I can’t believe I’m here right now. It’s really unbelievable. The throng of people that surrounds my table over some stupid horror film I made when I was, what, seven or eight. Even Meylin’s been caught up in the excitement since I got her a free ticket to attend the annual horror convention at the Jacob Javits Center. You know what? She’s probably the youngest person here. Most of the people that have come over to my table are bald or have a thinning hairline. These guys are much scarier than those zombies in my movie, believe me. Whatever. The money’s good for a weekend of work. I just hope I survive the overriding stench of BO that masks the air. Not only that but I haven’t rubbed in hours and it’s getting hard to focus with everything that’s going on. All the stimulation, as my Dad calls it.
“Wow. You’re Autumn Blevins. You were awesome in Zombie Graveyard. I mean, child actors usually aren’t any good but you were great. Really.” A man in his forties or fifties announces as he walks up to my table with a nervous smile. He’s, you guessed it, bald with a graying beard.
“Thanks. You want that signed?” I motion towards the Blu-ray of the aforementioned film that he’s holding in his hands. The organizers of this convention have told us, the actors, to get to the point and keep the line moving.
“That would be great and could you personalize it?”
“Um, what’s your name, dude?” I ask in an annoyed tone. Hey, he is keeping up the line.
“It’s Carl. Anyway, I heard they were making a sequel but none of the original actors are coming back. That’s messed up. Your character survived, she should be brought back. That’s just not right.”
I really don’t care about not being in the sequel. No, scratch that. I don’t need to be in the sequel because I’m starring in a television show. So, there’s that.
“Yeah. I really want to see your story continue. I’m sure if the fans start an online petition, the producers will realize that you have to come back.” Carl says confidently with his arms folded across his flabby chest (the Jason shirt isn’t exactly hiding it).
“That’s okay. I’m working on Spirit Scribe now so I wouldn’t have time to do it.”
“That’s a shame. I really wanted…”
“Well, thanks for coming out.” I practically toss his newly signed Blu-ray at him, as he seems to finally get the hint. He awkwardly walks away as I sigh in relief. Unfortunately, there are more people I need to sign autographs for and pretend that I care about this stupid movie.
The line is still pretty long at this point and I’m starting to get restless again. I stealthily rub the table edges with my hands but it’s not the same, not as good as a book or my ball (which I still have only for that exact purpose). I then look over at one of the organizers assigned to my table.
“Can I take a ten minute break, Stephanie?” I ask her in the most sympathetic voice I can manage.
Stephanie nods. “Okay but try not to be longer than ten minutes. It’s a long line and you’re only here for another two hours.”
I thank her and get out of my uncomfortable steel chair. My back’s killing me as I survey the crowded room, wondering how I’m going to navigate through. For her part, Stephanie announces to the crowd that I was just taking a short break.
I give a flippant wave to the crowd and rush out of there. This place is just too much. I hope Meylin is enjoying herself, at least, since she’s actually a fan of this stuff. Maybe I should text her.
No. I don’t have enough time.
This is impossible. It’s like you can barely move in this insanity. I squeeze past a horde of guys and catch a whiff of something that almost topples me over. I’m not going to last another few hours, I know I’m not. Ugh.
Will someone please just get me out of here, already? Please? There’s still barely any place to move as I survey the area for some badly needed space. I spot the bathrooms, about several feet to my left, but think better of it. First of all, if the floor is this bad, I don’t even want to go near the bathrooms. I’ll hold it until the event’s over. Thanks.
Ow! Some guy just stepped on my foot. Didn’t even say he was sorry or anything. Surprised the creep didn’t recognize me. I subsequently hobble over to the nearest table I can find (I don’t even know who it belongs to). Then, I grip the table with my right hand and lift my left leg in the air to relieve the pressure of standing on it.
“Excuse me. You need to wait your turn.” The organizer of that table announces in a patronizing tone.
You’ve got to be kidding. The actor sitting at the table, a guy in his forties with long stringy, greasy, blonde hair gives me a dopey grin. Like he’s embarrassed for me.
Yeah, okay. His placard reads, under his name, the “Monster from Blood Craze.” Now, in this scenario, who should be embarrassed? Especially, since I’m leaving the horror genre for bigger and better things. I won’t be here in my forties or fifties like this loser.
“Don’t sweat it, kid. I’m sure it’ll be cool with everyone here if I sign you an autograph. After all, kids like you are the future of this genre, am I right?”
The people in line, albeit a very small line, cheer in unison as a creeping feeling of embarrassment washes over me like a tidal wave. Okay, that wasn’t very original but I’m an actor, not a writer, give me a break.
“I don’t want an autograph, got it? I just want to get back to my table.” As soon as I say the words I know I’m starting to sound agitated.
