Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [168]
Finally, shaking his head to knock loose the unpleasant images, he handed me back the comics. “This is seriously wrong.”
Then, slowly, quietly, gradually, he became aware of all the people walking by on the street—most of them staring, pointing, and occasionally laughing, at our naked selves—and saw that they all wore clothes of some kind—everything from jeans, dresses, and shirts, to Star Wars, Star Trek, and superhero uniforms. It was likely the first time in history someone dressed as an Ewok felt they had the upper hand on another person’s fashion choice.
I gently took the comics from River, and he startled a bit, as if forgetting I was there. He studied me with frightened eyes, like a small child confronted by the real, live Mickey Mouse for the first time. And Mickey had his thingie out.
“Maybe you can explain things to him, Wisper,” I said, calmly. “He looks as though he needs a better understanding of what he’s gotten himself into.”
She took River to one side and began speaking to him in low tones. Other than the occasional “What?” Or, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Or, “Even to BED?” I heard only enough of their conversation to know that I understood exactly how River was feeling—though in reverse.
His difficulty handling the situation had me concerned about poor Sophie. The shy little thing must be near to tears herself over all this insanity. I turned and saw her pull some of Waboombas easily strippable clothing from a suitcase, absorbing it in with eyes the relative size, color, and shape of boiled ostrich eggs. The item in question was more air than fabric, not even classy enough for Fredericks of Hollywood, and could only have been designed by Pjuter or Manschingloss on a very, very, randy day.
“Oooooh,” Sophie said, delighted. “Can I wear this?”
Interesting. Apparently, on her world, Sophie was ‘kinky’. Maybe things could work out between her and Morgan.
Eventually we got a few strips of cloth, torn from something of mine that used to be a shirt, and formed it into a makeshift loincloth to place over the parts of River that would have gotten him arrested. It took a surprising amount of cloth. When we had finished, men in uniform anywhere else but a comics convention still would have busted him. But here, he was just one of the interesting stories that even the cops tell their fascinated friends after it’s all over.
“…and there was this one guy, right, and he’s wearing just this loincloth, thingie, right? Walkin’ around proud as can be, and you could see his junk.”
How can that be in any way acceptable you ask?
Here, in this specific environment, it would simply be assumed that River was paid model for some Tarzan, or Tarzan-like-related project. No one would ever imagine someone so handsome, built, and hung could possibly be just a fan, or pervert, or both, which is really kind of unfair when you think about it. Nicholas Cage was a fan. Got his stage name from Luke Cage, Powerman, a comic book hero no less. Oh, and me too! I’m a fan, though not named after a superhero. Stephen Root is a fan. Mandy Patinkin likes toy trains, and Shaquille O’Neal loves Superman, as does Joey Fatone, from N Sync, and…
But I digress. Aren’t you used to that by now?
Perhaps I should describe the situation visually a bit for those not entirely familiar with ‘cons’, and the people they attract.
Most comic book conventions are populated with relatively normal people who wear street clothes, eat with actual dining utensils, and speak in languages and dialects primarily found