Ship It(12)

That’s when it really hits me. There are absolutely no Kyle Cunninghams here. There are no Andrea Garcias. There isn’t a single John Deere hat. There’s no shame.

These people get it. These people get me.

I want to cry. I want to shout. I grin like an idiot to myself and tuck my head down so no one wonders what I’m smiling at. I realize I need to find the line for the Demon Heart panel. My heart zips because I remember suddenly that Forest and Rico are somewhere in this building, getting ready for their panel. And I get to see them in just over an hour. How could I forget? The best is still to come.


WE’RE SUPPOSED TO be making our way through the service corridors to VIP registration, but Rico has taken a detour because the guy couldn’t follow simple instructions if they were tattooed on his arm. Promising me that he’s “done this before,” he pushes through a pair of doors and I hear people milling below us. Lots of people.

“Check it out,” he says, pulling me toward a balcony that overlooks the enormous main hall. I peek over the railing and…wow.

I mean, okay, people-wise it isn’t that many. Wouldn’t even put a dent in OU stadium. But they’re packed in, and excited, and loud. Like this is the social event of the year in Boise for these people, which it probably is.

They’re also all dressed like it’s the Halloween dance at the United Methodist Church, which is to say they’re in real costumes, not sexed-up versions of everyday professions. Some of the costumes I recognize—there’s a lady who’s a dead ringer for Doc from Back to the Future standing by the entrance with a guy who looks like a hipster millennial version of Jughead Jones from the Archie comics—but most of them, I have no idea who they’re supposed to be. I point at a girl with elaborate face makeup and a dark, witchy outfit.

“Good god, how long do you think that took? She looks like she stepped out of a horror movie,” I mumble to Rico.

Rico drops his mouth open in shock. “Don’t tell me you don’t know Dark Willow!” He grasps his chest. Because of course he knows every character’s name here. “Willow Rosenberg? From Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Season six? Oh my god, Forest, what have you been doing with your life?”

“Dude, auditioning,” I say. I don’t have time to catch up on old shows that were on the air when I was in diapers. I push myself away from the railing. I’m ready to go find registration now.

“Well, I know what I’m getting you for Christmas,” Rico says, not leaving his lookout. “All seven seasons, and I’m not leaving your place until you’ve watched every episode. Yes, even the ones with Riley.”

“C’mon, dude, let’s go.” I’m eager to get out of another conversation where Rico (intentionally or not) reminds me how much older and more experienced he is than me, but Rico’s off pointing at another fan.

“Hey, look at that Groot!” he says delightedly.

I follow his gaze and see a guy dressed like a giant tree. “Wow,” I say. “He hasn’t had a free weekend in a year.”

“Tell me you know that one,” Rico pleads.

“Of course. From the first Guardians of the Galaxy. Made almost a hundred million opening weekend. Launched Chris Pratt as an action hero. Dude’s got an amazing career.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Rico says, still gazing out at the crowd below.

“I’m thinking I hope Chris Pratt’s too busy to go out for Red Zone.”

Rico laughs. “Well, I was wondering whether there are any Smokey and Heart cosplayers down there.” Rico raises an eyebrow at me. It hadn’t even occurred to me.

“Do you think?”

“Maybe. First time I saw a Star Command cosplayer, man…” Rico shakes his head nostalgically. “Magical.” He props one elbow up on the railing and looks at me. “That’s when you realize that people really care.”

“You think these people… you think they know us?” I say. I mean, I know rationally that our show has viewers, but our ratings are pretty low, and we’ve been shooting out in North Carolina for the better part of the last year, so I’ve never actually met any. Our fans are purely abstract concepts to me at this point.

“Definitely. But probably not many. We have what they like to call a cult fan base. Which means small,” he says. “But, you know, passionate.”

“Isn’t it kind of weird that people would be so into our show that they’d come to see us talk?”

Rico smiles at me. “Get used to it, brother.”

I look back out over the crowd, searching for guys wearing Smokey’s iconic leather jacket. I don’t see any.

“There,” he says, nodding at two girls passing below us. “I bet they watch the show.”

“Them?” They don’t look like the type of nerdy sci-fi comic-book-loving geeks I pictured as the audience for Demon Heart. They look like they belong in a record store, honestly—one of them in glasses and the other one rocking an oversize denim jacket with the sleeves cut off. But like magic, just after Rico says something, one of the girls glances up and spots us and it’s like her body lights up from the inside out. She straight-up whacks her friend on the arm, and soon they’re both screaming and waving.

I wave back, sort of in amazement. No one has ever reacted like that to me before. Rico cracks up and blows them a kiss.