“Oh, she’s just this character I’ve been playing around with…” and with that the two of us are discussing comics and super powers and such until finally he opens a drawer behind the counter and holds up one of the shiny square badges. It nearly has a radioactive nimbus around it.
“You don’t know how lucky you are my buddy got pink eye,” he says sternly. “He was still gonna come, dressed as Nick Fury, but his moms caught him and wouldn’t let him leave the house.” He hands me the entrance ticket to paradise.
“Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you!” I say. “And thank your buddy with the pink eye.”
“Would you sign this for me?” he gestures to the copy of
The
Blazing
Goddess
still on the counter. And since I don’t want to seem ungrateful, I sign over the only copy I have with me.
“Good luck in there, and don’t be forgetting this face. I wanna see myself in one of your comics one day.” He swirls his hand around his face and gives me a hammy pose. “It’ll be cool if you can make me into some totally twisted evil dude.”
“You got it!” I grin from ear to ear as I place the precious card in the plastic holder and join the gleeful, geeky throng headed to the huge, three-story escalators. Stormtroopers stand on either side, and I barely resist the urge to give one of them a hug as I pass through.
A guy dressed in head-to-toe camo rides up the escalator beside me, and as we ascend to the giant exhibit floor, my mouth falls open. “Holy Shit,” is G.I. Joe’s assessment and I have no choice but to agree.
Holy
Shit.
The space stretching out in front of us is huge and bright and chock-filled-to-the-top with awesomeness. Colorful figures fight for my attention, and I can practically feel my pupils enlarge to anime size as I try to take it all in. The enormous space opens three stories high and is so jam-packed with glorious geeks I can barely see the blue carpet. I wish Quentin was here with me.
Comic-Con makes the rest of Manhattan seem like bingo night at the Butler VFW. Regularly dressed people like me are just background noise to the costumed characters punctuating the crowd. Three caped vampires argue with frothing fangs, as a team of very realistic-looking Ghostbusters stomp by. I stand, frozen with awe, as a bald black man floats smoothly past, his creepy orange contact lenses boring through me. He’s followed by Super Mario, who wears a red cap and blue overalls and carries a blow-up mallet slung over his shoulder. You barely even notice that Super Mario looks more Asian than Italian.
A shove from behind makes me look up in time to watch a huge green Hulk stalk by with a papier-mâché head and light-up purple eyes. A small mob suddenly lunges to help a girl in a homemade plastic cat suit who drops her cell phone. “Can somebody please get that?” she calls out, “I can’t bend over!” I admire her courage—wearing little more than a skin-tight quilted hefty bag out in public. I’ll tell you what though, despite her less than ideal figure, she struts away totally working that hefty bag. This is an alternate reality I never want to leave.
Impulsively, I hold out my cell phone, give a huge, geeky grin and take my picture with Comic-Con in the background. I send it to Quentin with the text
“Guess where I am??”
My phone rings almost immediately. After a pause I answer, hold it out toward the roaring crowd and ask, “You hear that?”
“I cannot believe you didn’t invite me!” Quentin shouts.
“Sorry! It was very last minute. I just jumped in my minivan and drove. To be honest, I didn’t even know this was where I was headed until I got here.”
“Blaze… been meaning to… you…” I’m having a hard time hearing him. “Do… like… ?”
“What?” I can’t make out what he’s saying over the din of excited con goers, but I think he asked me something about limes.
Finally, he practically screams into the receiver, “I asked if you like the taste of limes!”
Moving into a corner, I face the wall and jam a finger in my ear so I can hear him better. “Did you just ask me if I like limes?”
He laughs. “It’s my nerdy attempt to ask you out. I promised myself if I heard from you again I was going for it.” He goes on in a rush, “There’s this classic old comic where the Swamp Thing and his girlfriend Abigal Arcane kiss and she says he tastes like limes…”
“Swamp Thing? More DC? Really?” There’s a long pause on the phone before I take a breath and add, “Sounds like there’s still a lot you can teach me.”
I can hear his smile through the phone. “DC comics guide, at your service.”
