The Geek's Guide to Unrequited Love (7 page)

Of course, going to investigate the Zinc situation might mean leaving Roxana and Devin alone together.

“By the way, I didn't tell you, but that is an excellent Pris costume,” he's now saying to her.

She laughs. “Thanks, but . . .” She points to her green ear.
That's right, idiot. The costume is not from
Blade Runner
,
I think triumphantly.

Devin only looks confused, which makes me think . . . “Did she have a green ear in the movie?” he asks, puzzled. Whoa! Does he really not know who Althena is?

“
The Chronicles of Althena
?” Roxana asks. “You do know what that is? Right?”

“Um . . . ,” Devin starts, and I am immediately gloating. “You know, I think I've vaguely heard of it.” Yes! Yes! Yes! He's got to be getting so many deductions right now.

But instead of frowning at him, Roxana is smiling mischievously. “Vaguely heard of it? Oh, man, that is so sad for you.”

Devin merely grins back. “Then enlighten me, not-Pris.”

What the hell? How does he turn his utter and offensive lack of knowledge of one of Roxana's favorite things into more flirting?

Roxana bows. “
The Chronicles of Althena
,” she rattles off, “was an American comic series that ran for two years from 1991 through 1993, by the incomparable writer and artist Robert Zinc. It was published by the then
newly established Young Guns Press. And it was—is—utterly brilliant.”

Devin's bright blue eyes flash even brighter. “Tell me more,” he says. “What is it about?”

“Well . . . I can give you a
brief
synopsis. But you're definitely going to have to read it for yourself,” Roxana says, crossing her arms.

“All right,” Devin says. “I defer to your expertise on that.”

“But basically it's about an alien, Althena, who crash-lands on Earth to do a research project and meets a failed sci-fi writer named Charlie Noth. Althena's knowledge of humankind is pretty limited, though, and comes mostly from an outdated sci-fi movie marathon her lazy Homo Sapiens Studies instructor fed her in school. Hence . . .” She swoops her arm up to indicate herself.

“Ah, of course. I see. Hence
Blade Runner
 . . .” Devin glances over at me and grins like he's just discovered the theory of relativity. “And Mad Max!” He taps at his ear to indicate he has now noticed that I also have a green ear. Needless to say, I'm not impressed.

“Right!” Roxana says as if she is. “And here's a fun fact: Zinc based the character of Noth on himself. He started out as a sci-fi author, you see, and not a very successful one. He was feeling really jaded about that industry when he started writing
Althena.
Anyway, read the original series. They are wonderful. Zinc has these gorgeous panels, coupled with just the perfect words, and it's just like poetry, really. Comic book poetry.”

I'm starting to smile despite myself because hearing Roxana talk so reverently about something I also deeply love is intoxicating.

“The original?” Devin asks. “As opposed to . . .”

“Oh. Right. So Zinc and Young Guns had a huge falling-out. That's why the series only ran for two years. Afterward Zinc basically disappeared. But Young Guns owned the rights to Althena. There wasn't any overt interest for a long time, but pretty soon the fansites started to get traction and some of the kids who were fans when they were teens started to get old enough to become, like, executives. So long story short, five years ago, there was a reboot.” She pauses dramatically.

“And . . . we do not like this reboot?” Devin asks.

“No, sir, we do not,” Roxana says emphatically. “It has none of the subtlety or the nuance. And certainly none of that otherworldly art.”

“Or the humor.” I can't help but butt in now. “No sly little jokes.”

Roxana looks at me and snorts. “Those guys don't know no Sly that isn't a Stallone.”

“Idiots!” I proclaim.

“Fools!” she responds, not missing a beat.

“So then . . . you guys think the movie is going to suck too?” Felicia interrupts our well-rehearsed dialogue. “I thought you were excited for that panel today.”

“Ah, well, we
did
think the movie was going to suck,” Roxana starts, and then turns to me to continue.

I oblige. “But then word got out that Zinc himself—who hasn't been heard from in twenty years, mind you—that he had actually given the film his stamp of approval.”

