Robert Schell
3. A Typical Austinite
Waldo shrugged and made his way up to the Courtesy Desk. Standing there was a young man with scarecrow proportions and a patch of sandy blond hair rising like a snarl of unruly weeds from his scalp. He wore a jumpsuit and held some sort of prop weapon apparently made from PVC piping. As Waldo drew near, a small young woman wearing granny glasses, a flannel shirt and black faded jeans with frayed knees approached from the opposite direction. They converged in front of the desk.
“Are you in charge here?” Waldo asked the young man.
“No,” he drawled in a lilting West Texas accent. “I’m Kenny McIntyre. I won the contest.”
“I won the contest.”
“I won the contest, too,” interrupted the young woman.
“And you are?” asked Waldo.
“Ash Meyers. Who the hell are you?”
“Waldo Borg.”
“Aren’t you that writer from Austin?” asked Kenny.
“From Austin via Dartford,” corrected Waldo.
“…Creator of Vegetable Man and Headbanger? They made a movie of your graphic novel Cartoon Man with What’s-Her-Name from 90210?”
“Cartoon Man. That’s clever,” scoffed Ash.
“And you’re a guest of the Con,” continued Kenny. “You should be disqualified.”
“Nothing in the rules said that I couldn’t enter,” Waldo protested.
“Wait, I know who you are,” said Ash. “My boyfriend is a huge fan. He even has the Freeze Dried Jizzum album.”
“You mean The Universe Excluding Papua, New Guinea? Tell him to bring it by my booth. I’ll autograph it for him. Do you want an autograph?”
“As if. I don’t even like comics or any of this nerd stuff. I just came because of the BF.”
“I’ll bet you’re disappointed that you couldn’t find a Grumpy Cat calendar so you could instagram it and gush about how “ironic” or “random” it is,” sneered Waldo.
“Joke’s on you. I did find a Grumpy Cat calendar. Ha! Wait a minute, weren’t you the asshole who gave me the finger in the parking lot?”
“I saw that space first. I had my blinker on.”
Kenny turned his attention to Ash.
“If you’re not into comics and sci-fi, how did you know the answers to the quiz?” demanded Kenny.
“My BF wrote the answers down and told me to sign it. He said it was a gift for agreeing to come along.”
“Cheating!” roared Waldo. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a cheater here. She should be immediately disqualified!”
“Hey, screw you, man. You think you can get away with this shit? You think you’re better than me because you recorded some unlistenable noise for a hip indie record label thirty years ago…”
“Twenty-seven.”
“… and wrote a bunch of dumb comics that nerds cream themselves over? And by the way, you’ve got shit on your jacket.”
“It’s not shit,” mumbled Waldo.
“They’re not dumb comics,” Tanya interjected, stepping out of the crowd with Alexa following and interposing herself between Waldo and Ash. “Mr. Borg wrote some of the most original, literary and thoughtful graphic novels since Neil Gaiman’s original Sandman series, and is highly respected by readers, critics, and other creators in his field.”
“Respected by other comic creators? That’s a slanderous lie. My so-called peers do not appreciate the true genius of my work, nor do I wish to be damned by their faint praise.”
“And who are you, his mime publicist?” sneered Ash.
“I’m Tanya Sanchez and this is my companion Alexa Sotomayor.”
“Contest winners,” chimed in Alexa.
“She’s not a mime. She’s Woody Allen in Sleeper,” said Waldo.
“Oh my God! Finally someone got it!” Tanya exclaimed.
“Except you don’t have the mouthpiece or earpieces,” Waldo pointed out.
“Too uncomfortable to wear all day.”
“Are you supposed to be Storm from X-Men when she had a Mohawk?” Kenny asked Alexa.
“No. Why do people keep asking if I’m Storm?”
“Well you’re…”
“I’m black? Is that it?”
“Hey, I didn’t mean anything…”
“You remember that guy in Toronto who came up to us and asked, So is Batgirl black now? He actually said that to my face, Tanya.”
“So who are you supposed to be, then?” Kenny persisted.
“I’m Wez. From The Road Warrior.”
“Oh, is Wez black now?”
“Grrrr.”
“I was wondering why you were showing so much cheek-cake.”
“Don’t you be looking at my butt, boy.”
“You’re not my type.”
“I’ll bet, country boy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I believe the implication being made,” said Waldo, “is that you’re some kind of backwoods bumpkin, and therefore likely someone who spends an inordinate amount of time riding around in a Ford pickup equipped with a gun rack in the cab, listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd, and very likely attending meetings of your local Aryan Power chapter. A possibility that I do not discount, myself.”
“You don’t know anything about me. I know you Austin types, though. Let me guess: You hang out in hip curb-side diners on Barton Springs Road reading the Austin Chronicle in the afternoon, then watch live music at the Continental Club while downing Shiner Bocks, and round out the evening at a Town Lake-side apartment filled with Art Nouveau prints, partying with Robert Rodriguez or Matthew McConaughey and What’s-Her-Name from 90210 smoking ganja and playing Bob Marley, John Coltrane and Willie Nelson records.”
“Go shoot a deer, militia boy. You think I actually know, um, What’s-Her-Name? Do you think George R.R. Martin pokes Lena Heady?”
“Hey, that was pretty good, Country.” Ash chimed in.
“Aw, go cut yourself. I didn’t realize that grunge was still a thing,” grumbled Waldo.
“You guys!” broke in Tanya, “Can’t we be civil here? No one knows anyone here. Well, except I know Alexa, of course.”
“Aren’t you two also guests of the Con?” asked Kenny. “You should also be disqualified from the prize.”
“WHAT did you say, Country?” snarled Alexa.
“My name is Kenny. K-E-N-N-Y.”
“I’m surprised he got that right,” sneered Waldo.
“Suck it, Austin hipster,” retorted Ash.
“Go tweet on Tumbler about how that new Arcade Fire song just totally gets you.”
“GUYS!”
Everyone turned to look at Tanya.
“Did any of you notice that something very strange is going on here?”
They fell silent. And it was suddenly very clear that everyone else had as well. They looked around. As they watched, a shuffling, slowing moving tide of blank-faced, costumed humanity converged on the Courtesy Desk, wizard staffs, bat’leths and blasters raised threateningly.