug’s poncho just slightly.
"Christ," whispered the man. He lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth. "This is Craig at D stop. I got a situation."
The walkie-talkie squawked something only Craig could understand. He said, "Copy" and returned it to its holster, all the while staring fixedly at Jay.
"It’ll just be a minute."
"Okay," said Jay. "Thanks."
Craig nodded. "So…he likes comics?"
"Yeah."
"He speaks English, too," said Doug.
Craig was joined by another big man in identical clothing, apart from a black baseball cap that said HEAD. Doug thought it seemed awfully literal.
The man said, "I’m head of security, boys."
Oh.
"What’s the problem?"
"These two want in early," said Craig, "on account of this kid can’t be out in the sun."
"Oh, yeah," said the head of security, looking under Doug’s poncho. "He’s got some kind of skin thing, right? They can wait in the lobby."
"You’re not surprised?" said Craig.
"Surprised? Hell, no. This is the big comic book weekend. If the freakin’ boy in the bubble rolled up here, I wouldn’t be surprised. Hey, watch this."
He called out to the queue. "Anyone lose an inhaler?"
About one in ten checked his pockets.
"See?" said Head, loud enough for anyone to hear. "Look at that lineup. It’s like all the kids picked last for every kickball game in America."
"Hey, screw you!" shouted a boy in a Gorillaz T-shirt. "I’m on my high school swim team!"
"Ooh." Head laughed. "Swim team."
"We went to state last year! What’d you ever do, fat ass?!"
"Hey!" said Head. "Watch your mouth or I’ll watch it for ya!"
"He wants to watch your mouth," said another boy.
"Yeah," said a third attendee, one in his twenties, "because that is all he does, right? That’s his job. Watching things. Whereas this line is full of geniuses and software engineers."
"Maybe I’ll hire you to watch my mansion someday, dick-pipe!" someone shouted.
"That’s it! Back of the line!" said Head.
"Maybe I’ll hire you to clean my pool!" said someone else.
"Back of the line! All of you!"
"Can we go in?" Jay asked Craig.
"Knock yourselves out," said Craig.
In minutes they were in a zigzagging line of low curtains, and they slalomed through it, alone; right, left, right, toward a row of tables manned by seated, serious women. Each woman looked like she was someone’s least-favorite aunt. Each woman had something to bestow on Doug and Jay, and the two boys walked in procession and received each of their tokens in turn.
Marjorie gives the Guide to Programming, your companion to the kingdom that awaits.
Wendy grants to each an Official Badge, which Mustn’t Be Lost.
From Ellen comes the Bag of Holding, filled with buttons, key chains, and all manner of promos.
And from Madge, the Book of Coupons. A thirty-dollar value.
Then, part the thin gray curtains and step, if you’re ready, into the Great Hall and taste of all its—
"Jesus," said Doug. "Look."
Almost immediately a girl sauntered by dressed as Femininja — which is to say, in a black bikini with a sword.
"Huh," said Jay.
"My spidey sense is tingling," Doug whispered, and looked over at Jay, who possibly hadn’t heard him. He’d spent an afternoon several weeks ago thinking of funny comic book things to say when girls passed. He had a notebook full of them.
The exhibit space on the ground floor was like three football fields of stands, booths, and tables, behind each of which was something to want, or someone to want, or someone to want to talk to. Directly in front of them now was the original captain’s chair from the set of Gastronauts, a book-brick bunker of manga and imported action figures in packages dashed with Japanese, and Lou Ferrigno.
"Why does everything look cooler with Japanese on it?" asked Doug.
"Huh?" Jay said absently.
They strode forward, slowly, deliberately, taking it all in — this goblin market at the nexus of all realities where a circa 1980s Iron Man and an original 1963 Iron Man and Naruto and Sherlock Holmes could all be waiting for the same bathroom. Would it convey the scale of the thing to know that there was a person who elected to dress as the Kool-Aid Man? Would it convey it better to know there were two?
"Look," said Doug. "Those two Kool-Aid Men are fighting."
"I don’t know what to do," said Jay. "I don’t know what to do."
"About what? The Kool-Aid Men?"
Jay shook his head. Then he motioned at the whole thing, at everything: the comics and the culture and the people pulling the first Kool-Aid Man off the second Kool-Aid Man.
"We’re going to walk around and look at things," said Doug.
"But what things? Which ones? What if we don’t see all of them? What if we look at the wrong things?"
"Look. Calm down. We’re just going to get the lay of the land. We’re going to skim through the program and circle things. If someone tries to hand us something, we let them. If we pass a trivia quiz, we’re going to shout ‘Crisis on Infinite Earths!’ because that’s usually the answer. Are you going to be okay?"
Jay swallowed and nodded. The convention hall was filling with people. Someone in Spider-Man tights crouched near them and pointed with two web-slinging fingers.
"Hey, true believers!" he said. "The Marvel Entertainment Group is in booth six thirty!"
Doug gave a hesitant thumbs-up. "Thanks."
"Thank you, Spider-Man," said Jay.
Spider-Man leaped away and delivered his line again to a group of Japanese girls.
The two boys tunneled through the feedlot of warm bodies to visit every table and booth in turn. They got writers and artists to sign comics and a model dressed as Punching Judy to sign Doug’s arm. It would have been a good opportunity to say one of the funny comic-book lines he’d thought up ("You’re making me horny. You wouldn’t like me when I’m horny."), but he couldn’t quite manage it. Punching Judy was getting dirty looks from the writer/illustrator of SuperBitch, who was talking to a local news crew from her adjoining booth.