“Which means that the movie has to be based on the original,” Roxana concludes. “And Zinc being here today basically confirms that.” She looks at me, and I can see all the excitement and disappointment pooled together in her eyes.

“It does,” I say as my mind goes into overdrive. I should treat this panel problem like brainstorming one of our stories. That's how I'll figure it out, by thinking
What would Lockbreak do?

“Ah, right,” Devin cuts in again with his perfect British accent. “I had been hearing mutterings about him. So, really, no one's heard from him in twenty years?”

“Not a peep.” Roxana turns to him. “No photographs. No interviews. No social media. There were even rumors that he was dead.”

The doors to the room we're standing by finally open and a stream of people file out as Roxana continues to tell Devin some of the more outrageous theories surrounding Zinc over the years: That he was an alien himself. That he never existed. That he has spent the past decade running a tantric yoga retreat in East Chatham, New York.

We're finally let inside. They don't clear out these smaller rooms between panels, so there are quite a few people already seated by the time we get in, likely taking in a block of panels at once. We find two seats in one row and two a row behind it. Without consulting anyone, Devin walks in after Roxana as she slides into the row closer to the stage. I scowl as Felicia and I are forced to sit behind them.

“Hi, and welcome to Inking Techniques, everyone,” the panel moderator
says from the stage, then begins to introduce the panelists.

I'm forced to watch as Devin leans way too close to Roxana's ear to whisper something to her, and as she laughs at whatever he says. Really? Like, how funny can he possibly be about the moderator's introduction? Also, he should shut up since the panel has started now.

I force myself to take deep breaths.

Get it together, Posner
, I think.
Focus on getting Roxana into the Zinc panel and it won't matter what sweet nothings Devin whispers into her ear.

Because, above all, Roxy is a Z-man.

“I think I might be getting the hang of the communication intricacies of Homo sapiens,”
Althena says in Issue #4.
“You never say what you mean. Your brain must function as a highly evolved translation program factoring in posture, eye movement, vocal tone, context of dialogue . . . otherwise no one would ever comprehend anyone else.”

“I'm not sure anyone does comprehend anyone else,”
Charlie replies while a thought bubble expresses his true feelings.
“And the only one who seems to understand my every feeling is not even human.”

It's true—we never say what we mean. But for once, I want to. And I want to say it to the one person who understands
me
better than anyone.

AFTER THE INKING PANEL, I
make my decision and (painfully) leave Roxana and Devin to their own devices. I tell them I'll meet them at the hot dog stand with Casey at one thirty.

That gives me thirty minutes to root out what I can about the Zinc panel, which is hopefully enough time to gather some useful intel about getting us in. But hopefully
not
enough time for Roxana and the British stud muffin (crumpet?) to fall irrevocably in love.

I make my way over to where the Zinc panel will be, Stage 1-E, which is the smaller of one of the two main halls. These halls are reserved for only a few special events, and the Zinc panel at 3 p.m.
is only 1-E's second of the day, followed by an advance screening of
Godzilla: Unleashed
at 6 p.m. Just as I told Felicia earlier, everything here needs wristbands.
ROOMS WILL BE CLEARED OUT BETWEEN EACH PANEL IN THE MAIN HALLS AND WRISTBANDS WILL BE CHECKED
, a sign tells me in the con's signature Comic Sans font (which, besides actual comic books, is the only place Comic Sans is ever called for).
ABSOLUTELY NO PHOTOGRAPHY OR VIDEOGRAPHY. ANYONE CAUGHT FILMING OR TAKING PICTURES WILL IMMEDIATELY BE ESCORTED OUT OF THE ROOM
, another sign reads, adding insult to injury.

There are people lined up in front of 1-E already, every one of them adorned with a silver-colored piece of paper around their wrist. I've never been so jealous of a piece of sticky paper in my life. And then, worst of all, I catch a glimpse of the Zinc hater in the Papa Smurf hat. Unbelievable.
He
gets to see Robert Zinc and Roxana and I don't?

There's a curly-haired guy in a teal Comic Con staff shirt standing guard in front of the line. I try to exhale my anger out before I approach him.

