Cons and Pros

(May 20, 2018)

2-Flying High

After once having the Green Machine stolen while she and Dipper were visiting Portland—and then retrieving it from an unpleasant band of car thieves—Wendy was understandably antsy about leaving any of their cars in the Portland airport parking facilities for five nights. Fortunately, Grunkle Stan volunteered to drive them over in the Stanleymobile, a classic El Diablo with enough room for the four travelers, their luggage, and probably a small marching band, if you left out the tuba.

Mabel said a tearful goodbye to Tripper, who seemed impatient to get back to his game of toss-the-ball with Little Soos, and she promised not to forget him but to bring him a doggie t-r-e-a-t (no good, he could spell up to six-letter words) of some kind when she returned. He licked her face, picked up his ball, and raced to a laughing Little Soos.

Wednesdays were not high-traffic days at the Shack, so they could get along without Stan for a few hours, though he promised he'd be back around noon or later to play Mr. Mystery. Stanford was away in Washington, D.C, where he was wrapping up a two-day meeting of the Guys in Black, as the Agency he headed was familiarly called. It wasn't an emergency, just the normal fiscal year wrap-up and planning sessions. Still, he had face-timed Dipper and had expressed his regret that he wouldn't be there to see them off. "We may cross paths in the airport, though," he said. "We're flying back about the same time you four are flying out. Ah, I envy you, Mason."

"Uh, because of the TV series?" Dipper asked. That didn't seem like Ford's kind of thing.

Ford chuckled. "No, no, but because in my youth I was quite the SF fan. Never call it 'sci-fi,' by the way."

Dipper smiled. "Oh? Why not?"

"Well, unless times have changed more radically than I think, the true science-fiction fans refer to their fandom as 'SF.' 'Sci-Fi' was coined by Forrest J. Ackerman—you know who he was, do you not?"

"I . . . can't say that I do," Dipper admitted.

"Ah, well, Forry Ackerman, as he was called, was an old-time SF fan—a member of First Fandom, in fact, an attendee at the first World Science Fiction Convention in 1939 and a guest at the first ComicsCon in 1970. He was also a writer, a literary agent, an editor, and a popular guest at conventions. He edited a wonderful magazine for young fans, Famous Monsters of Filmland, published from 1958 through 1983. In fact, I have a complete run of every issue in storage. I'll dig them up and present them to you. You're a little past the average readership age, but knowing how you like old horror films, I think you'll enjoy them. Where was I? Oh, yes, Forry Ackerman made up the term 'sci-fi' in imitation of 'hi-fi.' It was popular, but core fans see sci-fi as something superficial and rather childish, and SF is the real stuff."

"I will remember that," Dipper promised.

Ford sighed. "Alas, I'm over the hill now, but attending ComicsCon was one of the things I would have loved to do as a teen—or even a young adult. I rather envy you this trip!"

"You're still not too old," Dipper said. "I've seen the guest list. Some of those guys are in their eighties!"

"I'd be afraid to attend now for fear the thrill is gone. Did I ever tell you that I once visited Forry Ackerman? Oh, well, that's beside the point, I'll tell you some day. Right now, what I want to say is have a pleasant journey, and I wish you all success in your first big public appearance. You can do it. You're a Pines!"

Maybe so, but that morning right after breakfast, as they piled into Stan's car, Dipper felt more like a quaking aspen. Excited and apprehensive, all at once, and maybe not physically trembling, but feeling that way inside.

They made good time, Grunkle Stan dropped them off and helped unload their luggage—all carry-ons, plus personal items, backpacks for Teek and Dipper, roomy purses for Wendy and Mabel—and he wished them a good flight without any crashes or hijackings.

Then it was into the airport. They had printed out their boarding passes the day before, so they headed straight toward Security. "I hope we're on time," Mabel fretted.

Teek, who looked as laid-back as Dipper wished he felt himself, said, "We've got over two hours. OK, Concourse C, right?"

That was right. Naturally, their plan was boarding from C-24, the furthest possible gate from the Security checkpoint. "Man, this sucks," Mabel complained, trundling her pink carry-on bag along like a grumbling poodle.

"It's not so bad," Wendy said. "Just a stroll."

"Yeah, you guys run every morning, so you wouldn't mind it."

"You're welcome to join us," Dipper said.

"That means getting up before my Mabel clock goes off," she said. "Whoof!"

"We don't have to run," Teek pointed out. "Anyhow, I hope you packed good walking shoes. I've read about that convention center, and it's like a quarter-mile hike from one end to the other. We'll do lots of walking."

"Dudes, that's us," Wendy said, pointing. They'd come to the end of the concourse and to their gate, but it was too early to check in, so first they made their way back to a concessions area for a light lunch—salads and sandwiches—and then they returned to the gate and found some comfortable seats and settled in to wait. Well, two of them did. Mabel led Teek off in search of snacks, since it had been over ten minutes since her last meal.

