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Abstract

ing’s plans as we looked for parking.Outside the theater, she produced two badges. My silver badge got me a seat anywhere in rows 11 through 20 of the theater where James would be performing; a professional photograph of me with James; dinner with the man himself. Poppy’s gold badge got her a seat anywhere in rows 1 through 10, a professional photograph with James, and dinner with the man himself.Inside we found the auditorium reserved for the concert right away. At the door, a line about fifty women deep had already formed, a line of women who shifted and narrowed their eyes as the two of us made our way to the back of the line. Poppy decided to sit with me and the other losers in the silver section because the ladies in the gold section were, frankly, kind of intense.By which I mean, they seemed like they were assholes.And I feel bad for saying that because I was taught to respect my elders. But it’s hard to gin up respect for strangers who regard you with suspicion. Who clock your credentials as soon as you walk in the door, and grip the handles of their Buffy The Vampire Slayer tote bags a bit tighter, should you dare to sit too close to them.The sound from the silver seats were fine, as was the view. There sat Spike, alone on a barstool in a tight black t-shirt and strategically faded jeans, while he strummed a guitar and sang acoustic versions of the terrible songs Poppy and I had listened to in the car. The actual concert was mercifully short, which left plenty of time for questions from the audience.I don’t remember what people asked, but it’s fair to guess 90% of those questions were about Buffy. He answered a question about his personal life, bashfully proud about being a newlywed. This elicited a chorus of fake aw’s from his admirers who, once the show was over and we were shuffling to the dining room for dinner, gossiped that his wife was less than half his age.Servers wearing wrinkled white button down shirts and black polyester pants, walking silently in their non-skid shoes, started setting the tables with salads. Tables were set with pitchers of cold soda that left rings of condensation when picked up. There were separate sections for gold badge holders and silver badge holders, with a space in between for photographs. I sat down at a silver table and got a good look around the room.Over in the gold section, Poppy was trying to make conversation with the super fans. These super fans were known as “the mafia”, and they knew everything there was to know about James. They went to all of his appearances at cons, bought his band’s music, and showed up for events such as this. They were also considered to be the party capable of judging who in his fandom were the true fans and who were not. I watched these women as they ignored Poppy’s overtures, her warm smiles and compliments on their homemade Spike accessories. “I can’t believe you crocheted that Spike doll all by yourself!”Things were not much better in silver. The silver table was populated by women who had been beaten in the purchase of gold tickets, and could only glare across the room while they stabbed at their salads with their forks. I managed to befriend a nice red headed lady named

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Kerry, who rattled off the list of cons she had attended just to see him. When Poppy spotted the two of us chatting away, she joined us for diet cokes and a nice chat.See, this is what I had been waiting for. The opportunity to sit down with a bunch of like-minded geeks about our mutual love for a performer’s body of work. To learn about new projects, or discuss the merits of old ones. Though we all confessed to finding him attractive, there was no danger of straying into uncomfortable territory like wondering aloud what it might be like to sleep with him.Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman holding a business sized envelope. She appeared to be there with a friend, a friend she ignored as she focused her energy on gripping that envelope and its contents.Ten sheets of letter sized paper folded into precise thirds. Every few minutes she’d take the sheaf out, read it to herself, then stuff it back in. I never got to talk to her or even hear her speak, but I recognized and identified her as someone in the depths of an intense emotional, erotic attachment.She never moved. Not until James appeared in the dining room. And then she watched him. We all did. He was the reason we were all there. The reason why there is a professional eight by ten glossy photograph of me standing awkwardly by his side. The reason why all of these women spent many many dollars each for the opportunity to eat crummy Italian food and listen to acoustic alternative rock music. It was Spike’s birthday, and what better way to celebrate it than spending it in a room of women who would gladly stake every last one of their competitors in the gold and silver sections to make out with him.James turned up at our table for the obligatory ten minute period. He was charming and gracious, answering questions he had no doubt answered many times before.Poppy surprised him, and pleasantly so, when she asked about his audio book work. I knew she’d be prepared. She, like me, attended the University of Chicago, and we Maroons don’t fuck around when it comes to doing our homework.The girl with the envelope got her chance, wordlessly tapping James on the shoulder before sliding the envelope across the table to him. “Is this a letter?” He examined it. “Shall I…?” She shook her head, he nodded and then tucked it away.James moved onto the next table, and the girl unclenched her entire body. A look of shock on her face, and I felt excited for her. She got what she wanted. She did it. I don’t know if she enjoyed it. I only knew that for her, the best part of the night was over. I wish I could have talked to her, and told her what I told myself earlier in the evening when I went to get my picture taken.I never loved Spike like Poppy did. Still, though, it’s exciting when a handsome person who happens to be famous puts his arm around you, leans in, and smiles. For a moment, before the flash goes off, and another woman with a badge shoves you out of the way because your time with him is over, and now it’s her turn.This is the nice part, I would have told her. This is the part where you can pretend you are alone, just the two of you and all you have to do is breathe.</article></body>