“Excuse me,” I say, putting on an I-promise-I-am-polite-and-rational smile and asking him something I'm sure he's heard at least a dozen times today, “but is there any way I can get into this panel?”

“Do you have a wristband?” he asks, not in an unfriendly tone.

“No,” I say. He starts to shake his head, but I continue, “I actually waited in line for it since last night. I was number one hundred and three in line, so I should've had one. But then there was a great big bum rush and all these people cut ahead of me.” I realize exactly what I'm
doing: the nerd whine. But nothing is beneath me at this point. If he asked me to grovel, or lick the floor, or sing an Ariana Grande ballad in front of the whole con, I would do it. “It's just . . . really unfair.” And my nerdgradation is complete.

To his credit, the guy is not a jerk about it. In fact, he seems to listen pretty sympathetically and when he tells me he's sorry and he understands, he actually seems to mean it. “I really wish there was something I could do, but I honestly can't. Even
I
can't get into this panel,” he says.

Time to level up. “May I speak to a supervisor?” I ask. I can almost feel the glare of the dozens of Z-men (and that imposter) on line boring through the back of my head right now. I want to tell them that I'm not normally this guy. I'm not the guy at the restaurant who sends food back to the kitchen, or the person who's rude to the customer service guy on the phone, or the asswipe who posts spoilers on threads without the appropriate warnings. But today . . . today, I have to be. I have to go against my nice-guy, keep-the-peace, avoid-confrontation grain and be confident and forceful. Like a more manly avatar of myself. For Roxy's sake.

The curly-haired guy gets on his walkie-talkie, and a couple of minutes later, another staffer with a shaved head and some gauges in his ear approaches us. He doesn't really look older or more in charge than the curly-haired guy, but his voice does have somewhat more of an edge of authority about it.

I explain my situation again, and he lets me finish before shaking his head. “I completely understand your frustration, but there is literally nothing we can do. We've already spoken to the film studio sponsoring the panel about the situation. I can tell you that they're trying to come up with a make-good. But as of now, unless you have one of those wristbands with a bar code on it, you can't even get down this hallway anymore.” He looks over at the small line of people already there and frowns. “Actually, none of these people are even supposed to be here until two thirty.”

Yikes. I know some of the people in line have been listening to this whole ordeal, and I can feel them shifting around. If they get kicked out of their primo positions because of me, I'll be a marked man. Not that I'd personally feel bad if Papa Smurf or any of the other bum rush douches lost out on the privilege, but my fight-or-flight instincts are also reminding me of my less-than-buff physique.

“Thanks for your help anyway,” I mumble before skedaddling out of the hallway and leaving the two staffers to do what they will.

I mope all the way to the hot dog stand as capes of all colors swish past me. I almost get my eyes gouged out by a selfie stick being flailed around by a guy running after an almost-seven-foot-tall Darth Vader, shouting “Lord Vader!” He finally gets Vader's attention and snaps the all-important photo with him. Someone stops me to ask if they can take a photo of my costume too. I'm glad I can keep my face in brood mode as they do. After all, it goes with the costume.
(I don't think hunky eighties action stars were contractually allowed to smile.)

I make it to the hot dog stand around 1:15 p.m. and spend the next ten minutes still trying to come up with a way to make the panel happen, hoping someone's costume will inspire me. Unfortunately, death rays and samurai swords are useless for problem-solving in the real world, even at Comic Con.

When Casey approaches me, his face looks about as thunderous as I feel.

“Look. At. This,” he says through gritted teeth. He holds up his copy of
The Walking Dead
#1 and shows me an enormous silver streak that is now spread out across Officer Rick Grimes's ass.

“What happened?”

“I waited in line for an hour and three minutes. One hour and three,” he says. “The guy in front of me had a rolling suitcase and he had forty-seven individual covers signed. I counted. And then,
then
 . . .” He takes in a deep breath. “Robert Kirkman signs mine and an assistant next to him takes it from him and hands it to me. And I step away to look at it and . . .” He's holding the issue so hard as he thrusts it in front of my face that I'm pretty sure he's doing his own damage to it, a sure sign that he's legitimately shaken up. “I mean, if I ever need to ID the moron . . .”