Over the Moon by James Callan
Her costume was convincing, well put together. From pink scepter to five foot pigtails, the props were solid, the wig, spot on. From head to toe, she embodied her avatar. She looked like the real deal.
Dressed up as Sailor Moon, she stood out, she sparkled, she outshone our planet’s bright, lone satellite. She walked among the lesser mortals with their acne and muffin tops, their bald spots and shoddy, homemade guises. Among the rabble, she seemed like royalty—more than that—a deity. If she set the bar, the rest of us were looking up at the moon. We were craning our necks to the sky. In her wake, we parted, not wishing to sully her grace, not daring to spoil her perfection.
My own outfit was second rate, a mess. Homemade, of course, which in retrospect was a terrible idea. I was supposed to be Wolverine. You know, from X-Men. Big and burly. Savage and mean. In the mirror, at home, I flexed and nodded. I posed and growled and thought, not bad. But I knew when people had to ask me who I was, what I was supposed to be, that I had failed the attempt to mimic my favorite comic book character. I thought it might be my glasses, but I’m afraid it was worse than that. My tights revealed the nuance of my physique, my every lack of contoured muscle. My cardboard claws were wobbly, like flaccid dicks, which was funny, really, considering I had a hard-on for all the anime girls and squishy, sci-fi nerds.
Darth Vader struggled with some chips and dip at a table laden with snacks. There was a smear of beetroot hummus on his visor, but I don’t think he noticed. He turned when I approached, gave me the evil eye. Actually, from behind the mask, I wasn’t certain. But I knew he was looking at me, talking to me, when he approached and gestured with his red, plastic lightsaber, indicating my own mask, my tights, my fucking Crocs, which were yellow like the rest of me but otherwise stood out like a sore thumb --worse-- like a severed thumb in a mound of beetroot humus.
“So, like, are you supposed to be Pikachu?” The Sith Lord asked me.
“No,” I told him, unamused.
“Sponge Bob?” He poked at me with his lightsaber.
“I’ll give you a clue,” I told him. “I have retractable claws and an adamantium skeleton. I am unbreakable. If you hurt me, I heal instantaneously. In fact, my injuries mend so quickly that if you want to kill me you better have an atomic bomb at your disposal.”
“Or a lightsaber,” he whooshed the battery-powered toy. It lit up and made noises, hitting me on the ear.
I flinched. “Ouch.”
“Oh, you’ll heal quickly,” Vader mocked me.
“You’ve got humus on your visor,” I said as I shouldered passed the cloaked bastard. I went for the chips but someone had left their retainer by the guacamole and I lost my appetite.
Suddenly, I was aware of all the close-pressed bodies, the heat that radiated from them, the claggy air, the B.O. that pervaded the convention center. My tights were probably a size too small, or maybe I’d gained about ten or fifteen pounds since last year’s Comic-Con. Either way, I was feeling stifled, overwhelmed, and constricted. I felt like a boa was wrapped around my middle, squeezing the life out of me. Just then, Indiana Jones walked by. “Snakes,” he blurted. “Why’d it have to be snakes?”
“Go ask Medusa,” I suggested, pointing to a Gorgon with serpents among her dreads.
Star Trek crew members brushed into me. A lower deck officer spilled her latte on my Crocs, then pointed at them, laughed, and leaned into an overweight Vulcan. They kissed like no one was in the room. It was kind of hot, but I didn’t need more heat. I needed cool, fresh air. I needed a smoke.
When I got to the lobby, the doors, the chilled evening air beyond, I witnessed Thor vaping. As if some fire breathing dragon, like Smaug, like Godzilla, a trail of steam slithered out from his lips as he exhaled into the night. I could smell the peppermint flavor of Gaea and Odin’s offspring, the minty breath of a Norse god. To my left, the Joker was nursing a beer. In a moment of truce, he drank with an unlikely companion, Batman, who was visibly drunk. On the outskirts, a hobo was sound asleep. If it weren’t for Thor, I swear, it could have been Gotham. Beyond it all, pure as cold rock in vacuum, the moon, crescent and bright among the stars.
I smoked my cigarette and felt regret when it whittled down to a stub. I lit another just to stay outside, away from the horde of fellow geeks that I knew amassed beyond the doors at my back. I could not stomach the crowds, the costumes, the questions of who and what I was meant to be, the tables of trading cards, DVDs, and long queues to meet so-and-so, the voice actor of whosiewhatsit. In all my many years attending the event, this was the worst Comic-Con experience I had known, the only one I had not enjoyed.
Maybe it was my tights, their straight-jacket vice around my thighs and ribcage. Maybe it was Darth Vader and his condescending remarks. Or maybe it was just me, a little off-kilter after a rough week at work, after the Taco Bell and Starbucks that I had on the way to Comic-Con. Maybe I was outgrowing this shit. Or maybe this was the opening act of my midlife crisis. The beginning of niggling doubts, searching questions, efforts to unfold who I am and what I am meant to be.
My second cigarette eroded between my fingers. I let it drop and crushed it with the heel of my Crocs.
“Bum a ciggie?” The voice of an angel sang out, crystalline and pure.
I turned to look at what could be anyone, anything, from Princess Peach to Wonder Woman, from a stormtrooper to Storm, a fellow X-men. I had one cigarette left and I really didn’t want to part with it, but when I saw her smiling at me, hand extended, I offered it up freely, hurriedly, and with pride. Sailor Moon stood at my side, more luminous than the pale rock in the sky that was her namesake. She inhaled, sighed, and blew smoke rings to halo the sliver of our planet’s bright, lone satellite.
She turned my way, face glitter catching silver moonbeams. She shone all the brighter when she smiled, no retainer to speak of, no tortilla shrapnel in her teeth. Her lips were magenta, the color of beetroot hummus, but free from snacks and spreads. I stared at her, even as I labored to look away. Unperturbed, she took in my tights, my wobbly claws, my Crocs and budding acne. She beamed, bright as the moon, and gestured with her pink scepter.
“Good choice,” she said, blowing a smoke ring to expand and settle like a lion’s mane around the fringes of my head. “I love X-Men,” she admitted. “Wolverine is the best, my absolute favorite.”
Lost for words, I nodded, following her gaze as we both looked up to the starry sky, the sliver of moon that shone brightest of all. It was a moment to define perfection. From then on, the bar had been set. I looked upward, smiling. It was the best Comic-Con experience I had ever known.