Cons and Pros
(June 20, 2018)
5-Loaf of Bread, Jug of Wine, and Wendy
Teek and Dipper used a few minutes to wash their faces—Teek even did a quick shave, and Dipper used the electric razor Sheila had given him as a Christmas present to tidy up his cheeks and upper lip—and then changed shirts. Dipper put on his sport jacket. The ladies changed outfits.
"Wow," Dipper said when Wendy emerged from the dressing room in an off-the shoulder black dress, a string of pearls, and black patent leather shoes with modest heels. "You're gorgeous. Let's stay in!"
"Nope," she said, putting her arms over his shoulders and pulling him close for a kiss. When they ended it, she said, "But if you're real good during dinner, later you can take off everything I've got on. Except maybe the fishnets. The garter belt drives me nuts, but maybe just the stockings—down, boy!"
Mabel and Teek came in and Mabel, in her own black sheath and with a necklace of tiny gold stars with a larger pendant that in its center held a diamond, asked, "Ready? Let's go!"
They zipped back down to the ground floor and found a seat on a sectional sofa with a view of the front doors and the desk, still remarkably busy with late check-ins. Mabel got excited when a bobby and a duck wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat came through. "Duck's out of proportion," Dipper said.
"It's a girl!" Mabel said. "She's shorter than the copper, anyhow. She can't really be duck-sized! What did you expect?"
"How do you know it's a girl?" Dipper asked. The yellow waddling figure might conceal a chimpanzee for all he saw.
"Look at the legs," Teek said. "Definitely a girl."
"Don't you dare!" Mabel said. "Teek, how could you look at another duck's legs when I'm right here?"
"You're jealous of a duck?" he asked with incredulity making his voice higher.
"There's another one," Wendy said.
Glancing around, Mabel said, "No, that's Ducky Momo. Show for little tiny kids. No mystery element there!"
However, they saw many SF figures—white-armored stormtroopers, some so authentic they kept running blindly into pillars and potted plants—and other fans in the form-fitting Star Flight uniforms, brandishing tricorders and phasers, a good many Vulcanians giving split-finger salutes, some green or gray aliens. So many walked past wearing the robes and brandishing the wands of Pigbristle Academy of Warlockery and Witchery. There were fans dressed a blocky Letgo figures. Batpeople and superpeople galore. Drs Never-Mind-Who with Lekbots droning "Ex-term-i-nate," even a dwarf here and there—overgrown, but dressed dwarfishly—a giant or two.
"This is giving me all sorts of ideas for next year," Mabel said.
"Hey, there's Amy Barrows," Dipper said, standing up and waving. "Come on, she's beckoning us over."
"Beckoning!" Mabel chortled. "Weird word." But she had leaped to her feet, and she grabbed Teek's hand.
They skirted the fans and Amy said, "Hi, gang. You look so nice! Jan and the Southerns are waiting at the Sixth Avenue entrance. This way!"
They followed her. The entrance, as it turned out, was a taxi-and-limo pick-up/drop-off area. Amy led them to a group of three: a fiftyish couple, he balding and about as tall as Wendy, she a head shorter, thin, and very chic-looking. Beside them stood a tiny woman. Well, not Gnome-sized, but no more than five feet tall if that. She had a pixie haircut—short and blonde, with some gray that looked curiously sophisticated, a sharp chin and humorous blue eyes. She wore a matching blue pantsuit, and she smiled as they approached.
"Here we are!" Amy said. "Let me do the introductions. Wayne Southern, Belinda Southern, and Jan Maryk. This is Dipper and Wendy Pines, Mabel Pines, and her fiancé T.K. O'Grady."
"Teek," Teek said, waving.
Jan came forward. "Let me look at you," she said, taking both of Dipper's hands and tilting her head back. "You're really a baby! I didn't mean to make you blush." She looked back at the Southerns. "Dipper wrote the first Granite Rapids book when he was fifteen!"
"That beats me!" Mrs. Southern said. "I didn't write my first until I was thirty!"
"Oh, you write, too?" Mabel asked. "What?"
Her husband laughed. "That's the trouble with pen names. She's the author of the Frost and Flame series!"
Dipper's jaw dropped when he heard the name—a best-selling author, and an extremely famous one. "You're Grahame Gartner? I'm a huge fan of those books!"
"Me, too! I thought you were a guy!" Teek blurted.
Belinda Southern briefly caressed her husband's face. "Because Wayne models for the jacket photos," she said. "When I first started, my agent warned me that a woman's byline on action-fantasy novels would turn off male readers. So I became Grahame, and I'd regret it except for all the money it brought in!"
"Here's the limo!" Jan said. "Now, the whole evening is on Brangwen Books, so nobody even think of reaching for the check. I hope everyone likes Seasonings."
