Aragón at Bronycon 2019 -- Day Three · 5:45pm Sep 24th, 2019
Bronycon 2019 lasted four days.
This is what that meant.
Disclaimer: The purpose of this blog is to show you the way Bronycon felt, as realistically as possible. Due to the nature of storytelling itself, this sometimes implies taking some minor liberties.
Everything told in these blogs is true, and dramatised to the best of my memory. Every line spoken has been kept verbatim whenever possible, and only changed when the flow of the scene or the grammar of the sentence required it so.
That said, while everything explained here happened, some events have been shuffled for convenience’s sake and to make it easier on the reader to follow the narrative. As such, the order of every scene here shown isn’t strictly chronological.
PART THREE
“You know,” R5h says, looking at me. “I was talking about this earlier. I think the literal only thing that you’ve said more often than how your book has sold out, is that you don’t like to talk about how—”
“Because I don’t like to talk about it!” I say, slapping R5h’s shoulder. “But, like. Y’know. My book sold out?”
It’s the third day of Bronycon 2019, and we’re waiting in line.
The feeling of a four-day-long convention is completely different from that of a three-day-long convention. If it lasts three days, you only really get to enjoy the true experience once—because the first day is full of hellos, and the last day is full of goodbyes. It’s the second day that holds the magic, the one that you remember once everything is over.
Four days, though, that’s different. You get twice the time to stop worrying about first impressions, you get freedom to fuck about.
So I fuck about.
“Like. Y’know. My book sold out?”
“Oh my God!” Dubs Rewatcher presses a hand against his chest, and leans over R5h to look at me. “Your book sold out?!” he says. “For real?”
I reply in the same astounded voice. “Three times!”
“That is so amazing!”
“I don’t like to talk about it, though.”
“Right. Okay.” R5h takes a deep breath and then steps aside so Dubs can’t use him as a stepladder anymore. “Okay.” He looks at me. “So you’re just going to say that every time, too? Because—”
“Because I don’t want to talk about it!” I repeat. “But my book did sell out three times, I just—”
Dubs Rewatcher literally goes out of his way to lean over R5h again to talk to me. “Oh my God!” Like, Dubs is by my side here, right? So he steps aside, circles R5h, pushes him a little so he’s between the two of us, and then leans over R5h to talk to me. “Your book sold out?!”
“It did! Three times!”
“I had no idea!”
R5h starts disassociating around here, becoming one with the universe. Don’t mind him if he doesn’t talk much for a while.
So the place is the third floor of the convention center, and we’re waiting in line for a panel named There Can Only Be One. You might have heard of it—it’s the one organized by the Royal Canterlot Library, the one that’s about to choose the bet fic in the website through a system vaguely similar to democracy.
R5h is with me, obviously, but there’s more. There’s Majin Syeekoh, talking about poop shoes in the background, and Miller Minus, who’s bitter about me missing his panel. Appletank, Fuckhouse alumni, by my right. Octavia Harmony, voice of reason, by my left. Undome Tinwe somewhere behind me, still wearing the purple shirt.
And of course, there’s Dubs Rewatcher.
Dubs Rewatcher is a can of pepper spray, but he comes in strawberry flavor. He’s a teddy bear holding a knife, an angel whose shadow has little devil horns.
Dubs is roughly my height. His hair is fuzzy and his skin is soft, which makes him very huggable, and he very much knows it. He has a deeper voice than you’d think, but it goes high-pitched when he laughs. He doesn’t walk with swagger, but he talks with his hands, with loud and theatrical flair—in another life he was a bird, and he had colorful feathers. He’s a good listener, better talker, and he shines when there’s room for him to tease you. Dubs Rewatcher is devilish, because he knows he can get away with it; you’ll let him, ‘cause you love him.
Dubs Rewatcher is the friend you call when you need to clock a motherfucker, and literally the only person to enjoy my ‘sold-out book’ jokes.
“Oh, hey!” The line moves, and we’re close to the door now—and that means we can see the big sign next to it, listing all the panels taking place in there. I’m pointing at one in particular. “Mine is still listed!”
“Yes.” Miller is looking at a completely different name. His face is unreadable, he’s made of concrete. “So is mine,” he says. “You know. The one you promised you’d attend.”
“Ah-hah.”
“And then you didn’t.”
“Right, uh.” Pear is nowhere around, since he—wisely—chose to sleep in today. So instead I lean closer to Dubs, pointing at Miller, looking for support. “He hosted a panel yesterday,” I explain. “I couldn’t attend, you see. I’m sure it sucked anyway, right? I mean, come on, it’s Miller.”
“I can hear you,” Miller monotones.
“I know you can hear me! Why do you think I said it in the first place.”
Dubs elbows me, grinning brightly. “I know about his panel!” he chirps.
I look at him. “You do?”
“Yes! I was one of the hosts, too. You would’ve known if you’d been there.”
“Okay! Back to the distraction then!” I lean away from Dubs, and point at the panel name again. Cultural Perspectives it’s called. I tap the name twice. “This one here? It’s mine! I can’t believe it’s still listed.”
Dubs is still smiling, but now he’s actually curious. He looks at the name. “I didn’t know you were going to host a panel, too.”
“Not anymore.” I waggle my badge in front of Dub’s eyes—and most poignantly, the lack of a “panelist” sticker attached to it. It still reads that I’m a writer or somethin, though. “We cancelled. It was supposed to be hosted by Monochromatic, Wanderer D, Jykinturah, and me. About how being from a different culture affects pony art, right? ESL and so on.”
Majin Syeekoh is also by my side, looking at the name of the panel. “Wow,” he says.
And I grin at him. “Right? What a fucking dream team.” Then I shrug. “Sadly, the Bronycon staff reviewed us and said we were just too sexy to host a panel, all together like that. Would’ve been a fire hazard, y’know, all that—”
“Ah.” Majin pushes me. “Line is moving. Go go go.”
“Oh shit yeah. Sure.” I start moving. The crowd moves with me—and we’re pretty much at the door now, which is good, because the panel is starting in less than two minutes, according to the schedule. “Can’t wait to get in,” I say, looking at the fellas. “You know, I don’t like to talk about it? But—”
R5h pinches the space between his eyes. “Oh my fucking God.”
“—I got nominated for this panel.”
Pause.
R5h looks up. Everybody else does, too. “What?” he says.
And I shoot him some fingerguns. “Yeah!” I say, absolutely not trying to hide the smugness in my voice. “The panel is about voting the best fanfiction out of a pool of nominees, and I’m one of them!”
“What?” That’s Mele talking—Undome Tinwe, for the slow ones—and walking up to me. He’s checking his phone, reading the RCL website. “How do you know that? I don’t see your name on the list.”
I wink at him, and peek over his phone screen. Ah, as I thought. “That’s the first eight nominees,” I say, pointing at the paragraph above the list of titles Mele is reading, because it explains everything I’m saying. “There are sixteen total. They’re only going to reveal the final list once the panel starts.”
“And how do you know about it, then?”
I wink at them again. “Oh,” I say, mysterious, wishing I had a fan with me so I could cover half of my face in seductive fashion. “I’ve got my sources.”
Pause. Everybody’s looking at me.
So I drop the act. “I got Horizon drunk yesterday and he told me,” I say.
“Aaaaah.”
“Yeah! So.” I point at my face with a thumb. “It’s not something I like to brag about? But I’m officially one of the top sixteen authors on the website at least. I’m more popular than I thought.” I give them a confident glance. “Which, y’know, explains a couple things. Like, I don’t like to talk about it either? But my—”
R5h’s pupils shrink. “No.”
“—book sold out? Three times?”
Dubs Rewatcher leans over R5h, eyes sparkling. “No way! I had no idea!”
“I know!”
“Seriously, you two, go fuck yourselves.”
I can’t find Monochromatic in the crowd, though I know she’s here. That annoys me a bit, but oh well—we got there early, and have pretty good seats, so all is well. The panel hasn’t started yet. I sit between Majin and Mele, and together, my group fills an entire row of chairs. Behind us sits Mitch, the man whom I once described as your manly uncle, the one who knows how to skin a deer. Next to him is Georg.
I won’t see them much, or talk much with them after this, but they go well together. Georg and Mitch are big burly dudes, they remind me of—if you were to be an eight year old, crying because you lost your mother and don’t know which part of town you’re in, and you entered a biker bar to ask for help? Georg and Mitch are the two guys who would’ve been sitting at the bar and would calm you down while the bartender phones your mother. They scare you a bit, but they buy you peanuts and a Coca-cola so you stop crying, and they keep calling you ‘champ’.
Like, they’ve got that energy, you get me.
Last year, Mitch got me a beer, and when I got a bit drowsy he laughed from the back of his throat, patted my back, and went “You’re such a lightweight.” Georg spends the entire panel recording the panelists, and now and then he turns to you and records your face to see how you react to stuff, and he’s like, into it, he’s going to get a holiday movie out of this, I can tell you that.
I sit down, say hi to them, shake hands. I look around one last time, still can’t find Monochromatic, even though she wears a hat that makes her stand out in any crowd—and then I sigh. “Whatever, I’ll see her later, I guess.”