The Beguiled

The theme of the September 2017 show of Miss Spoken was “Freaks and Geeks”. I wrote about the time I “met” Spike from Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

The concert was scheduled to begin at seven. Tickets cost $25, and could be purchased in advance or at the door. I, however, did not have to pay for anything.

Not for the concert, or for the meet-and-greet afterwards. I paid zero dollars for the all-you-can-eat Italian buffet with unlimited coffee, tea, and soda that followed the meet-and-greet. Nobody asked me to kick in a few bucks for dessert.

Which is a shame because if I had known about it, I would have been more than happy to help pay for a gigantic sheetcake, overlaid with an edible collage of pictures of James Marsters, who you might know as the dude who played Spike on Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

James and I “met” through my friend Poppy, a woman I got to know in the 1990s when we discovered we disliked the same people in a Usenet group we both belonged to. We had in common a love of fancy lipsticks, designer handbags, and Buffy The Vampire Slayer. While my fandom of Buffy may have waned over the years, Poppy’s was steadfast and true.

She had watched the series in its entirety multiple times, bought toys and games, and watched the film and tv projects of the actors on the show. But she had a crush on Spike. She loved Spike. Enough that she was willing to shell out a not insignificant amount of money for the opportunity to celebrate James Marsters’s fiftieth birthday with him at the Muvico Theater in Rosemont.

I know I said a ticket cost $25, but that was just for the concert. The meet-and-greet, complete with the all-you-can-eat Italian buffet including unlimited soda, tea, and coffee, cost more. A lot more. So much more that, when her friend chickened out and Poppy offered to take me in her place, I hesitated. I wondered if Poppy might let me pay her in installments. Because this evening was going to cost a lot more than a Buffy The Vampire Slayer board game on eBay. But Poppy was having none of it. The evening was her treat.

She picked me up one Friday evening in August, waiting in the kiss-n-ride lot of the Rosemont blue line el stop. I got into her green Prius to discover that she was listening to James’s band, Ghost in The Robot, on the car stereo.

I tried, I really tried to like the music, but it was kind of fucking awful, so we turned it down and talked about the evening’s plans as we looked for parking.

Outside the theater, she produced two badges. My silver badge got me a seat anywhere in rows 11 through 20 of the theater where James would be performing; a professional photograph of me with James; dinner with the man himself. Poppy’s gold badge got her a seat anywhere in rows 1 through 10, a professional photograph with James, and dinner with the man himself.

Inside we found the auditorium reserved for the concert right away. At the door, a line about fifty women deep had already formed, a line of women who shifted and narrowed their eyes as the two of us made our way to the back of the line. Poppy decided to sit with me and the other losers in the silver section because the ladies in the gold section were, frankly, kind of intense.

By which I mean, they seemed like they were assholes.

And I feel bad for saying that because I was taught to respect my elders. But it’s hard to gin up respect for strangers who regard you with suspicion. Who clock your credentials as soon as you walk in the door, and grip the handles of their Buffy The Vampire Slayer tote bags a bit tighter, should you dare to sit too close to them.