Well, that’s what happens when I can’t rub. Why did I leave my ball at home? I mean everyone knows that I have learning and developmental disabilities. That’s how I got on Spirit Scribe in the first place. So, who really cares if I rub a little bit? I’m just too self-conscious for my own good. Maybe that just comes with being twelve.
“Your table?” The stupefied actor says as he stares up at me with a clueless expression.
“Don’t you recognize her, man? That’s Autumn Blevins.” A fan notifies Mr. Dazed and Confused.
“Hold up. Are you saying she’s the girl that was bullied at school and got that kiddie TV show out of it? Something with a ghost or something, am I right?” The washed up actor says while stroking his chin as if he was contemplating some new invention.
“Sprit Scribe.” I reply with little emotion while still gripping the table with my right hand (although my throbbing left foot is back on the floor at this point).
“Huh? I’m sorry?”
“That’s the name of the show you clearly couldn’t think of.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry I didn’t recognize you. That’s weird. I guess sometimes that happens. Someone you see on TV that you don’t recognize even if they’re standing right in front of you. In fact, that’s happened to me before too (now that I think of it).”
Yeah, right. In your case, they really didn’t recognize you because they had no clue who you were. Bet you had to tell them all about it and they still had no idea even after showing them your Wiki page. Well, that’s not me.
Without another word, I extricate myself from his table and hobble back towards my own. My foot still hurts and the convention floor is just as crowded as before. Pushing and shoving, while holding my breath to avoiding breathing in the overpowering stench, I finally arrive at my table. The line is just as long but I don’t mind. As long as I’m sitting down, I’m good. I stretch my leg underneath the table and elevate my left foot. Much better.
The next two hours are without further incident, just the usual convention signing. Sure, I was still besieged by the walking dead (I mean, my fans). However, it wasn’t as bad as I imagined and my left foot feels a lot better.
The backroom, where featured guests hang out during breaks, is small and resembles someone’s basement. It’s not exactly the welcoming atmosphere I’m used to on television talk shows. Now, those green rooms are spacious and comfortable. In comparison, this room only has a couple of folding chairs lined up next to each other. I was told the annual comic book convention is more popular and, therefore, actually hospitable for the celebrities that attend. It doesn’t matter. I don’t even sit down and, thankfully, there are no other actors here besides me right now so I can skip the annoying chitchat. Instead, I text Meylin and let her know it’s time to go.
“What? You seriously want me to wait five minutes? After I got you your ticket?” I don’t text that back to her, of course.
I do, however, text my Mom and instruct her to meet us in front of the convention. We’re all going out to lunch and I’m actually really hungry. Come on, Meylin. After my last experience on the convention floor, I’m really not in any hurry to look for her amongst all these people.
Finally, Meylin texts me back that she’s near the front exit. That’s all I needed to read. I exit the backroom and plunge myself back into the convention madness. Do I have a choice? It’s the only way to get to where Meylin is. This time, though, I’m smarter in how I navigate through the convention floor. For instance, I practically hug the bare white wall as I avoid any human contact with the mob congregating all around me. The only things to watch out for are the people sitting down by the wall but they’re surprisingly easy to avoid.
The sight of the exits is an indescribable feeling. It’s like making it to shore after feeling like you’re going to drown, which actually happened to me when I was a little kid. Traumatic memory aside, I spot Meylin near the door. Despite Meylin’s small size, her favorite olive green shirt is always a dead giveaway.
“Found you.” I exclaim with a mixture of exhilaration and pure relief.
“Sorpresa.” Meylin then reveals the plastic glove that she’s wearing outfitted with fake knives where fingertips should be. I didn’t notice it before because she was hiding it behind her back.
“Where’d you get that?”
“You know what it is? Come on, guess.” Meylin teases.
“Yeah, I know. It’s a replica of Freddy Krueger’s glove. Where’d you get it?”
“Signed by the one and only Robert Englund. After I told him we were friends, he autographed it for me. Free.” Meylin then pushes the glove towards my face and I glimpse the horror icon’s signature.
“Meylin. I told you not to use my name to get free stuff or things like that. It looks bad on me and it’s just unprofessional.” Meylin should really know better. I specifically told her before we arrived at the convention not to do that. Why can’t she listen?
“Sorry. But Englund offered it to me. I didn’t, I didn’t, say anything. I just, you know, told him I was your best friend. I didn’t ask for free stuff. I really didn’t. Honest.”
“Uh, yeah. You basically told him that we were friends in exchange for special treatment. You volunteered the information, is what I mean.”
At this point, Meylin avoids eye contact and stares at the ground. She moves the glove behind her back but this time it’s out of shame. Maybe I shouldn’t have snapped at her. She made a mistake and, after she supported me last fall, I should just let it go.
“Hey, listen, just forget about it. Just try not to do it again.”
Meylin nods but she’s still avoiding eye contact with me.
“Can I get a better look at the glove?” I ask even though I saw it plenty when Meylin shoved it in my face from before. I just want to get her back in a good mood.