Mele is still looking at his phone, at the RCL website, but now he looks at me. “What?”
“Mono,” I explain, resting my back on the chair. “You know, I talked to her yesterday, and told her she has high chances of winning? And she told me to shut up, but now that I’m here looking at the room, I think I was dead-on. The RCL guys only vote if they have to break a tie—it’s the audience here that decides which stories win otherwise, right? And there are a lot of Monochromatic fans at the convention right now.”
“Oh, we could tilt the odds in our favor!” Mele points at the door; there’s still people walking in. “We just go there and stand guard, and only let people pass if they’re fans of Monochromatic?”
“That sounds morally repugnant, I dig it.”
“Guys!” Octavia Harmony is sitting at Mele’s right, and he’s fiddling with his phone too. “The ballots are out!”
“What?”
“You can see all the stories that got selected. You’re here!” Octavia Harmony gets the phone closer to his face. “The story of yours that made the cut is Evil is Easy, Governing is Harder.
It’s what I expected, but it’s still good news. “That’s a good one!” I say, perking up, getting excited. I’m bobbing up and down on my seat. “Shit, that might actually make it a bit far in the competition. Who goes against me in the first round?”
“Uh.” Octavia Harmony bites his lip, and then looks at me. “You’re against Best Night Ever.”
“Wait.” I stop bobbing up and down. “Best Night Ever? As in, Cap’n Chrysalid’s Best Night Ever?”
“Yeah.”
Pause.
Everybody’s looking at me. Mitch and Georg, Majin, R5h, Dubs, Miller. All around me, eyes full of pity.
I give them an awkward laugh. “I-I can still probably put up a fight, right? Like, it’s not that hopeless a—”
Mele sighs, and places a hand on my shoulder. “I am so sorry, dude,” he says. “So sorry.”
God had to punish me for my hubris; I’m out in the first round of the RCL panel. It’s a surprisingly close call, however—the audience vote is a tie, and so the RCL have to call the shots and give individual votes. I take it well; it’s hard to be disappointed when you made the cut anyway, and I can be a graceful loser.
Especially when I get to be smug as I fall.
“Well, well, well! If it isn’t la señorita Monocromática!” My power is at its highest when I speak in my mother tongue. My brown eyes gleam golden under sunlight; my hips sway side to side and bring fire and brimstone. “Hello there!” I say, knowing that in this moment, I’m bulletproof. “How’s it going.”
Mono looks at me, and she looks like she wants to shoot me. “Oh, God, shut up.”
“I seem to recall!” I approach her, still speaking in Spanish, “that I totally called that you’d win? That I told you about it, and you said I was crazy? What was that you said? That I should fuck off? Hmm?”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Monochromatic blows me off, and then smirks, and raises a finger. “Give me a moment! I want you to sign my copy of your book.”
“I—oh?” I blink. I stop with the shit-eating grin; I’m actually surprised. “Wait, you bought my book? Why?”
Mono arches an eyebrow at me.
“Wait. You read my stuff? I thought you didn’t like me!”
Mono rolls her eyes, and then something else gets her attention. She tells me to wait while she rummages for her book, and the rest of the group start talking to her. So I turn around, and smile at the person who was talking to Mono until I arrived.
“Forty-seven!” I say. “How’s it going! We finally meet!”
RBDash47 smiles back. Then we high-five, which soon turns into a handshake—which soon turns into a hug.
Forty-seven is John Wick if the dog had survived the movie; he’s what Hollywood thinks small-town mayors look like. He’s the manager you run to, crying, when you make a dumb mistake. You know that he’s slept three hours in the last two days, you know he’s nursing a hell of a headache—but when you ask for help, he’ll sigh, and say don’t worry, and then he’ll help you, only calling you a fucking idiot under his breath.
RBDash47 speaks gently, but not in the way you think. The voice is guttural, comes from the back of his throat, but it’s a purr, not a growl. He caresses every word before he speaks it, tone low-pitched but soft, brimming with emotion. I bet he can cry when reading poetry.
He’s taller than me, so I have to look up when talking to him. “Where have you been up until now? I’ve been looking for you!”
“Oh, I was just very busy with the bookstore,” Forty-seven explains, shaking his head. He pats my arm; he’s stronger than he looks. “So, what did you think of the panel?”
“It was great!” I say, beaming. “I especially liked the part where you found me in the audience, looked me in the eye, and said ‘I vote for Best Night Ever’. Fucking hilarious.”
“It was!” Forty-seven beams back. He’s a real one. “But I’m really sorry anyway. I mean, I’ve published both stories, it wasn’t an easy decision to make.”
“Sophie’s Choice but in literary form, yeah.” I shrug, and then I look at him again. “You know, you were probably the best speaker at the panel if you ask me. And when you’re sharing the stage with FanOfMostEverything and Horizon, that’s a hell of a compliment.”
Forty-seven is visibly surprised. So much so, I think he forgets to feel flattered. “Whoa,” he says. “For real?”
“Yeah! I like the way you talked.” I’m passionate about public speaking; it’s a hobby of mine. I point at my throat. “You weren’t as energetic as the others, but you gave it a lot of, like, sentimentality. Emotion? It was pleasant to listen to!”
“Wow. Thanks?”
“Sure, man. Y’know, you’re nothing like I pictured you to be.” I give him a wink. “You’re like, a father figure in person.”
Pause.
Forty-seven looks at me with the raw emotion of someone who just got called ‘daddy’ by an online friend. “Wh. What.”
“Yeah,” Pear says. “You’ve got that dad energy.”
“JESUS FUCKING—” I jump, turn around. Pearple Prose is there, looking at me with a neutral expression. He was standing in my blind spot. “SINCE WHEN—”
“I’ve been here the whole time.”
“WHAT. WHEN. HOW.”
“Aragón!” Monochromatic is finally back, and she’s carrying my book with her. “Here!”
“Oh shit right. Hold up.” I ask Pear to turn around so I can take a look at his backpack—I don’t wear one, so Pear carries all my stuff. I take out a copy of Monochromatic’s book, and hand it to her. “Sign mine too? So we do like a double autograph thing?”
“Sure!” There’s only one pen, and it’s already in her hand, so she goes first. We switch to Spanish for a moment. “Let me think for a moment, what could I sign…”
I peek over her shoulder, and arch an eyebrow.
Monochromatic is a golden retriever trained to defuse bombs; she’s a colorful little frog whose spit will kill you in nine seconds. She’s the friend you ring up whenever you’ve got tickets for the wine tasting event, and the aunt who buys a swimming pool just so the nephews admit she’s their favorite.
Mono is shorter than me, wears a Pikachu hat that can move its ears, she yells ‘oh my Goddddd!’ when she’s excited. She’s the reason cartoons think having a pure heart is a superpower, the person who makes ‘childish’ have positive connotations. But here’s the thing: her voice changes depending on the language. In English, she’s a lightweight—elegant, but high pitched. In Spanish, she’s Morgan Freeman, reading Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.
She’s also, officially, the best writer in the website now. Mono is the reason I’m here at Bronycon—a lot of people asked me to at least try to attend, yes, but she was the straw that broke the camel’s back. We both speak Spanish, that’s our common trait—but I’m intimidated by her, and she can’t get a clear read of me. It’s a standstill. We both like it.
So I peek over her shoulder. She’s writing “Mexico is better than Spain, cabrón” in cute handwriting, followed by more flowery slander. “Having fun?”
“Lots!” she says.
“Also, congrats! Best writer in the website!” I smile wide—and then path her back. “It’s amazing! I voted for you all the way.”
“Oh my God, thank you!” We’re speaking in English; she switches to Spanish now. Her voice drops eight octaves. I wonder if mine does, too. “I’m sorry you lost on the first round, but at least we didn’t have to fight each other.”
“Yeah! It would have been completely humiliating on my end, so I’m glad that didn’t happen. And hey, you eliminated Best Night Ever, so in a way you avenged me. I knew you were going to win.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but I see that she’s still grinning. “Honestly I’m not sure how to react, I’m kind of completely overwhelmed.” She’s still writing dedications to me, and every single one is an insult. “I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t get to my head.”
“You kidding me? If I were you, it would get to my head instantly. I’d be so smug about it.”
Mono closes the book and gives me a look. “Yeah, I bet you would.”
“I’m serious!” I grab the book and the pen she’s handing me. “I mean, shit, I went out in the first round and I’m still bragging about how I placed. You gotta be a rockstar about these things. Pride suits us better than fake modesty.”
“Hum.” Mono is looking at me as I open her copy of my book and start writing the dedication. The book has a handsome picture of me in the back cover, and she’s also eyeing that. “You know,” she says. “You’re kind of right. I am better than you, we should both acknowledge it.”
“We should! You won against Hard Reset, nobody should ever shut up about that.” I shrug. “Also, I called it, so I still get to rub it on your face, dumbass. Now hush, I can’t write and talk at the same time.”
Mono grins. She went to town on me when signing mine, so she peeks over my shoulder—because she knows me, she knows the way I talk, and is excited to see the absolute atrocities I’m about to write about her.