“Quentin, this probably isn’t the best way to do this, but I have something I have to tell you.” With that, I spill everything about the sext photo and getting harassed and even about
The
Blazing
Goddess
vs. Mark the Shark
being a revenge comic.
It turns out he had that last part figured out all along. “I just took it as a warning to take things slow and to never double-cross you.”
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in a long time. “So it doesn’t bother you that people are all talking about me?”
“Haven’t you ever heard the line, ‘Great minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, and small minds discuss people’?” His voice deepens on the other end. “Blaze, don’t let a bunch of small minds make you question who you are.”
I blush and smile. “But what sort of minds discuss comics?”
“The very best kind, of course.” Looking around at the freaks, nerds, and superheroes surrounding me I can’t help but agree.
“Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t just tell you what was going on.”
“I’m glad you finally did. So… would it be awful if I searched around online for that photo of you?”
“Quentin!”
“Totally kidding, I promise. But I do happen to have some mad hacking skills and might be able to help you get some of the posts and things taken down. But only if you promise me one thing.”
“What,” I say cautiously.
“Promise me next year we’re going to Comic-Con together.”
“I can hardly wait.” We say our goodbyes, and I grin at my phone for a moment after we hang up. A text immediately comes through from Quentin.
When can we get together for a little lime-tasting?
I write back:
Let it go, Swamp Thing.
Then I add:
But face it, tiger… you just hit the jackpot!
Of course Quentin freaks out over that because he knows those are Mary Jane Watson’s first words to Spider-Man.
Yes, we shall be the greatest nerd fancouple of all time
.
Just then, two Jedi knights angle their way through the mix, their glowing green lightsabers held up in front of them as they chant together: “Stay on target. Stay on target.”
Okay, right! “Stay on target,”
I think.
Red
Cardinal. Look for the color red.
I
must
focus
on
finding
Dad, and he will be wearing lots of red.
My eyes are drawn to the giant red Marvel section, and I automatically move toward it.
Spidey
is
red. And Iron Man, Captain America, and Thor all have red
. I continue working my way through the crowd, approaching the Marvel banners arranged like a floating square above the section.
The
Marvel
booth
has
red
carpet
, I notice. And my heart starts beating faster as I see some of my favorite heroes walking around on the Marvel red carpet, posing for pictures with fans.
I can’t resist the urge to run up and give the Amazing Spider-Man a huge hug. It’s a really great moment for me.
Finally Spidey unhooks my arms from around his neck and eases them gently between us and I realize I’ve been hanging on him inappropriately. But I just stay there anyway, staring into his large, white, tear-shaped eyes. Even with his face completely covered, I can sense he’s uncomfortable with my level of familiarity.
Thinking fast, I pull out my cell phone and click the camera key. “Excuse me, would you take our picture?” I ask the closest fanboy. With a renewed sense of purpose, Spider-Man puts his arm around me and shoots out an invisible web with his other hand. I put one hand on his chest and lean in for a moment, then rethink my pose. Widening my stance, I place my fists on each hip, and channel my best Blazing Goddess. I feel like I’ve just had a brush with destiny.
The fanboy hands me back my phone, and I turn my head in time to see him. My dad. Except that I can’t exactly see his face. It’s covered with an enormous red-feathered head.
The
Red
Cardinal
.
To borrow a phrase from G.I. Joe, “Holy Shit.”
• • •
There is really no way to overstate the size of the Red Cardinal’s head. I watch from the safety of the next aisle as my dad waves to folks on their way to the Marvel booth and tries to hand them what appear to be handfuls of red feathers. The people are mostly ignoring him.
Only Dad’s cleft chin is exposed. The rest of him is covered in feathers from head to toe. Literally. Giant red feather-coated head to red feather-coated boots. The costume must’ve cost a lot of money to design and construct. The head itself is a work of garish art with an exaggerated red crest sticking up like a wicked cowlick on radioactive steroids. Huge orange glass eyes stare from where my dad’s ears should be, and the orange cone of a beak emanates from his forehead. The black around the cardinal beak comes down as far as the bridge of my dad’s nose, and his eyes must be painted with black makeup because every time he blinks they disappear entirely.