"I'm not nuts abut cilantro," Mabel admitted.
Jan linked arms with her. "Mabel, the Seasonings is a four-star restaurant."
"Then lead the way, lady! I like your style!"
Later, Dipper's memories of the event were foggy. Part of it was reaction—it had been long and wild day—and part of it was being star-struck at sitting at the same table as a Hugo and Nebula winning SF author whose books sold in the millions and currently were unfolding as a long, complex, and high-rated cable TV series. Belinda had been a writer for twenty-five years, and she attended conventions like this with her husband, who appeared as Grahame Gartner. He always insisted that his wife sit in on the panels, saying, "She's the true inspiration and really the source of the books."
"I'm only a tax attorney," he told them. "Couldn't write a short story to save my neck. But Bel's still too shy to come out of the pseudonym closet, and to me, masquerading as a successful writer is fun."
"Cosplay," Belinda said. "And it's fun for me not to be at the center of the incredible army of fans. Wayne doesn't mind it, so it works out fine for us."
"Dipper had a little taste of that today," Wendy said. "A pony girl grabbed hold of him."
Belinda laughed. "You got glomped!" she said. "Fans can get handsy. Tell us about Granite Rapids. I know it's going to be a cartoon show—congratulations!—but I'm afraid I haven't read the books."
Dipper shrugged. "Well, they're for kids. But basically, it's about two twelve-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, who spend a summer at their grandfather's tourist trap in Granite Rapids, California. It turns out that the place is rife with paranormal creatures and events, and the Palms twins—that's their name, Alexis and Alexia Palms—become paranormal investigators."
"It's really about us," Mabel said. "The same thing happened to Dip and me, only it was our great-uncle instead of our grandfather, and it was in Gravity Falls—that's in Oregon—and not in California. That's where Dip first met Wendy!"
"But I want to hear about Frost and Flame," Dipper said. "You only started the series about ten years ago, you've put out seven so far, and the books are so long, complex, and tightly plotted—how do you do it?"
"Wayne and I talk out plot structures and situations until a story feels ripe, then I put my butt in the chair, curse a little bit, and start keyboarding," Belinda said.
"The waiter is here," Jan said gently.
They ordered, a distracted Dipper asking for the first thing on the menu—Navarin D'Agneau—without realizing what it was. He'd had French, but not gastronomic French. It turned out to be a succulent and delicious lamb dish. Wendy went for a dinner salad with spiced peaches and avocados. Teek modestly ordered a sirloin, medium, and after dithering for some time, Mabel deferred to the others.
After Amy, Jan, and the Southerns had ordered, Mabel told the waiter, "I'll have what the last lady ordered, please." That turned out to be a cassoulet, and after one taste Mabel had no complaints. Belinda had ordered a small accompanying salad and a bottle of Marcillac, which turned out to be a red French wine. The salad didn't worry Dipper, but the wine did. Teek, who had ordered water, received a wine glass, and to Dipper's relief, he helped Mabel drink it.
After dessert, Jan said, "I hate to talk shop, but I need to know a couple of things for next fall. Bel, are you up for a book tour?"
"As long as it isn't in tax season," Belinda Southern said. "My front man is too busy then. How long?"
Belinda glanced at Wayne. He said, "Two weeks? I can use vacation time."
"Two weeks will be fine," Jan said. "We'll slot you in for between Thanksgiving and the week before Christmas. Dipper, same question."
"I wouldn't be able to do it then," Dipper said. "University. Uh, maybe a week in December and one in the spring? Wen, when do our breaks come?"
"Christmas break starts December seventh," Wendy said. "Spring break—I don't know, I'd have to check."
"That will work out," Jan said. "How about the West during Christmas break between the eighth and the fifteenth, and the East in the spring?"
"What does that mean?" Mabel asked, drinking the last of the Marcillac. "Where will he go?"
"For winter break, probably Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Austin, and Denver, for sure, and maybe a couple more stops. He might be able to squeeze in two appearances in one day if our planners can work out the route. We'll decide later. The spring tour would start in Chicago and end in New York, other cities to be named."
"It's a deal!" Mabel said. "But I gotta come, too. I'm his manager."
"I don't think that will be a problem," Jan said. "Ditzney is paying more than half of the expenses."
In the limo ride back to the Hardling Hotel, Dipper shyly asked if the Southerns were doing an autograph session. Wayne laughed. "Six of them!"
"I'll buy your latest and come get it signed," Dipper said. "I haven't bought a copy of Frosted Iron yet, but I was going to."
"No, you won't," Jan said. "Tomorrow early, stop by the Fenris Group's booth, on Book Alley in the exhibitors' hall. I'll be there, and I'll put aside a copy of Frosted Iron for you. Courtesy of Brangwen Books. We're in the center of the Fenris Publishing display."