I use my cleanest handwriting. To Monochromatic, I write. If you were to get twice as much as anyone else, it would still be half of what you deserve. Yours truly, Aragón.
Mono reads it, blinks. Looks at me. “Oh my God. No fucking way.”
“There, now you’ll feel guilty about what you wrote in mine.”
“You’re such an asshole!”
I’ve already shoved my copy of her book in Pear’s backpack, so Mono can’t get a hold on it and write something nice just to spite me. “Aahahah, fuck you,” I say. I’m back to English, so people can hear me talk. I’m charming like that. “I’m only pleasant out of spite.”
“Give me the—!”
“Hi, excuse me? I’m being terribly rude right now.” A random character appears, seemingly out of nowhere: a tall man, wearing a purple shirt. He’s smiling at us, in slightly awkward fashion. “But, can I talk to Monochromatic for a minute?”
“Oh, sure.”
Monochromatic steps up—not without shooting me a glare first, to which I reply by pointing at my eyes with two fingers, then at hers—and starts talking to the guy, who’s clearly beyond excited. I turn around to nod at Pear, who’s been looking at us for a while. “Man, Mono’s popular. Did you know she won the RCL thing? And her book sold out, too.”
“Would’ve never guessed.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t like to talk about it. You feeling better?”
“I just needed to sleep.” Pear shrugs. “What do we do now? Wanna go to Quills and Sofas?”
“Sure, I’ve had my share of bullying Mono for the day.”
“Hey!” I elbow Pear on the side. “It’s Bad Horse! Over there, look!” I wave a hand in the air. “HI, BAD HORSE!”
Bad Horse turns the other way and leaves.
I lower my hand and look at Pear. “He probably didn’t hear me. I swear we’re friends.”
“Sure you are.” Pear perks up. “Oh shit, it’s Horizon. Be cool.”
“Have you ever fucking met me.”
Horizon sees us. “Oh! Hi!”
And so, the game’s afoot.
Don’t expect a description, there is no time. I need to go for the kill, to seize the moment. Carpe the fuck out of that diem, people—Pear be my goddamn witness, I came to the convention today with a mission, and I’m gonna fucking make it. Yesterday, I missed my chance to have lunch with Horizon and Skywriter. But today?
Today Aragón learns from his mistakes.
I approach Horizon, steel and diamonds in my eyes. “Hey! Funky seeing you here,” I say, pointing at Pear from over my shoulder. “Say, Pear and I were going to go have some drinks out there, you wanna join? Since we missed you yesterday?”
Horizon blinks, does an actual double take. I speak fast, and my accent is thick. “Oh? Going out?”
“Yeah! For a drink! Wanna come?”
“Uh.” Horizon frowns, looks around, makes some quick math in his head. “I… guess, sure. I can probably make it. Do you wanna eat or just have some drinks?”
“I mean, I’m not particularly hungry, so I could go for drinks only. If you want to eat, though?”
Horizon nods. “Drinks are fine, sure. Do you want to go now, or…?”
“Yeah! Let’s go! Let’s go now!” And then I turn to Pear, and do a fist pump in the air. Pear gives me two thumbs up. Hell yeah. Pear, Horizon, and I going out for drinks. This is gonna be great. Three people only, we’ll have all the time in the world to talk, we’ll—
Majin Syeekoh, Mele, Soge, Forbloodysummer, Pearple Prose, Horizon, and I walk into the bar. Don’t ask me how we ended up with this crowd because I can’t fucking tell you. Fimfiction authors are pack animals—they see four of their kin together, they join to see what’s going on, and next thing you know you’re leading twenty thousand Mongol riders into the Caucasus mountains to defeat a rival Khan, bring glory to the Golden Horde. People just latch to you, y’know?
It’s a nice bar—maybe a pub? I never learned the difference. Five TVs on the wall behind the bar, each one broadcasting a different sport, all of them muted; everything else looks and smells like wood. Every seat is occupied, we have to fight to make it to the menus, figure out what the hell we wanna drink.
“Y’know,” I say as I glance at the piece of cardboard listing the drinks. “I like beer? But lately I’ve been drinking cider just to check it out, and I think I might actually be a cider guy.” I click my tongue. “Would it be lame if I got a cider instead of a beer or are we doing the tough guy thing?”
Horizon chuckles. “Cider is fine! I’ll get a cider. Let me pay for yours! I’ve been meaning to buy you a drink for a while.”
I look up, and shoot some fingerguns. “Hell yeah! No way.”
Horizon is King Arthur starring in a Hallmark movie; he’d be a young hip pastor if they were actually cool, and willing to get fucked up on ‘shrooms with the lads. He’s always on the look for impromptu fishing trips, he feels ready for a hike on the hills any time. Late, at sunset, you feel he’d sit by your side, pocket knife in hand, peeling an apple and eating pieces off the blade—and he’d tell you that life has a meaning, that God is alive in the ripples of still water.
He’s tall, full of limbs, and economical in his gestures. His smiles are close-lipped unless you get him to laugh out loud, and his voice is low, velvety, reasonable. Horizon has this manner of speaking where everything makes sense, everything sounds like a perfect idea. I’d be wiling to believe he doesn’t quite know how to lie; I can’t imagine why he would ever need to.
So I reject the fuck out of his offer. “No buying drinks!” I tell him. “My memory’s terrible, I can never remember what I owe to whom.”
“You’re not supposed to pay me back, actually.”
“Nonsense. I’m European, I don’t understand what you’re saying.” I point at the drink I want—blackberry cider with pomegranate, or some shit. I’m going to be honest: I don’t really read labels, I just order based on instinct and a low-key desire to die a glorious death. “Okay! I’ll have this one!”
“And I’ll have the pineapple cider, this one over here.” Horizon grabs the menu from my hands and points at the respective drinks—and I look to the side to see that there was a bartender at the other side of the bar that I didn’t notice. The guy tells us what we owe him.
And I make a face, as I go for my purse.
Horizon notices. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, just—” I’m looking at my bills, and squinting. “Fucking American money. You know, I’m aware I complain about this literally every single time I pay for anything? But your money is just—everything’s the same size! What about blind people? How do they tell bills apart?”
“Well.” Horizon shrugs. “Usually they fold the bills in specific shapes so they can tell them apart.”
“But how do they know what each bill is worth in the first place so they can fold it? What if there’s nobody to help?”
“I think the official stance is ‘don’t be blind’.”
“Right, well.” The bartender is waiting for our payment, and I’m holding the line, desperately trying to tell what the fuck each coin is worth. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got exact change, but fuck me if I know how long it’ll take me to sort it out.”
“Hold on.” Horizon takes a bill that I assume is worth a lot, but as we’ve established, I have no way to know. He uses it to pay for both drinks, and then grabs the glasses. “There, let’s go.”
“Hey, no, that means I owe you—”
“You’ll pay me outside, go.”
So out we go. There are no tables outside; none that can hold so many people, at least. This means we have to awkwardly stand near the bar’s corner, graceful for the shade, drinking our drinks as we go. Talk is pleasant. My drink is not.
“This tastes like shit,” I say, looking at my glass. “Like, it’s bitter. Why is it bitter.”
Pear sips his ale, looks at me. “Why’s it purple. What are you drinking.”
“Blackberry cider!”
“Why would you get blackberry cider.”
“Mine’s pretty good! May I?” Horizon grabs my glass, gives me his in exchange, and tries my cider. “This isn’t that bad.”
I sip his. It tastes like pineapple. “Yours is better.” I signal for him to give me back my glass, but he raises a hand, a ‘wait a moment’ sort of gesture, and sips again. I shrug, take a second sip of the pineapple, and then remember something. “Say! Horizon, are you going to the Author’s Dinner? Because I know some people didn’t make it to the list.”
“Mmmm, not really.” Horizon shakes his head, sips some more cider. “No matter how much you ask in advance, that many people in a restaurant is just going to overwhelm the waiters and guarantee slow service. I’ll just have a private lunch with some friends instead.”
“Aw, man, come on. It’ll be fun!”
“Actually.” Pear frowns, elbows me. “Say, when was the dinner again?”
“Uuuh.” I take another sip of the pineapple cider. It is actually really tasty. “Six o’clock today?”
“Right. We’ve got an appointment with Swan Song at that time.”
Pause.
I can feel the blood leave my face. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Nope. Don’t you remember? Swan and Autumn told us if we wanted to go to the Cheesecake Factory…?”
“…And I said yes. God dammit, yeah, you’re right.” I check my phone just in case, my Discord messages—yep. There’s Swan and I, discussing when to meet up. Today, at six. “Motherfucker! We made two appointments at the same time?”
“You made two appointments at the same time.”
“Okay.” I raise a hand. “Okay. Don’t worry.” My brow is furrowed, my brain’s on overdrive. I don’t want to miss the Author Dinner, it’s a classic, and I promised Wanderer D that I’d be there. But on the other hand—I really wanna go to the Cheesecake Factory. “This is a shitty sitcom problem. I’m the perfect person to deal with shitty sitcom problems, this is what my life consists of. What if…?”
