Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (63 page)

Thankfully, the rest of the trip was relatively tame.

We made it to the next town and slept in the parking lot of a gas station where a cheery sign with a cute little big-headed cartoon service-station man happily promised:

Which I doubted.

But our options were limited, so we decided to stay the night and see if the little guy was a liar.

All of us were hoping for, and desperately needing to, sleep. But there were no motels nearby, so we were forced to bunk down in the crowded Duesenberg, each couple with a seat to themselves, though not much else to compensate our exhaustion given that Morgan refused to remove his pants for Sophie, and River forced me to keep a respectable distance from his sister. Highly unfair given his continual enjoyment of the Waboombas finger massage on his own manliness. But apparently hypocrisy wasn’t unique to ‘clothists’.

Despite this, we wound up talking, laughing, and dozing through the night, and after a while, I no longer cared if I slept, or did anything else for that matter, so long as I could continue to take in more, and more, and more of Wisper. She was exhilarating, even when she wasn’t touching me. Her mind was sharp, she was caring and sensitive of others, and her intelligence dazzled me. I began to wonder if maybe John Seward Johnson had found his upstairs maid similarly engaging. Maybe. Maybe not. But did it really matter?

By early morning, stiff in oh-so-many ways, still tired, and more than a little cranky, I slipped into my pants, met with the greasy station attendant as he arrived for work looking nothing like his cartoon counterpart, and convinced him to jury-rig the Duesenberg by offering wads of cash (my credit cards worked again here) if he could be done before breakfast and not ask any questions. He agreed, and amazingly, even though he spent more time looking at Wisper and Sophie than he did at the engine, I had to give him credit; the man brought the dead back to life. It made me wonder what he could do with a loaf, a fish, and a hungry crowd.

As the car idled in the service bay, I went into a small convenience store one block over, and bought enough sweets, and carbohydrates to feed a hyperactive army of kids on a Saturday morning, and before the sugar had even hit our bloodstream, we were on our way.

We arrived at the convention center before noon and stared in gaping awe at the massive lines leading out from the glass-walled main entrance of the building onto the busy concourse and down the crowded street for several blocks. There must have been a hundred thousand people, or more, waiting to get in.

Advertising trucks drove past the throng towing huge displays for whatever late summer, sci-fi, superhero, or fantasy blockbusters might be due out in the coming weeks. People wearing street clothes paraded down jammed sidewalks side-by-side with those more garishly displayed in wild and inventive costumes. Some carried boxes, others original art, many held bags, and quite a few lugged heavy artist’s portfolios. All looked happy, hopeful, and excited.

Every year I came, I was more amazed at how much the convention scene had changed since I was a wide-eyed youth, when only a few hundred people might show up for the entire weekend— all mostly young, all mostly fans of the actual comic books themselves. Now, very few of the attendees actually gave a rat’s fig about comics, or anything even affiliated with them. More people attended these conventions than actually bought comic books in their lifetimes, and why they came was a matter of some debate. It was my belief that their appearance here could—as with so many things—be laid squarely at the feet of Al Gore’s Internet.

Because of the World Wide Web, and all it’s many filaments, the comics convention had become more than just a sales opportunity, promotional tool, and tax benefit for the city. It had grown into an important, positive, and empowering experience for those who attended; the convention center itself, through transmitted imagery and stories, had reached a cult status as a common meeting ground where fans could socialize—no longer just digitally, but face-to-face— and in the process find even more like-minded friends who might want to touch them sexually. The Con was now a thrilling destination point—a Mecca, a Garden of Eden, and a journey’s end, all rolled into one; the fans looked upon it and saw that it was good.

And so they came, and saw, and in some cases even conquered. Keeping all that in mind, you also have to add into this rather heady mixture of social misfits desiring community, the interest of general sci-fi and fantasy fans, passive fans, people lost and looking for directions, the generally curious, couples with an afternoon to kill, aspiring artists, aspiring writers, innocent children who don’t know any better, and people who just want to come and gawk, because aside from just the hardcore weirdoes and the chronically lonely, comic book conventions had also recently become immensely popular with the masses—and I do mean
masses
—due to all the recent superhero movies. Consequently, tons of people came every year to see guest actors, featured directors, and previews for whatever Hollywood was offering up next. Not that it was really any different from what had been in theaters the previous year, or the year before that, or the year before that—but to promote it, the studios gave away free stuff, and the masses
love
free stuff.

Owing to the enormous popularity of connectedness, voyeurism, and just general ‘wa’s up’ surrounding comics conventions (or ‘cons’ in attendee parlance), we had to park several miles away in a small lot somewhere very near the international date line, and paid the attendant with a credit card that, fortunately for us both, still worked. He let us in with barely a second glance, despite the fact that—with the exception of Waboombas and Morgan—we were all still extremely naked.

“Here for the comics convention?” he asked pleasantly, as if carloads of bare-assed people showed up for that every day.

“Yes, we are,” I said, equally pleasantly.

“Enjoy yourselves,” he said, handing us a ticket and waving us in.

“We already are,” Wisper said, smiling pleasantly and fanning her bare breasts to alleviate the heat from the man’s intense gaze.

Once safely parked, I opened the trunk, and it barfed out our luggage. All that crashing, towing, and wild driving had left things in a terrible jumble that took a few minutes to sort out.

I handed Waboombas her suitcases, tossed Morgan his, and grabbed mine from under the spare tire, turning it over to Wisper.

“See if there’s something in there that will fit,” I said.

She cocked her head and looked at me with irritation.

“Just for now,” I said. “Promise.”

She sighed, unconvinced, and opened the case. As she did, I grabbed something from inside and handed it to River.

“It’s likely to be a tight fit,” I told him, “but you can probably squeeze into this.”

“Are you insane?” he asked. “I am
not
wearing clothing!”

Waboombas laughed. Or burped, I still hadn’t worked it out. “I love this guy.”

“Then you’ll have to stay in the car. In this world, there are laws about exposing your privates in public.”

“
What?
I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life. Laws against the human body. Where are we? Nazi Germany?”

Why did everyone always pull out ‘Nazi Germany’ when they found something the least bit repressive? Things must have been really bad there at one time.