The Princess Diarist(39)

We have gone on—aged, and in some cases (like my own) waists have thickened a bit—but the images have not changed. In the photos we are stopped in our tracks, usually in a scene from a past film, caught for all time smiling or swooning, gazing or considering. And just beneath that momentary expression—that split second out of all the years of our lives—a signature will, for a nominal or near-nominal fee, be scrawled. That souvenir, now yours forever, captures two instants: the long-ago one when the photo was taken, and the more recent one when that signature was written just for you—you or some lucky friend or relative whose life you’ve generously chosen to enhance in this way. Two moments, decades apart, now joined forever.

We sit in various stages of poised, awaiting our next appointment to exchange autograph for cash—yes, actual paper money, the kind that they’re promising to put a picture of a woman on one of these years. That cash entitles people to choose what color ink should be used—the table is festooned with a rainbow of available pens—and which character’s name they might also want inscribed below the actor’s signature. Oh, and perhaps also a key line of dialogue spoken by said character?

Finally, and for many most importantly, the ability to carve out a uniquely personal exchange between the lap dancer and lap dancee, something so easily documented in the smartphone era. At the very least a selfie, but even better a video of your idol engaging you—you!—in actual conversation. A digital keepsake that you will be able to carry with you and show off—to those, one hopes, who will share your enthusiasm rather than react with an air of endurance—until the end of time, or at least until such time as you lose the phone that you foolishly neglected to back up the contents of and realize that you have lost not only your phone but also proof of your contact with stardom.

But there will be another Comic-Con—they’re hardly rare now—where, if your luck with luminaries prevails, you will again find yourself in (or, more accurately, maneuver yourself into) immediate proximity to your chosen celebrity’s latest lap dance, which is when you can say, “Hey, Carrie, it’s me, Jeffrey Altuna! We met at last year’s Florida Con! I was with that girl Corby with the Slave Leia tattoo on her shoulder! Yeah! Right! How you been? We’re down here visiting friends in Houston and, lucky me, this is the weekend for this. And anyway, Cheryl, that’s my wife—say hey, honey—anyway . . . hell, I lost my train of whatever I was saying . . . Only that it’s great to see you again. And Gary! Hey, boy! Tongue still hanging down, I see. Gosh almighty, he is so cute! We have a Westie–poodle mix—my oldest calls it a Woodle—and we love him to bits, but he’s just nowhere near as bright as your little man here. You get him a Twitter page like you said you wanted to? Instagram! Better still! How awesome! Does he have many followers?? 41k?! That’s more than most humans! I’ll follow him right away! What’s his name on it? Gary Fisher @garyfisher! That’s brilliant! How did you think of it? . . . I’m kidding! What do you think I am?? Some fan moron? No, I’m totally kidding again! We are just big fans. We love you for just being who you are—maybe not regular, but not not regular, you know? I hope I’m not talking too much—guess I am ’cause of how Cheryl’s looking at me, she’s got my number, but could I ask you something? And I’m not talking about some super-dark secret inside scoop or anything because I know you’re not allowed to say, but my neighbor Bob reads up on all this and he reckoned that the black boy’s skin is dark because of some hex that the Dark Side puts on him. Is that true? If yes, just nod your . . . I know, I know. I’m sorry—I just promised Bob I’d ask you if I saw you, and well, here we are! I couldn’t let an opportunity like this just—boom!—swish by, right? I mean sure, no, yeah, I see that’s quite a line, I’ll let you go. I just wanted, I’m just glad to see you again like this and I gotta say, we are really looking forward to the opening on December eighteenth. Can’t wait! Okay, bye, Gary! Take good care of your mama now—ya hear? Bye now!”

? ? ?

i need you to know that I’m not cynical about the fans. (If you thought I was, you would quite properly not like me, which would defeat the purpose of this book and of so much else that I do.) I’m moved by them.

There’s something incredibly sweet and mystifying about people waiting in lines for so long. And with very few exceptions, the people you meet while lap dancing are a fine and darling lot. The Star Wars films touched them in some incredibly profound or significant way. They remember everything about the day they first saw Star Wars one, two, and three (which were officially, of course, IV, V, and VI): where they were, who they were with, what obstacles they had to overcome—cut school? skip practice?—in order to be there. And once they got there, how the experience surpassed any expectations they might have had, resulting in some life-changing experience. How, that day, things for them ceased to be in any way the same from then to forever after.

So of course when they meet me, many of the Forever Altered long to tell me all these things and more, and at length.

There’s the girl with my signature tattooed to her ass, the couple that named their child Leia Carrie, the guy who had his name legally changed to Luke Skywalker. (Imagine the policeman’s face when he stops Luke Skywalker for speeding: “What happened, Obi-Wan wouldn’t let you use the X-wing fighter tonight?”) They have marriage ceremonies where, instead of the more traditional vows, one says, “I love you,” and the other says, “I know.” They come dressed in the outfits, and not only are the women in the metal bikini but some men are wearing it, too, and it looks fantastic.