“…We go to the Author’s Dinner, right? But here’s the thing: we don’t eat any food. We just have drinks.” I’m talking to Octavia Harmony, whose name is too long—I just call him Tay. Time has passed, we’re back at the convention center, buying stuff at the self-serving coffee shop they have in the second floor. “And then we wait!”
Tay nods. He’s getting a coffee. “Right.”
“Because we’ve got a reservation at six at the Cheesecake Factory, but that doesn’t mean we’re getting a table at six. It’s a busy weekend!” I observe Tay and get my cup ready. I want coffee, too. “Swan asked; it’ll be at least a forty minute wait. So, we can make both appointments no problemo, we can—”
My mouth snaps shut.
Tay notices, gets a lid for his cardboard cup, and then looks at me. “Uh,” he says. “You okay?”
“Son of a bitch.”
“What?”
“Horizon paid for my drink!” I open my eyes wide. “I forgot to pay him back!”
“What?”
I glare at Tay. “Horizon,” I say. “Son of a bitch fooled me so he could be nice to me. What a dick move.” Then I look at my own hands. “So this is what that feels like, huh? Karma’s a bitch.”
Here’s the thing about Octavia Harmony: we go a long way back. He’s known me for longer than anyone else in this convention; he was my editor when I barely spoke English. I can’t surprise him.
So he just nods. “Alright.” And then points at the big coffee machine I’m fiddling with. “You get your coffee here, by the way. That one’s just for hot water.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks!”
And Tay smiles. He’s done his good deed of the day.
Octavia Harmony is the Terminator raised by a roomba; he’s a war correspondent taking a picture of a pigeon, and accidentally capturing a bomb strike in the background.
Tay only smiles nervously, and he fiddles with his hands. There’s a subtle clumsiness to his movements, like he’s still getting used to his own height—but when he’s still, there’s markmanship in his posture. He talks in calm, collected fashion, pointing out the obvious, especially when you didn’t notice. He’s too polite to roll his eyes, even though I bet he often wants to. He’s chill, often aloof, but sweet all the while. Think ice, sprinkled with sugar.
“Right.” I’m pouring myself some coffee now, making sure not to get too much. I am an itty little bit addicted to caffeine, so I gotta watch out. “Okay, so yeah. You’re going to the Author Dinner, right?”
“Mmm.” Tay sees me fill roughly half my cup, and then move to the other coffee machine. “Uh. Um.”
“So we’ll sit with you until Swan calls me, and—”
“Aragón. Um. Aragón?” Tay points at my cup. “What are you doing.”
“Eh?” I look at him, then at his finger, then at my drink. “I’m pouring hot water in my coffee?”
“…Yes. But. Why?”
“To make an americano! American coffee? I don’t know how you guys call it.” I close the lid of my cup, since it’s now full, and I wink at Tay. “Y’know, like, espresso mixed with hot water? In Spain that’s an americano.”
“Right, but.” Tay looks at his cup, and then at mine, and then at the coffee machine he poured his drink from. “This coffee is already diluted in hot water.”
Pause.
“What?” I frown, and look at the label on said machine. “What are you talking about. This says coffee! It doesn’t specify anything else!”
“Yeah, uh.” Taylor fiddles with his coffee, clearly making an effort not to massage his temples. “We’re in America. All coffee here is americano. That’s why it’s called americano.”
“…Oh.” I swish the cup around in my hand. It burns. The water was very hot. “Why would you even have a machine with hot water then if you don’t—”
“In case you want tea.”
“—so you’re telling me what I got was—?”
“Very watery coffee.”
I take a sip of the drink. It tastes like hot water. I’m literally just drinking hot water. My tongue burns a little. “Am I going to have to pay full price for this?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.” I take another sip. “I mean, y’know. It’s not that bad, it’s got a subtle taste, but—”
“Do you want sugar to at least give it some flavor.”
“Please.”
Picture a candy shop; double it in size. Now double it again.
That’s where we are, right now.
I don’t know the name of the place, I wish I could—but it’s gigantic. Pristine white walls, covered floor-to-ceiling with shelves bursting with candy, toys, novelty products. There’s an entire corner dedicated to Pusheen, the Facebook Sticker cat; another is set-up for flavor-of-the-month candy, which right now translates into Netflix’ Stranger Things chocolate and memorabilia.
There are enough sweets here to drown an elephant; my childhood dream.
Or, it would be.
“Say.” I’m looking at the candy on the shelves, and elbowing Pear. “Is it me, or a lot of these things are testicle-themed?”
Pear starts reading labels. “Camel Balls, Extra Sour. Unicorn Balls, Sour and Fizzy. A Whole Bag Of Dicks (TM). Cock Rocks.” He squints. “Yeah, I’m starting to notice a pattern.”
I check a clinical-looking container full of yellow liquid. “Urine for a Treat: Liquid Sour Candy,” I read out loud. “Do you think they’d let me sneak this past TSA at the airport?”
“I really hope not.”
“Aragón!” Autumn Rush jumps into frame. She’s grinning ear to ear, tugging from the strap of my purse so I follow. “I need to show you something!”
“Oh?” I drop the bag of gummies I’m holding—BUILD THE WALL! Donald Trump’s Gummy Bricks (MADE IN CHINA)—and then follow Autumn Rush. “Sure. What is it?”
“You’ll see! I can’t wait for you to see it. Here it is!” Autumn Rush tugs from me even harder, and then makes me stand in front of a shelf. “Here!” she says, pointing. “Look!”
I look.
I don’t see it.
“What.”
“Over here! Come on.” Autumn Rush grabs a product and places it in my hand. “Look at it! Betcha you don’t have this in Spain.”
I look at it. “Autumn.”
“Yes?”
“This is a Kinder Bueno.”
Autumn Rush is crestfallen. “No, look. It’s a white chocolate Kinder Bueno!”
I look around. From where I’m standing I can see a box of Mary Jane Chocolate Joints and Dick in a Box, which is a box full of dick-shaped gummies that you’re supposed to eat, and when you’re done, you cut a hole in the side of the box and stick your dick in it.
I look back at Autumn Rush. “Autumn, is this really what you think is shocking me. The white chocolate Kinder—we have these in Spain!”
“What!” Autumn Rush is so taken aback she literally fucking steps away from me, hand against her mouth. “No way! For real?! Here I am, trying to blow your European mind, and you—”
“Autumn why would this blow my mind in the slightest.”
“It’s called Kinder Bueno! I thought you wouldn’t—actually, what do you call it in Spanish?”
I put the chocolate treat back on the shelf. “We call it the same. It’s actually funny you call it ‘bueno’ in English, to be honest.”
“Huh.” Autumn goes back to normal, though she’s still frowning. “Well. I thought you’d find it, I don’t know. Hilariously racist or something.”
“You think this is a racist chocolate treat?” I grin, and then go for my phone. “Hold on to that thought. You’ve ever heard of Conguitos?”
“…Can’t say I have.”
“Figured.” I start googling something real quick on my phone. “It’s a Spanish thing—they’re very good! Chocolate-covered peanuts.”
Autumn nods. “That sounds okay.”
“Yeah. Only the name translates to Little Congos.” I’ve finally found what I wanted to see, and so, with a dramatic flip, turn the phone around so Autumn can look at the screen. “And they look like this.”
Autumn looks.
Autumn does a second take.
“What the fuck.”
“Hey guys!” Swan Song enters, stage right, as I’m standing there, holding my phone like a Yu-Gi-Oh villain holds a trap card. “How’s it goi—Aragón what are you doing.”
“Showing racist caricatures to Autumn! Look.”
“Aragón why are you showing racist caricatures to Autumn.”
I put my phone back in my pocket. “It’s a long story! I come from a backwards country, and we don’t understand what’s racist yet.”
Swan Song arches an exquisite eyebrow. “Riiight.”
Swan Song is a kindergarten teacher for adults, the Ghost of Christmas Future, taking a chill pill. Maybe it’s the encyclopaedic levels of knowledge, maybe it’s the way the words twist upwards, not downwards, once Swan finishes a sentence—no way to be sure. Either way, you want to keep listening.
There’s little grace in Swan’s way of walking; it’s just a way to move around. Expression here lays in stillness: the way Swan’s eyes gaze around, the little twists of the mouth. Swan Song is the librarian explaining the monster in a shitty horror movie; interesting is the right term to describe it, charismatic is a close second. Little pauses, here and there, when looking for the perfect word—precision matters. Never robotic, candid at all times; people like Swan Song are the reason children believe learning is fun.
“Swan?” Pear comes by, holding a can of Bob Ross Positive Energy Drink. “Is this an adult candy shop or something? Cause it’s very, uh. I mean, have you seen that ad?”
Pear is pointing; we all look. On one of the walls there’s a giant picture of a woman wearing a schoolgirl’s uniform—only the skirt is very short, the socks are knee-high, the three upper buttons of the shirt are open to show some cleavage, and the woman is clearly in her late-twenties. She’s playing with her hair and giving the camera a sultry look, and on her hands there’s a tray of food full of candy.
You Know You Want It is the slogan that goes with the shop’s logo, above it all.
Pear squints. “It’s kind of very horny?”