The sound from the silver seats were fine, as was the view. There sat Spike, alone on a barstool in a tight black t-shirt and strategically faded jeans, while he strummed a guitar and sang acoustic versions of the terrible songs Poppy and I had listened to in the car. The actual concert was mercifully short, which left plenty of time for questions from the audience.

I don’t remember what people asked, but it’s fair to guess 90% of those questions were about Buffy. He answered a question about his personal life, bashfully proud about being a newlywed. This elicited a chorus of fake aw’s from his admirers who, once the show was over and we were shuffling to the dining room for dinner, gossiped that his wife was less than half his age.

Servers wearing wrinkled white button down shirts and black polyester pants, walking silently in their non-skid shoes, started setting the tables with salads. Tables were set with pitchers of cold soda that left rings of condensation when picked up. There were separate sections for gold badge holders and silver badge holders, with a space in between for photographs. I sat down at a silver table and got a good look around the room.

Over in the gold section, Poppy was trying to make conversation with the super fans. These super fans were known as “the mafia”, and they knew everything there was to know about James. They went to all of his appearances at cons, bought his band’s music, and showed up for events such as this. They were also considered to be the party capable of judging who in his fandom were the true fans and who were not. I watched these women as they ignored Poppy’s overtures, her warm smiles and compliments on their homemade Spike accessories. “I can’t believe you crocheted that Spike doll all by yourself!”

Things were not much better in silver. The silver table was populated by women who had been beaten in the purchase of gold tickets, and could only glare across the room while they stabbed at their salads with their forks. I managed to befriend a nice red headed lady named Kerry, who rattled off the list of cons she had attended just to see him. When Poppy spotted the two of us chatting away, she joined us for diet cokes and a nice chat.

See, this is what I had been waiting for. The opportunity to sit down with a bunch of like-minded geeks about our mutual love for a performer’s body of work. To learn about new projects, or discuss the merits of old ones. Though we all confessed to finding him attractive, there was no danger of straying into uncomfortable territory like wondering aloud what it might be like to sleep with him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman holding a business sized envelope. She appeared to be there with a friend, a friend she ignored as she focused her energy on gripping that envelope and its contents.

Ten sheets of letter sized paper folded into precise thirds. Every few minutes she’d take the sheaf out, read it to herself, then stuff it back in. I never got to talk to her or even hear her speak, but I recognized and identified her as someone in the depths of an intense emotional, erotic attachment.

She never moved. Not until James appeared in the dining room. And then she watched him. We all did. He was the reason we were all there. The reason why there is a professional eight by ten glossy photograph of me standing awkwardly by his side. The reason why all of these women spent many many dollars each for the opportunity to eat crummy Italian food and listen to acoustic alternative rock music. It was Spike’s birthday, and what better way to celebrate it than spending it in a room of women who would gladly stake every last one of their competitors in the gold and silver sections to make out with him.

James turned up at our table for the obligatory ten minute period. He was charming and gracious, answering questions he had no doubt answered many times before.

Poppy surprised him, and pleasantly so, when she asked about his audio book work. I knew she’d be prepared. She, like me, attended the University of Chicago, and we Maroons don’t fuck around when it comes to doing our homework.

The girl with the envelope got her chance, wordlessly tapping James on the shoulder before sliding the envelope across the table to him. “Is this a letter?” He examined it. “Shall I…?” She shook her head, he nodded and then tucked it away.

James moved onto the next table, and the girl unclenched her entire body. A look of shock on her face, and I felt excited for her. She got what she wanted. She did it. I don’t know if she enjoyed it. I only knew that for her, the best part of the night was over. I wish I could have talked to her, and told her what I told myself earlier in the evening when I went to get my picture taken.

I never loved Spike like Poppy did. Still, though, it’s exciting when a handsome person who happens to be famous puts his arm around you, leans in, and smiles. For a moment, before the flash goes off, and another woman with a badge shoves you out of the way because your time with him is over, and now it’s her turn.

This is the nice part, I would have told her. This is the part where you can pretend you are alone, just the two of you and all you have to do is breathe.