I look around, my mind whirring with embarrassment for my father. My eye catches a chubby make-shift Captain America holding a shopping bag with rolled-up posters sticking out. The guy has mini-wings on either side of his head, and his blue Lycra-clad gut is hanging over red and white striped briefs. Yet, my dad is still the guy’s equal in the public humiliation department.
A loud “Wheeet! Wheeet! Wheeet!” birdcall rings out, and when I realize it is coming from the Red Cardinal, I decide my only course of action is to flee Comic-Con before he spots me.
So, of course, that’s right when the Red Cardinal spots me.
The only part of his face that I can see grins widely as he motions with his red-feathered wing for me to come over. I paste on a fake smile.
He gives a few more piercing, “Wheeet! Wheeets,” as I draw closer, and he shifts excitedly from feathered boot to feathered boot when I reach him. I instantly forgive him for looking so embarrassing.
“Blaze! My God.” He’s so happy I decide the giant red head looming over us isn’t even all that bad. “What are you doing here? I can’t believe it.”
I just stand, basking in the glow of how thrilled he is to see me.
He hands me a feather, explaining, “This is just one of the promotions the team came up with to get a little buzz going for the Red Cardinal. If things go well here today, they’re sending me to the San Diego con! Isn’t that great?”
I take the red feather and twirl it between my fingers, smiling up at him. I can’t wait to ask about spending time together and wonder how soon the Red Cardinal will be able to take a break.
He licks his lips in excitement.
See, I knew Dad would be here for me
. He asks, “So, where are the comics?”
The red feather drops from my fingertips.
“Whoa, don’t want to lose that, Pigeon.” He scrambles to catch the floating feather with his clumsy wing-arms. “You’re going to want a little memento one day when I’m starring in my first movie role as the Red Cardinal.” He says “the Red Cardinal” like an announcer declaring something important. “I’ve finally learned how to really open myself up to success, and good things are starting to flow toward me now. Here you go.”
He’s handing me another feather, and I’m not sure if he managed to somehow catch the one I dropped, or if he’s just giving me a new one from the pouch at his waist. I see egg grenades lined up along his belt and know for sure there will never be a movie based on the Red Cardinal, starring my dad or anyone else. It’s a bad idea, and if Dad knew anything about superheroes, he’d know it too.
I look up into his eager eyes, coated in black paint, and he repeats, “The comics, Blaze?” as if I maybe didn’t hear him.
He
was
never
going
to
rescue
me.
I feel something in my mind snap.
I envision jumping up and punching that stupid red head. I want to knock the damned thing off and make Dad look at the truth. Standing right in front of him. His daughter is here, and she needs to be seen. But he may as well be looking out of those stupid, useless, orange glass eyes.
I fixate on the left one. Big dome of glass. Pupil staring blindly.
Stupid
bird
.
“Blaze, sweetie?” Dad sounds concerned, but I can’t look away, I can only envision the deep pleasure that would be hauling off and punching the Red Cardinal directly in that eye.
Thwack!
I hate the fact that Mema and Mom were right about him all along. My hand balls into a fist without me telling it to as I continue staring at the dead glass eye. I feel a berserker wrath rising up and…
“Hey! I didn’t know you brought Josh!” The Red Cardinal’s nonsensical outburst jolts me from my trance.
I turn slowly in the direction he’s looking. “Wow, you brought the whole crew,” he exclaims, and sure enough, there they are.
Walking toward us through the crowd. The shabbiest-looking team of superheroes I’ve ever seen. My cretins.
Ajay wears gloves and a towel-cape over one shoulder that declares “Florida Is for Lovers.” Andrew has a red bandana mask tied around his head with eye-holes cut out. Dylan has on a white wig and a shiny silver catsuit, and Josh, bless him, has on a rather authentic-looking Superman suit. “Hey, sis.” He is the most heroic-looking thing I’ve ever seen. “They were letting kids with costumes in for five bucks. We would’ve been over here sooner, but we had to drag Ajay away from the Nintendo section.”