Autumn is arching an eyebrow. “It is,” she says.
“I don’t think this is strictly for adults,” Swan confesses, shrugging. “It’s just a normal candy shop with some joke items here and there.”
“What’s with the genitalia stuff, then?” I ask. “Every other product is about penises.”
“Ah.” Swan looks at me. “That’s just Americans being crass.”
We split up so we can keep looking around. Pear goes for the novelty-product side of the shop, and as he gazes upon the bottles of hand sanitizer—“I Just Shat in the Woods” Hand Sanitizer and No Shit, Sherlock Hand Sanitizer are the two labels I can read from here—and I go back to the soft candy section.
Octavia Harmony is here; he came with us so he could take pictures of me browsing American candy. He’s looking at a Candy Taco. It’s a taco shell, but instead of literally anything else, it’s full of gummy worms. Great if you want to shit out your own lungs, I assume.
“Hey, Tay! Getting anything?”
“Oh?” Tay looks up at me, takes a snap picture of my face, and then goes back to browsing. “Not really, I’m just looking.”
“I was thinking on getting some gummy bears. I kinda feel like it.” I look around, frowning. “But I don’t think I should get these?”
Tay follows my gaze.
There are a lot of gummy bears on display, and they’re all alcohol-flavored. Mimosa, Cosmopolitan, Rum&Coke, the list goes on and on. They smell the part, too, if you get close enough to catch the scent. There’s actual alcohol in them.
“You think you can get drunk on these?” I ask, poking the mimosa ones with the little shovel they give you to get the candy in your bag. “Like you can just fill a shot glass with gummy bears, eat it, and get pissed?”
“I think you actually can.”
“The world is amazing sometimes.” I give up on the gummy bears. The gummy dinosaurs look strawberry-flavored only, though, so I just grab a handful of those. “What a wild place.” Then I pause for a moment. “…Tay? What time is it?”
“It’s…” Tay looks at his watch, and his eyes go wide. “Uh-oh. It’s five past six.”
“FUCK.”
Call me Charlie in a chocolate factory—all this childlike wonder fucked up my schedule. I dash to Pear, Swan, and the rest, yelling that we’re missing the Author Dinner. So Pear and I dash to the cashier, hands full of sweets, dodging kids and adults left and right. We gotta wait in line, and it’s short enough—though we still get to look at some more stuff. Scorpion Lollipops, which are lollipops with actual scorpions inside that you’re supposed to lick, and a bag of Crunchy Crickets, because I guess we eat bugs now.
It’s madness. It’s a blur. Pear and I don’t run, but we walk quickly, and we don’t know the place well enough to find the restaurant, named Tir Na Nog, without struggle. It’s a race against time, a madcap rush of sweat and blinding sunlight, cursing Google Maps as it refuses to load in time.
We’re hot, victorious, short of breath when we arrive. Everybody’s seated already, but we trust we can find someone—Pear gets a peek of Miller Minus inside Tir Na Nog, yells “HE’S OVER THERE!”, we believe we’ve found our table. We feel like strangers as we make way, this odd feeling of inadequacy you get when you get to the cinema late, and the movie’s already started. We belong, but do we belong?
Miller is seated, indeed. Pascoite and Dubs, with him. There are empty seats at the table, and Pear and I sit down, content.
“Hey, guys!” I’m slouching, trying to breathe. I’m from Barcelona, to me this is nothing, but fuck Baltimore sunlight anyway. Remember: I’m wearing a suit jacket at all times, this shit gets rough. “Sorry we’re late! We got in a bit of a pinch. You ordered yet?”
“We didn’t!” Dubs says, smiling wide, looking comfy. Dubs is such a cutie. “We were waiting for you.”
“Aaww.” I wink at him, nod at the rest so they know I know they’re there—and then I grab the menu, still panting a bit. “Alright! Let me just—ooh. Pear cider.”
Pear looks at me. “Yeah?”
“Ah. No, like.” I point at the menu. “Pear-flavored cider. Like, not you. The fruit.”
“Mmm. Shame.”
“I mean that’s what we have the Fuckhouse for.” I wiggle my eyebrows, and then back at the menu. “Okay but for real, I guess I’ll get a pear cider, and—ah.” My phone is buzzing. I take it out. “What is it now.”
It’s a message.
I read it.
I look around at the table. Dubs Rewatcher, Pascoite, Miller Minus, Pearple Prose, and me. Nobody else.
Blood leaves my face. “Oh fuck. OH FUCK.”
Pear frowns. “What. Why are you—”
“WE FORGOT TAY AT THE CANDY SHOP.”
“WHAT.”
Octavia Harmony is sitting with us, looking at me like a kid whose father forgot to pick up at the soccer match. Pear is kind of trying to stifle a giggle by my side. I’m hiding my face in my hands.
“I am so fucking sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay,” Tay says, smiling. “Can happen to anybody.” The ‘you dumbass’ is left unsaid, but Tay and I go a long way. He’s just too nice sometimes, is all. “Have you ordered yet?”
“Not yet, no.”
“We were waiting for you!” I say, coming out of my shell, giving him a smile. “Okay, so that was a hiccup, but at least we got here in time. All of us. We’re so good at this.”
Pear gives me a look. “You sure?”
“Positive. Listen.” Miller and Dubs are already giving me a wild look, and Pascoite is arching an eyebrow. We haven’t known each other for too long, but they already recognize the tone I’m using, and I feel they Do Not Like It. “Here’s the plan.”
Miller squints.
“Pear and I will get drinks only, right?” I point at Pear, at me, and at the menu, in quick succession. “Because we’ll have dinner somewhere else. Like, we’ll be here, we just won’t eat.”
Miller squints even harder. “Why.”
“See, it’s a funny story? I took care of everything, though. Turns out, Swan and I—f”
My phone buzzes.
I blink, frown, check what’s going on now. Another message.
I read it.
Blood leaves my face. “Uh-oh.”
Miller leans closer. “What,” he says. “What’s that. Why are you saying that.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE LEAVING ALREADY.”
Pear is laughing again. “Oh my God,” he says. “We’re so bad at this. We’re so fucking bad at this.”
“YOU GOT HERE FIVE MINUTES AGO.”
“OKAY. LOOK.” I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I sorta press the phone against my chest. “I SWEAR THIS IS NOT MY FAULT.”
Miller is fuming. Dubs is losing his shit. Pascoite is completely lost.
Octavia Harmony is just drinking his drink. It’s pretty good, he says. He was thirsty and all.
So the message was, obviously, Swan’s. We got to Tir Na Nog approximately five minutes ago, Octavia Harmony arrived, and immediately we got told the Cheesecake Factory had less people than expected, and our table is ready now. We have to leave now.
All that careful planning goes to shit; we can’t stay here more than thirty extra seconds, or we’ll lose the table—and remember, we’re not alone in this. Autumn Rush, Swan Song, and company are there too, so we can’t have them waiting. In spite of all my efforts, we’re one hundred percent missing the Author Dinner, even though both Pear and I RSVP’d the fuck out of it.
“We are so bad at this,” Pear is still saying.
“We—okay! Y’know, it’s like.” I’m smiling at the table, nervously trying to finish my drink as soon as possible. “It’s a bit like a sitcom plot? I accidentally booked two appointments at the same time.”
“Yes.” Miller is sitting with his back straight. “It is literally the shittiest sitcom plot in existence.”
“And now we’re living it! It’s so on-brand.” I finish my drink in two big gulps, and then let the air out of my lungs. “Okay, maybe we can come back here before the Author Dinner is over. That sounds like a possibility, right?”
Pear nods, finishing his drink too—and then he looks at the bottle. “We gotta pay for our drinks, though.”
“Oh, fuck.” The waiter took the menu with them when we ordered. “Shit, I don’t remember how much it was for mine. Guys, do you remember—?”
Octavia Harmony smiles at us. “I’ll pay for your share, don’t worry.”
“What?” I’m genuinely touched. I look at Tay with awe in my eyes. “Really?”
“Sure. Now go, you’re going to be late.”
Pear nods, and gets up. I follow suit—I’d love to stay here and argue a bit more, but we are going to be late; Swan was pretty fucking clear about it. “Okay, but we’ll pay you later, so keep tabs on how much we owe you.” Pause. “And this time I mean it.”
Tay shakes his head, and does a ‘shoo-shoo’ gesture so we leave already. So we get up, and pick up our things, and apologize profusely—and then, indeed, we leave.
“God,” I say as we’re running down the stairs of Tir Na Nog, again under the blazing sun, eyes hurting, breath short. “We don’t deserve Tay.”
“Especially you.”
“Especially me.”
We’re finally at the Cheesecake Factory. It’s a very curious place.
Everything is golden, and dark. It feels like there are windows lacking—the owners of this restaurant tried to aim for cozy and accidentally stumbled on claustrophobic instead. The wall decorations are kitsch, weirdly Egyptian-themed. Service is quick, you have to wait in line so they assign you a table, you gotta make a reservation—these are all staples of middle-to-high-end restaurants.
And yet? The Cheesecake Factory still has the vibe of a fast-food place.