"Thanks! What time are you autographing?" Dipper asked.
Belinda looked at Wayne, who said, "The panel's at eleven, the autographing starts at twelve-fifteen. But come to the green room around ten-thirty and we'll be there. Less crowded that way! Professional courtesy."
Jan said, "There you are. And that reminds me, did you get word about the YA panel at two, Dipper?"
"Yes, somebody—oh, Amy—texted me yesterday. It's in 6DE. I'll have to find where that is. Mabel, are you all right?"
"Oh, sure," she said in a too-bright voice. In the bright lights from the approach to the convention, Dipper recognized the pale greenish tinge and hoped his sister wouldn't barf in the limo.
"You're replacing Lacey LaLaine," Jan said. "She's under the gun for a deadline and decided at the last minute she couldn't come. The topic is 'Mystery, Fantasy, and Fantastic Mysteries,' though. You'll fit right in. The other writers—they aren't ours, alas—are Jayne Breene, the Kitty Hart series, and Darnell Warren, who writes the Henry the Hero books, and Catherine Quayle, who writes the Haunted Trails series."
"I'm kinda the junior guy," Dipper said. The others she'd named were veterans, with sure-fire name recognition.
"Don't worry about it. Just listen, and when the moderator asks for your observations, tell them what you think. Or if you haven't thought about it, ask another question and answer that instead. 'So what do you think about the accusation that fantasy as a bad influence on critical thought?' You'd say, 'Does fantasy fiction help readers become more imaginative? I'd say yes. Granite Rapids has characters that are wild and funny, but they address problems in a logical way, and they're supportive of each other. They're good influences.'"
"She's been talking to Grunkle Stan," Mabel confided. "That's his kind of spiel!"
Luckily, they arrived at the hotel, said their good-nights to Jan, Amy, and the Southerns, and went straight up to their rooms.
"Are you going to be sick?" Dipper asked Mabel in the elevator.
Mabel leaned against a mirrored wall, her eyes squeezed shut. "Hard to say. That wine tasted better going the other way. Woo, why's the elevator spinning?"
"You shouldn't have had four glasses," Wendy said. "How much wine have you had at one time before?"
"Um. One glass once on a date with Teek. And the Passover wine in an itty-bitty glassy, that's all."
"You don't look so hot. Here we are. If I were you, I'd get to the room and to the bathroom ASAP."
Wendy and Dipper's room was closest, so Mabel dashed into their bathroom, knelt on the floor, and if she had been a Gnome, she would have made the water in the toilet resplendent with all the colors of the spectrum. "Gah," she said, standing up and steadying herself on the sink. "What a waste of expensive food! Take me and put me to bed, Teek. I think it's all gone now."
After flushing—twice—she rinsed her mouth—thoroughly—and then with Teek steadying her, made her way out and next door to their room.
"Mabel just doesn't have brakes," Dipper said.
"Yeah, she should have waited, like we did."
"What?"
Looking mischievous, Wendy gestured to the counter beside the mini-fridge. The bottle of champagne now rested in a bucket of ice, with a cloth napkin swathed around it. "Time for our celebration," she said.
"Um—I've never had champagne before."
"Neither have I, just mainly beer now and then. It's supposed to be good stuff. And this is a small bottle, but if you don't like it, we don't have to finish it."
They decided to sit side by side in front of the window looking out toward the Convention Center and the bay beyond. After a bit of struggle and a lot of thumb pressure, Dipper managed to pop the cork—in the shower stall, just to be safe—and after the little eruption of foam, he wrapped a face towel around the drippy bottle, came out, and went over to join Wendy, who had turned out all the room lights and just let the glow of the convention illuminate the room. She had also set two champagne flutes on the table, and he filled them.
"Where'd you get the robe?" he asked. She was wearing a white terrycloth number.
"Yours is in the closet," she said. "There's a note that says we can keep them. Very snuggly and comfy. Thanks. To you, my Big Dipper."
"And to you, my Lumberjack girl."
They clinked rims. They drank. "Not as bad as I thought it would be," Dipper said. "Very light."
"Pour another."
They decided to stop at three glasses each, leaving maybe one more int the bottle. Wendy stretched like a cat, hummed a contented little tuneless note of pleasure, and murmured, "It's only a little past ten, but big day tomorrow."
"You're probably right," Dipper said. "We should turn in. This stuff does make me feel a little dizzy. But happy!"
Wendy got up, drew the curtains, and went over to the bed, where she clicked on a dim, rosy bedside light. Then she turned toward him. "Would you hang up my robe for me, please?"
"Sure," he said.
He hadn't suspected that the robe was all she was wearing.
Well—all aside from her pearl choker and her fishnet stockings.
He draped the robe over the back of a chair. It didn't have to be put in the closet right that minute. It could wait.
Unlike Dipper.
To be continued