Meylin then takes the glove off her right hand and places it in my arms.
“Careful.” She whispers as if I’m holding her only child. Well, technically, I am cradling a glove in my arms like a baby.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Meylin asks in such a sweet singsong voice that I burst into laughter.
Satisfied that everything’s okay, I push open the heavy glass doors and exit the convention center (with Meylin close behind).
“My Mom should be here any minute and then we’ll…” I don’t finish my sentence as the late afternoon heat temporarily disorients me. It must be ninety degrees, at least. Normal for a day in the middle of June but it seemed much cooler when we arrived this morning.
I shield my eyes as I survey my surroundings in search of my mother. The front of the convention center is packed with taxis and other cars, most likely Uber drivers, as Meylin and I walk down the sidewalk and away from the crowd of people waiting for their rides. I don’t want to be recognized. That’s the last thing I need right now after surviving a nightmarish morning.
“Um, excuse me. Hi. My name is…my name…name…sorry. I, um, it’s…really hard to…I just wanted to…” This strange woman says as she walks up to me. She’s dressed in a black t-shirt with dirty looking blue jeans. Her long brown hair is messy and it partly obscures her face as she tries to speak.
Great. This is definitely not what I needed right now. Especially, since I was so close to getting out of this dump. I mean, what’s her problem anyway?
“Convention’s over.” I reply as coldly as possible in an effort to discourage her from further conversation.
“I, I, I…know. It’s. It’s just, just that I…” She pauses as it looks like she’s trying to regain her composure or something.
“Look, I’m tired and I already sat for hours in a dirty and smelly convention hall so I really don’t need this right now.”
“Sorry…I mean I’m really sorry. I…I don’t want to take up your time. I really loved your movie and…and…and…”
Jeez! Sounds like she’s going to pass out or something. Maybe I should just sign her an autograph just to get her away from me. Too bad I’m not getting paid for basically doing extra work. At least, she’s not asking for a selfie with me.
“Relax, okay. You’re freaking me out. Do you have a piece of paper or something?”
“No. I…um…I…um. I’m so suh-sorry. I’m very…very… nervous.”
“Yeah, I get that. Meylin, you have a piece of paper?” I gesture towards my friend as Meylin digs into her jean pocket and hands me a crumpled up piece of notebook paper. It has the names of celebrities on them; this must be what she used to get autographs at the convention.
“You sure?” I ask her in bewilderment but she ignores me. Instead, she goes over to the bizarre autograph seeker and gives her a reassuring pat on the shoulder (with her free hand). As if to let her know everything was going to be okay.
“Th…thank you so…so much.”
“No hay problema.”
The woman, with her body shaking uncontrollably, then hands me the paper. Tears are now streaking down her cheeks as Meylin, once again, pats her shoulder gingerly while assuring her everything was going to be fine. All of this tells me I really should sign this fast and send this unhinged, and seemingly, obsessed fan on her way. Why am I suddenly thinking about that other Stephen Kane novel? You know, Torment? I feel like the main character before his crazed, stalker fan broke his arms. Yeah, maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but that’s the vibe I’m getting.
Thankfully, I still have the pen from the convention (must have accidentally put it in my pocket when the signing was over). Unfortunately, there’s really no place to sign it on, unless I do it on the dirty pavement. Guess I’ll have to improvise.
“Let me borrow your back, Meylin.”
Meylin nods in approval as I add my name to the list of dozens already on the slip of paper. I then slowly hand her my signed autograph because I’m still very much uneasy around this person.
“Thank…thank you so…so much. My name is Rebecca and you…you…you…you…you…are such an inspiration to me. I…I saw, saw you on TV talking about being…being…being bullied for being in…in…in special Ed. And you got…the…the TV show. And it was suh…suh…such an inspiration to me. I was in a resource room too when…when…when I was a kid. And I was bullied too. Thank you for being brave.”
Will she just go away? I don’t need her accolades. I just want to find my Mom and get away from losers like her.
“Okay. I signed your autograph, even when I really wasn’t supposed to. So, can you leave me alone now? Please?” I regret saying the words as soon as they leave my lips but I’m too tired to take them back.
“I…I…I’m sorry. I’m…” Rebecca’s voice quivers as she turns around and darts down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.
Every fiber in my being tells me to call out after her and apologize for what I said. I want to run after her and explain why I was acting like such a massive jerk. Instead, I just stand there holding my pen in the air like an idiot.
However, that’s not the worst thing. No. The worst thing is Meylin whispering under her breath. “This is how you treat people? Basura.”
My best friend just called me trash. It doesn’t matter that she thought I couldn’t hear her it hurts all the same. Hurts a lot, actually. After what happened with Jessica, everyone wants me to be a role model. Evidently, I failed that test. Big time. I can’t even make eye contact with Meylin as I stare into the distance and focus on finding my mother.