“…So.” I’m the one talking, gifting the people around them with a story from faraway Spain, like a bard of old. “I’ve got this friend, right? We were classmates during college, he’s a great guy. And he got a new girlfriend recently, and talked to her about me. Which, like. First mistake.”
The present people are, in order from left to right: Pearple Prose, Swan Song, Autumn Rush, Fourths, Scampy—two women I haven’t talked to much up till now, but they’re nice—and Appletank, Fuckhouse alumni. They’re all listening, enraptured by my sing-song voice.
“Right,” Autumn says, signaling me to continue. “And?”
“And this woman, let’s call her Sarah, she went oh he sounds so nice, oh we should meet. Oh, wait does Aragón have a girlfriend? Or boyfriend? This is Barcelona, we don’t judge. If he has one, they should both come!” I shrug. “She wanted a double date or some shit—and my friend, well.” I tap my drink—my ring makes a clink! sound against the glass—and go on. “My friend said no, no. Aragón is not into this whole thing.”
Pear blinks. He might have heard this one before. “Oh dear.”
“Yeah, like. That tickles Sarah’s curiosity. Like, what do you mean, he’s not into this whole thing? What does that even mean?” I smirk. “And my friend, in a futile effort to explain the eldritch beast that is Aragón’s sexuality in human language, he goes uuuh. Aragón is… Fuck it. He’s asexual. Not entirely accurate, but hey, better than nothing.” I nod to myself. “Second mistake.”
Autumn and Swan are listening intently now; Appletank is squinting, trying to guess where this is going.
“Cause that only makes Sarah more curious, right? Like oh my gosh, an asexual? Like she’s aware of what it is, but she has never met someone like that, and she keeps wondering how it works.” I shrug. “But my friends drops the subject, and she marinates on that for a while, she keeps wondering, she has so many questions. Cue her graduation party, and both my friend and I are invited. And she’s like oh shit, here’s my chance.”
“Oh God.”
“Yeah!” I’m grinning here, leaning over the table, eyes wide open. “So you need to understand, graduation party, right. She’s beyond drunk, she’s drank half the fucking bar, more whiskey than person at this point. And she sees me for the very first time in her life, right, first time we’ve met. She’s so curious, and so fucking drunk. So she rans to me, grabs the neck of my shirt, gets right on my ear.” I take a deep breath. “And yells, top of her lungs: ‘HEY. WHAT DO YOU MASTURBATE TO.’”
Appletank and Pear laugh, Autumn Rush covers her mouth with her hands and whispers “oh noooo”. Fourths and Scampy seem to choke.
And Swan Song’s eyes are wide open. “Uh, Aragón, can you not yell that kind of—”
“First thing she ever says to me!” I’m still going. “That’s how she said hi.” I scream again. “WHAT DO YOU MASTURBATE TO. Charming girl. Wouldn’t stop till I answered, and then she went ‘oh by the way I’m Sarah’. What a catch.”
“Aragón seriously lower your voic—”
“Hiii.” We’re both interrupted; there’s a middle-aged woman smiling at us, holding a notebook in her hands. “May I take your order, please?”
“Oh shit, sure.” I look at the menu—I was so enamored with my own tale I forgot to check what I wanted to eat. Everybody else orders first, to give me time, and I race through the items, to see what I want. “American food is kind of heavy, so I’ll get something light, a salad or something, a…”
I trail off. I’ve seen something interesting in the menu. Riddled with morbid curiosity, I lean to my right. “Appletank?”
And he looks at me. “Hm?”
Appletank suffers a chronic case of “didn’t spend enough time with Aragón”—it’s scary, sometimes, to distill people in two or three paragraphs; you’re afraid of offending, of getting everything wrong. But one has to remember: I can’t tell you how these people are. I can only say how they felt.
So Appletank, to me, feels like the perfect tourist. Baseball cap on his head, backpack on his back, he’s the man who stops on the road to help when you’ve got a flat tire, he’s the doctor who buys candy for when little children cry, and the guy getting a selfie with the captain of the holiday cruise.
He’s got a bright smile on his face, and walks like he’s got somewhere else to be. His shoulders are relaxed, his gestures border on lazy, but he’s the first one up with the sun, and the last one to come home at night. Appletank can join any crowd, he knows everybody, he likes everyone. His gaze never wanders, his feet move constantly, and he’s not a good listener—he’s just the perfect audience. He laughs when he has to, gasps when it’s needed, and makes you feel like you’re not a boring fuck. Appletank is a therapy cat in human form; you can’t help but feel relaxed.
So I lean towards him, and I point at an item on the menu. “Check this,” I say.
Appletank grabs the menu, and reads it. “Macaroni and Cheese Burger. Charbroiled and topped with our creamy fried macaroni and cheese balls and cheddar cheese sauce.” He looks at me. “Dude.”
“You think I should get this?” I ask, grin on my face. The next item on the menu, you understand, is the Bacon-Bacon Burger, so it’s not like Mac’n Cheese is out of character for this place either way, but still. “I think I should get this.”
“You’re going to die.”
“I know.” I look at the waitress—it’s my turn to order—and smile. “I’ll get a Macaroni and Cheese Burger!”
“Ooookay.” The woman writes that down, then looks at me again. “You want bacon with that, honey?”
“Fuck it. Yes.”
“Theeere we go.”
Let me describe a Macaroni and Cheese Burger.
Mac’n cheese is carbonara without charm of flavor, it’s the food you’d eat at a gas station. As a meal, its only purpose is to keep you chewing—no flavor to distract you, no nutritional value to make you feel you’ve had enough. It’s the culinary equivalent of missionary sex with a doll, it’s how you tell your own body you’ve given up for good.
If you take a blob of this monstrosity, deep-fry it, and add it to the kind of burger you’d only eat as a dare, the result is beyond the mortal realm. The Macaroni and Cheese Burger is divine punishment in the shape of saturated fats. You bit it and the shitty cheddar explodes in your mouth like you were sucking on a hose, the macaroni is bubblegum chewy, the bread gets clogged and makes it hard to swallow.
All the flavors get mixed together, and it all registers as white noise, as grey gooey bland banality. It tastes like drinking warm water. You don’t feel full once you’re done. You just fucking hate yourself.
I get the sliced tomato they gave me—the burger comes with a salad—and stuff it between the deep-fried ball of mac’n cheese and the meat, see if I can at least register something. “This is the worst fucking thing I’ve ever eaten,” I said. I’m one bit in and I’m already sweaty. “Jesus Christ.”
Pear looks at me. “You okay?”
“No.”
Everybody else got normal food, but I’m dead-set. I take the bacon out and keep eating, stuffing my mouth with salad between bites so I don’t die on the spot. Less than one quarter of the burger down, I feel like giving up—I stop eating, give myself a breather.
Pear is talking. “…Yeah, so we bought some posters at Vendor Hall earlier this morning, found a great artist I’d never heard of. Right, Aragón?”
I blink. “Oh? Oh, yeah, I got a Pinkie Pie print, it’s pretty cool.” I smile at the memory. “The artist was really nice, too. She complimented the cover of my book.”
“Yeah?” Fourths cocks her head to the side. “Your cover?”
“Yeah! I drew it myself.” I go for Pear’s backpack and get the copy of my book we’re carrying. “Here, see?”
“Have you seen the back cover?” Pear says, smirking. “It’s great.”
“Oh, yeah. Look.” I grab the book and turn it around so Fourths can look at the back cover. It’s pretty fucking great. “I don’t like to talk about it, but my book sold out? So this is one of the last copies.”
“Huuh.”
And Scampy, who hasn’t been paying attention up till now, looks up at the book I’m holding—and her eyes sparkle. “Oh!” she says, doing the grabby hands so I give it to her. “Oh my God! Let me soul read the guy in that picture!”
As soon as she says that, you can see Lucifer in my smile.
Fourths and Scampy are girlfriends; salt and pepper shakers in human form. We don’t hang out much, I can’t talk a lot about them—but Scampy, right now, is eager, and I’m a huge asshole.
So I give her the book. “Yeah?”
“Yeah! Look.” She touches the picture, a chuckle on the back of her throat. “This guy’s favorite band is Evanescence. He reads his own poetry at parties.” She thinks a little before she goes on. “He has really strong opinions on how to properly brew tea, and for some reason doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
Pear is staring at her like an owl. Appletank is stifling laughter, and I’m watching with the perfect gentleman smile. “I don’t particularly like Evanescence, but I have to say, the rest is spot-on.”
Scampy blinks, look at me. “What?”
“That’s my book.” I make a ‘turn around’ gesture with my finger, and then hold my badge up. “See?”
Scampy blinks again, and looks at the front cover of the book. It reads The Essential Aragón.
Then she looks at my badge.
She covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh my God I’m so sorry I didn’t reali—”
The guffaws of the people around me—and Fourths, to a degree—cover up the rest of her apology. It’s a fine dinner, I decide then, burger aside. It was a good idea to come here. I’m in good company.
I can’t finish that monstrosity. I have to ask the staff to pack the rest of my burger so I can carry it home, in case I want to show it to people or something. I don’t like wasting food, I’ll probably end up eating it—but it might take me a week and a half, at this rate. They give me a fancy plastic box to store the burger, and a yellow plastic bag with the words ‘THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY’ plastered in red print.
