Orcs, superheroes, cartoon characters, they’re all here, and it’s almost sensory overload.
Someone rushes over to us, dressed in a trench coat, 3D glasses, tie—and a fez, for some reason—and demands that we tell him what year it is. Once he has his answer, he pulls out what appears to be some kind of light-up screwdriver out of his pocket, points it at us as it whirs, then sprints off in the other direction.
There are rows of special displays and booths with comic books, toys, and artwork as far as I can see.
It’s its own world, its own culture, and I’m gobsmacked by all of it.
There’s a buzz of excitement as we slowly walk from booth to booth, interacting with other people, looking at new games and movie merchandise and comic book art.
It’s obvious that Duffy is not a stranger at this event. He knows his way around and has mapped out our entire day, sort of like I would if I were taking my child to Disney World. And in some ways, I can see that this convention requires similar planning.
Duffy has an app, and he’s marked key events that he doesn’t want to miss “so we can stay on schedule.” People stop to talk to him because they remember him from past conventions.
We’re walking down one of the aisles when Duffy stops dead in his tracks. “I can’t believe it.”
I stop and look around, trying to figure out what Duffy is looking at. Because, frankly, I can’t believe most of what I’ve seen today.
“He’s right there.” Duffy is transfixed on something—or someone—in the distance as he reaches into his leather bag and pulls out a small journal. He starts flipping through the pages. “He’s right there, Claire. I knew he was coming, and I’m still not prepared to see him.”
“Who’s right where?” I follow his gaze and see a long line of fully costumed people, waiting for a book signing, but I can’t see the sign announcing who the author is.
“It’s Reggie Maxwell, the most influential graphic novelist of our generation.” Duffy’s tone is slightly frantic. “You know,TheRiftwalkers,” he says.
I shake my head. “I don’t.”
“TheRiftwalkers,” he repeats, as if that’s an explanation.
“Sorry,” I say. “I haven’t read many comic books.”
“Oh, Claire. It’s notjusta comic book. It’sso much morethan a comic book.” He steps into the line as several other people gatherbehind us. “It’s an experience. A journey. It’s about this group of space rebels who have to slip through dimensions to seal unstable rifts.” He gets more animated with every word. “It’s a whole thing with alien races and interdimensional planets and—”
“Wait, someone doesn’t knowTheRiftwalkers?” A guy dressed like some sort of alien spins around and looks at us. “How is that possible?”
“It’s her first time,” Duffy says, sounding like he’s making an excuse.
“No way! Your first con?” A girl wearing a long white gown, white wig, white contact lenses, and white painted face looks at me with wide eyes.
“Yep! My first one,” I say.
There’s a slight pause, then both erupt in congratulations, hugs, over-the-top welcomes. These people have their own culture, but not a single one has been condescending to me as a newcomer. They’re just excited to share what they love. It’s refreshing.
I’m feeling slightly on the spot, but then the alien sighs and says, “I wish I could go back to my first time. There’snothinglike the first one.”
The line moves forward, and we all move with it.
“My first one was in San Diego ten years ago,” the woman in white says. “This is my thirty-second.”
“Your thirty-second?” I ask. “Wow.”
“I’m only at eighteen.” The alien gives her a nod. “But I’ll catch up.”
“Do you wear the same costume every time?” I ask.
“I do now,” the woman says. “I’m sort of known for this one.” She picks up the skirt and holds it out. “Do you like it?”
“It’s really beautiful.” I have no idea who she’s supposed to be, but I’m not about to admit it by asking.
She smiles. “Thank you. It took me weeks to make it.”