But they were back—Mabel offering a churro that no one wanted, so she ate it herself—forty minutes before their plane was due to take off. When the gate agent called for boarding, they got to go on right after those passengers who needed wheelchairs or special help, and thanks to Mabel's broken-field hustling technique, they were the first four passengers in First Class.

Nice. The overhead bins were roomy, the seats were oversized, and they had plenty of leg room. Dipper was in Seat 1A, Wendy in 1B, Mabel in 1C, and Teek in 1D. Each seat had a ten-inch TV screen, which currently showed only the Coastal Connections logo, though Mabel tried hard to change the channel. Before long, she got bored and complained, "Why are these people so slow?"

Well, Dipper could have said, but didn't say, because they're not flying first-class. They shuffled back about as fast as they could, what with people further back pausing to heft their carry-on bags into the bins.

Eventually, though, everyone was seated, the doors closed, and the airliner backed away from the gate and rumbled over to the taxiway and runway. At precisely their ETD, the pilot revved the engines, the plane started to roll and accelerated, and then the nose tipped up and the tail tipped down and the ground fell away.

They did a wide bank to orient the plane to its southerly course, and Dipper could see Mount Hood and the Cascades off to his left, blued by distance. After some smooth climbing, the pilot, who like all pilots sounded like he was from the Deep South, said, "Well, folks, welcome aboard Coastal Connections Flight 618 for San Diego International Airport. Our estimated time in the air is two hours and twenty minutes, but we may shave a little bit off that if the winds are right. We'll be flying at an altitude of 36,000 feet, and it looks like we're gonna give you all a smooth trip, with no turbulence expected."

And he was right, except for Mabel, who got a little carried away with the snack service—first-class passengers had more generous portions and a wider selection—and about an hour away from San Diego, she had to reach for her first airsickness bag. Par for the course.

However, it really was a smooth flight, and that one was the only bag she needed, a record low for Mabel. When the attendant, her smile frozen and her eyes rather glassy, kindly collected the sealed bag, Mabel wiped her mouth on a freshen-up wipe the lady had given her and said, "I really like your airline. The others have skimpy barf bags, but not Coastal Connections! I'm gonna give you a four-star review just for that!"

The whole way, Mabel channel-surfed the little personal TV, never spending more than two minutes on any movie or program. Wendy napped. Dipper kept his screen on the little animated map that showed them getting closer and closer to their destination.

As the pilot had said, they arrived a little bit early—they were due for touchdown at 4:45 PM, but the tires hit the tarmac at 4:39—and as soon as the pilot said they were taxiing to Gate 37 and cellphones were OK to use now, Dipper called the number that his agent, Bea Bergeron, had given to him as a contact with his publisher, Brangwen Books.

"Hello?" a female voice chirped.

"Hi," Dipper said. "Uh, I'm Dipper, I mean Mason Pines, uh. I write under the name of—"

"Stan X. Mason," the voice said. "Are you in San Diego?"

"Kind of," he said. "The airport, anyway. Our plane's pulling into the gate now. Um, I was given this number for Jan Maryk, my editor—"

"I'm Jan's assistant Amy Barrows," the voice said. "I'm at the airport now. Gate 37, right?"

"Right," Dipper said.

"OK, do you have luggage to retrieve?"

"No, we made do with carry-ons."

"Great! So when you leave the jetway, you're gonna turn left and follow the signs to the Skybridge. I'll meet you there and take you down to where the limo will pick us up. If you miss me, give me a call. Hang on near the down escalator on the Skybridge, OK?"

"OK. Uh, there are four of us." He briefly described Teek, Mabel, Wendy, and himself.

Amy Barrows sounded reassuring. "Don't worry, I won't have to recognize you. You'll recognize me."

Sure enough, about a half-hour later as the four of them made their way down the concourse—crowded here—they followed the signs to the Skybridge and, just before they got to it, Dipper grinned with relief. Ahead, off to the left, a trim, twenty-some-year-old African-American woman in a blue slacks suit stood holding up Bride of the Zombie and It Lurked in the Lake, Dipper's first two published novels.

"You are Mason Pines," Amy said. "I know it from the grin. Is this Mrs. Pines?"

"Nope," Mabel said. "That would be illegal in at least forty-nine states. I'm his twin sister, Mabel! This is his wife, Wendy Corduroy-Pines, and this is my fiancée, the lucky guy, T.K. O'Grady, but he prefers 'Teek,' 'cause I gave him that name."

"I'm Amy Barrows, just Amy, OK? And I'm so pleased to meet you all. We'll chat in the limo. This way, guys! Ever been to ComicsCon before?"

"No," Teek said. "But we've dreamed about it."

Amy laughed. "Well, Teek—your dreams are about to come true!"