Good enough. We get out of the place, say our good-byes, and it’s time to run again.
We know where Tir Na Nog is, at least, so it’s not that hard. The sun’s gone down slightly, it doesn’t hurt our eyes, and if it weren’t for the amount of shitty cheese in my stomach, the little race wouldn’t have affected me in the slightest.
“Made it!” We get to Tir Na Nog, and it’s clearly still full to the brim with Fimfic writers. We ate fast, and the Author Dinner is not done yet. “I can’t believe we made it!”
“Whoa.” Pear is looking around, impressed. “We were fast.”
“Yeah! We can probably still get some desserts with Miller.” I turn around on my heels to shoot some fingerguns at Pear. “Told you, dude. We’re so good at this. We’re so fucking good at—”
“Aragón what the fuck are you doing over here.”
I freeze.
Behind me stands the man who organized the Author Dinner in its entirety. The man who made made the reservations, who wrote the list, who told the people. The man who personally invited me and added my name to the list twice, to make sure I would attend.
Wanderer D. The rogue knight of Fimfiction.
Staring at me. “Where are you coming from.”
I blink. “Uh.”
D sees the bag on my hand. THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY, in red print. “What the fuck is that.”
I raise both hands in front of me. “LOOK,” I say. “I CAN EXPLAIN.”
Behind me, Pearple Prose pinches the space between his eyes. “We’re so fucking bad at this,” he says.
Back at Vendor Hall.
“Okay, so that’s the rapey Trixie, Big Dick Spike, then the Celestia fuckpillow… Ah!” I point. “And that’s the big butt cheesecake Star Wars anthro Fluttershy! So the bookstore’s over there.”
I’m starting to know my way around.
Pearple Prose is with me—he wants to buy a bag of some sort, and I’ve been looking for a Startrix print that I swear disappeared at some point of Day Two. I’m still pointing and loudly describing every piece of softcore pornography I see, some things never change, but by now we’re both pretty much familiar with all of it. Little can surprise us.
Doesn’t mean we don’t talk about it, though.
“That last one is the most impressive one to me,” I say as I look at Pear. “Like, it’s so specific?”
Pear looks at it. The piece in particular is—well, it’s an entire stand, really. Anthro ponies, but they all have curves so pronounced they border on caricatures, and they’re dressed like Star Wars characters. They have Star Wars quotes on them, too. “Huh.”
“Like, look at that. ‘Do it or don’t, there is no try’, and it’s a big-assed Sith Fluttershy,” I say. “There’s like, a venn diagram of fetishes with ‘Star Wars’ on one circle, ‘Yoda Quotes’ on the second, and ‘Fluttershy’s big anthro ass’ on the third. And the dude lives in the center intersection of those three?”
“He’s going to have the best day of his life when he finds this stand.”
“You fucking name it.”
“Aragón!”
History repeats itself. I’m not carrying the Cheesecake Factory bag anymore, but the same voice comes from behind—and Wanderer D appears, once more, and comes to us. This time, though, he’s not annoyed—he’s smiling.
So I smile back, and high-five him, and then pat his back. “Hey, D!”
Wanderer D is el Zorro with a crown, he’s a cat herding lions. He’s the man who makes a dark joke before launching a rocket to space, the figure on top of a lighthouse, yelling orders on the mic during a storm.
Wanderer D has big intense eyes that seem to never blink, and hands that were made to point and give orders. He talks with a cadence, a hint of spice in his accent, and when he smiles, you expect him to have fangs. Wanderer D is made of red hot blood and fire, passion in every movement. He’s tall, has a strong grip, and if he starred in a telenovela, he’d fucking kill it as the bad guy.
So I pat his back, and go “How’s it going?” And he doesn’t waste a moment.
“Hey.” He runs an arm over my shoulder, and he hushes, secret-like, sparks in his eyes. “Half an hour, Hall of the Stars. I’ve got a panel, and you’re coming.”
“Uh.”
“I’ll see you there.” He lets me go, nods at Pear—Pear nods back—and then walks away, pointing at me one last time. “Don’t miss it! I’ll see you there!”
I raise both my hands, and then give him a nod. “You got it!”
“I better!” D gives me a last wink, and then walks away, turning a corner, losing himself in the crowd.
Pear then looks at me. “What just happened?”
“I think we’re going to a panel now.”
“Right. What’s it about?”
“No fucking clue. Let’s find out.”
A sculptor, a singer, a writer, and two voice actresses walk into a room. Pear, R5h, Horse Voice, Nyronus, and me are sitting in the audience.
“Is that Cyril the Wolf?” I ask, leaning closer to R5h. “Is that Cyril the fucking Wolf? The singer?”
R5h shrugs. “Looks like.”
“D knows Cyril the fucking Wolf?”
“I’m here for Scribbler!” Horse Voice says.
“Yeah, that too. D knows ObabScribbler?”
Apparently, yeah, to both of those questions. What the fuck, D knows pretty much everybody in this fandom, turns out.
The panel itself has an interesting concept—it’s about artistry, if we want to distill its contest to the very core; What Artists Have In Common, if we want to be more accurate. Here we have five people who dabble in four different sides of the fandom, talking about how they approach their skills, how it is to create art based on an existing franchise, how it is to have an audience.
At first they’re a bit awkward, some of them might be a bit shy—but D knows how to get the ball rolling. The panel is structured like a round table, it’s a casual affair, not something they’ve prepared extensively, and soon enough they loosen up. They talk about commissions, and what a wild world it is; they talk about the effort it takes to create a good product, and how you need to live with your own failures.
They talk frustration and talent, failures and pride, and all the little things in between.
Then something interesting happens.
Wanderer D mentions that, well—musicians, voice actors, sculptors, those have a wide audience. We’re writers, right? Our craft has the lowest barrier of entry, so even though it is absolutely a craft, it’s easy to see it as the bottom of the barrel, as the most basic kind of—
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Everybody else on the table disagrees.
They explain, look, writing is at the core of what we do. You can’t act without a script. You can’t sculpt original characters if you don’t have a source. You need lyrics for a song. Writing is at the core of most things, it’s the most basic, direct form of creativity—and not everybody can do it.
Writers, they say, matter. Even if sometimes it feels like we’re the least important members of the community.
That gets me thinking.
I wasn’t kidding when I talked to Monochromatic earlier. The feeling of inadequacy is universal, and no matter who you talk to, no matter how successful they are, there’s always that little doubt on the back of everybody’s mind. It’s easy to be humble, to bring yourself down. Oh, you know, it’s not that much. If I could do it, anyone can. Oh, shut up, I’m not that good, I’m just kinda shitty. Hahah. Such a terrible writer.
And, y’know, that can get poisonous. I dig self-deprecation, God knows I do—it’s an easy way to make jokes, because the person you used as a punchline will never get offended. But, if you repeat a joke often enough, you’ll start to think it’s true.
You’ll start to believe it.
Pride fits us better. If you don’t talk about your own achievements, nobody else will. Impostor syndrome is poison; you have to fight against it, you need to be a rockstar. You have to kick in the door, and say, hi. I’m the funniest, smartest, most charismatic person in the room, and you all love me for it.
Writers matter, the people at the panel tell D; and I agree. We all matter. We’re all rockstars.
Because, yeah, of course I often feel like my writing doesn’t matter, that my prose is garbage. Of course I think I can be annoying, or unfunny, or that people might hate me if I don’t shut up. Of course I think I’m not good enough. Of course I believe one day they’ll see I’m a fraud and everything will crumble.
And still, y’know what? When I go that way, I tell myself, look, man. I don’t like to talk about it?
But my book sold out.
LOL BLACKBERRY CIDER OMG. GET IT. BLACKBERRIES. RASPBERRY BLOG. LOL.
There, I said it myself. Now you can make an actual comment.
Anyway! I played with the timeline a LOT in this one -- mainly, me grabbing a beer with Horizon happened on day 2, not day 3. But, it didn't fit in the last blog, it was too long--and it works in here cause of flow reasons? So, fuck it, here it goes. For the sake of transparency, I'm just gonna tell ya.
(Also some conversations have been fused together for the sake of cohesiveness, but eeeh, that's not as big a change).
Next time: FanOfMostEverything, Flutterpriest, Anonpencil, Forbloodysummer, Soge, Nyronus, etc etc. Hopefully everybody else. It'll be a big hodgepodge of scenes from all four days, fuck timelines at this point.
You forgot the part where you masturbated uncontrollably to Trick Question for three hours before falling asleep in a state of ecstatic bliss.
Er, not necessarily to my body or personality or anything. Or not even my stories. Maybe it was the idea of murdering me, even. I'll take whatever I can get.
[something witty]
Just call me RBDaddy47.
I envy people with working memories. Most of what I remember of that day is holding the iPad up to record the There Can Only Be One panel and groaning in pain afterward.
Legend says that I'm still sat at that restaurant, still squinting and shaking my head at the space where Aragon and Pear used to sit. My fingers drum at the table. The slice of chocolate cake I ordered for the three of us to share sits stale on the table, untouched by fork or mouth. It grows cold in the coming Baltimore autumn, as do I, still waiting, still squinting.
"It's time to go, Miller," Pascoite and Dubs say in unison, but they are skeletons now, their voices mere memories of a convention I may or may not have attended. Their voices remind me of you.
"They're coming back," I tell Skeledubs and Pascobones. "They're coming the fuck back." My voice is cracking, as is my soul.
That's just a dumb legend, tho. Lol! Nice blog post, Ara!
I'm happy I could help you sell out three times. My stash of Aragon books was the third time I believe.
I wonder how much longer these blogs would end up being if you were better at noticing things.
I wonder how many killer stories happened inside your blind spot.
The world may never know.
I'm reminded of the "Strawberry Surprise" I found out about via TvTropes, a mixed drink containing pepper spray. The "surprise" is that it tastes nothing like strawberries and everything like pain.
"Nah, it'd be easier if we fucked each other." (Hey, it's one of those obligatory jokes)
Niceness done in an assholish way? That sounds like basically the opposite of what I'm doing half the time. (The other half is straight praise and/or jokes)
Hell, even if you aren't blind, you still have to take more than a passing glance to tell them apart because the color's always the same; you have to rely on actually finding the relatively small numbers or being able to tell the various dead white guys apart. (I like to say that Canada is the US with the stupider bits removed, which is why the few American tourists who can qualify as "savvy" by any other country's standards pretend to be Canadian)
Oh yeah, classic headology. Most people have to be tricked into acting in their own best interest.
Cool beans. I'm also someone who makes a lot of sex jokes but isn't interested in actually having sex.
Or do they know me? #humility
Seriously though, it's good to see someone enjoyed it :P
The greatest duet in fimfiction history.
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I kidnapped Pear at least three times while Aragon was signing books. I'm pretty sure he still hasn't read the ransom notes I left him.
I can't see Georg in a biker bar, but I can definitely see him calling someone "Champ."
Estee was somewhere in the audience during the RCL panel, and the fact that I had no idea of that may haunt me for years.
I'm flattered by association, but I've seen the recording. I know my brain and mouth operate at different frequencies, and the destructive inteference either results in mile-a-minute spiels or stuttering like a dying car.
The apocryphal origin for the term is that American GIs in World War II would dilute espresso to approximate coffee as they knew it.
Oh. That's why half the people showed up late or vanished early at the Authors' Dinner. A shame you missed the guy walking down the Waterfront while wearing a Limestone Pie daki cover as a cape.
I'm going to attempt to explain the American fascination with macaroni and cheese, at least as it currently stands for my generation: See, there is a particular brand of a near-instant version of the stuff, Kraft Mac & Cheese, that is so iconic in this country that the narrow sides of the box are just blue and a single upturned noodle, like an insouciant smirk at the consumer who willingly puts this vaguely foodlike substance in their body. Or the bodies of their children.
Because this substance, which consists of dry pasta and a packet of dehydrated dairy derivatives meant to be added to water (or milk if you want it "extra-creamy") is considered a classic childhood staple by many, including my own dear sister, who I assure you has many redeeming qualities in spite of that. I personally thought the stuff tasted like wire insulation in warm mucus for as far back as I can remember, but many look back on it with fondness and nostalgia, and thus willingly endure it in other forms. Though the Cheesecake Factory goes above and beyond in terms of "This is why we have an obesity epidemic, you guys."
Mind you, mac & cheese can be good, but that involves actual cheese. And lobster. Or barbeque sauce at minimum.
Also, that soul reading was amazing, as was the ode to writers. Looking forward to the weekend-spanning finale.
I wanted to blockade the RCL panel, but then people I had never met behind me in the line started talking about how excited they were to attend and how they were looking forward to voting for Mono's fics. And Mono kept getting mobbed by fans along the way to the panel.
At some point, I realized that I should probably be blocking fans of TEL from entering instead, just to give everyone else a fighting chance.
God that panel was a rush, though, and such a wonderful celebration of all the wonderful things that fimfic has created over the years. Damn shame that Evil is Easy got knocked out in the first round, but there's no shame in losing to Best Night Ever (I voted for you, for the record).
But are you going to trotcon?
Dammit, Aragon, even your typos make the prose sound sexier
...Also I kind of feel I should say something in defence of Evanescence?
Don't feel bad about the time spent per blog, because you are extending the Final Bronycon experience into perpetuity. :D
Also trying to kill me with laughter, it would seem. XD
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Bring it, downvotes! You only make me cry my eyes out harder.
I'm really going to have the read the Enchanted Library at some point, aren't I? Before somepony comes along and revokes my fandom license or something...
That candy store was an iteration of the "It'Sugar" franchise. We have one in my home city. They're utterly ridiculous.
Not gonna lie, over half the attraction of these is your descriptions of fellow authors.
I now work full-time remote, so I can no longer offer entertaining anecdotes about how my sudden outburst of laughter at my desk led to an awkward conversation with my boss.
Sweet stars I feel so seen
I am loving these blog posts, how did I not know you before? (oh yeah, because I was off fandom for years)
Your descriptions, man, they're fucking amazing, legit inspiring (and I'm sharing them with non-pony friends because they're so good).
Also you're ace? Nice, nice. (it's cool seeing others out there)
But that ending... I felt that. I'm part of a small fandom zine and it does feel like the writers are less important, although I also know artists who are jealous of writers. More to the point, what you said about self-deprecation, it's really true. We've all got a bit of imposter syndrome in us, and it can be crushing. It's ok to be happy with what we create and what we achieve.
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Nah, I ain't asexual, that's just how my friend chose to explain that the only person I'd deem beautiful enough to waste my time in a romantic relationship would be myself, with slightly longer hair. "Asexual" rolls off the tongue better than "mixture of stupid and mild sociopath", I suppose, but I actually don't identify with that label. I don't like labels period, but like, honestly, who gives a shit. I'm whatever makes the funniest joke.
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Yeah, "nostalgia food" was a descriptor I originally wrote in my mac'n cheese rant that I ultimately deleted cause it wasn't working. 'Comfort food' is another set of words I've heard a bunch of times since the blog went live regarding it, and I sorta get it, but it genuinely felt like the kinda thing you shove into a kid's mouth so they will shut the fuck up when they dislike their veggies, it's 11pm, and you've been up since 5am.
I don't regret buying that burger though. I didn't buy food, I bought an experience.
(Also, you were really good at speaking in public! You had high energy and got the crowd invested, that's the most important thing when doing public speeches.)
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A woman once passed out in front of me while I was waiting in line to pay at a bookstore, dramatically faling to the ground and everything. A crowd gathered, they called an ambulance, paramedics came into the store to carry the woman out, and I absolutely failed to notice any of it since I was not paying attention. I only realized once I got out and saw that the doors to the bookstore were open all the way, instead of only halfway open, which is how I remembered them.
So I looked at my sister, who was with me, and said 'what's up with that?' And that's when she pointed at the paramedics and went "dude", to which I went "wait, what are you pointing aWHAT THE SHIT. SINCE WHEN."
So like. Some people might think this is a joke. It isn't. I've been told Pear doesn't "appear out of nowhere"; it's just that I fucking fail to notice him in time every time.
Anyway, as always, fucking wild that the descriptions are what people dig the most -- wasn't that long ago that I counted 'describing people' as one of my absolute weak points when writing, to the point where I avoided it entirely. In fact, this whole thing about using comparisons and abstract imagery to explain people comes from the fact that I just genuinely have a hard time remembering people's faces or how they look, and instead I sorta just go 'ah yeh they're the ones that feel like X'.
Turns out that's all you need when writing something like this! How the tables turn.
I want a John Wick story where he's mellow and running a bar or something, and people come in to talk about their problems and when he hears about, like, an abusive partner or something he goes and "fixes" the problem.
Another movie that desperately needs to be made.
Is that not what normal coffee is?
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And Shrimp! I had some at Bubba Grump and it was great!
Was the recording posted anywhere? Id' like to see it.
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So you're a literal narcissist. That's cool, you do you.
You're so lucky you live on the other side of an ocean. You've made a mortal enemy this day, Aragon. Mark my words...
(Mac and cheese is an *excellent* food and mac and cheese burgers are but one of several ways to take the cheeseburger to its natural ultimate conclusion, and they're *excellent.* N-not my problem if you can't understand American food... B-baka...)
Super excited for the epic conclusion!
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Can't wait!
Dang I didn't think I had to buy your book but seeing the back! Has to be done.
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Totally valid about the labels, more power to you, my man.
Also I clicked on that book cover... ok, I see what you mean. You're unnecessarily attractive.
Good luck finding your clone with longer hair.
(and speaking of romance, I just found your romance blog series... good shit)
Besides being massively entertained by your writing style and the various things that happen to and around you, my primary reaction to this blog is that I must give you a proper macaroni and cheese recipe.
One with proper cheese, and fancy noodles and all. But I'm not sure if that would actually be helpful.
It is a recipe I made (mostly) correctly on the first try, the only problem being timing issues related to cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen.