H'ard Starts: The Early Waldrop, page 23
“Dynamite coffee,” I say.
Hustle hustle hustle to the dealer’s room. We begin setting up tables. There’s the usual hassle. We wanted six-foot tables. The hotel gave us mixed sixes and eights. So we have to put three eights where we wanted to put four sixes. It calls for higher math, and none of us is up to it.
About ten thirty, who appear but Ken Keller and Floyd Johnson of Kansas City. About half the people in the room, including George who is up by this time, scream and go running for them.
Ken gets a look on his face Mussolini must have gotten in the plaza. He covers his head.
“Wow! Ken Keller and Floyd Johnson,” we say. “Great!”
See, in 1972 the Kansas City people put on the best con I’ve ever attended. And so thought a lot of other people. Ken didn’t know it, because nobody ever thanked them, and no con reports were written, and the con lost its shirt.
We clapped them on the backs and danced around, and Ken and Floyd threw in with setting up the tables. Lift that barge, Ken and Floyd.
After noon, what to our wondering eyes should appear but Tom Reamy, a surprise to everyone who didn’t know he was back in Texas. We went the round of introductions between Ken, Floyd, and Tom. Then Tom threw in with setting up tables. Lift that barge, Tom.
People had started coming in that a.m. And didn’t slow up. There was nothing for them to do but help us set up or check into their rooms. Dealers started gathering outside the dealer’s room at noon, waiting for it to open.
Guests:
Harlan Ellison, Guest of Honor
Burne Hogarth, Artist
William M. Gaines, Comics
Jerry & Jean Bails, Fan Guests of Honor
andy offutt, Toastmaster
I thought I’d give you the guest lineup here, in case you’re wondering. Also: David Gerrold, Kenneth Smith, Neal Barrett, Jr., Don Punchatz, and George Martin got free run of the place with no restrictions on them but those of good taste. Plus three dozen of us Texas nebbish pros.
Noon of the second day: We get our break at 3:00.
Joe Bob and Buddy come to George and I: Would we go pick up the Bails at the airport? Harlan is coming in about twenty minutes before them, but they’re bringing tons of fun with them, and one car won’t do it. Sure, dynamite, we say. We can help pick up Harlan, then go get the Bails.
George and I both started as comic fans, way back in 1962. We were never really strip writers: we wrote text superhero stories back when comic fanzines published text. So we’d always wanted to meet the Bails.
I took Buddy’s car, then I took the wrong turn. It was rush hour, and Dallas streets were built in the Fifties and can’t handle 1973 traffic. It took two miles before I could turn around and get back. We got to the airport parking lot the same time as Joe Bob though we’d left forty-five minutes earlier. We hotfooted to the lobby. None of us set off the gong in the security line, so we made it about four minutes before Harlan arrived.
Meanwhile, George and I are turning cartwheels and giving off sparks: the Bails’ flight was two hours behind schedule. We faced what is known as a long wait.
Joe Bob, Peggy, George, and I waited at the exit ramp. As soon as they opened the door we saw:
A poster with two legs, holding a film can and a typewriter, bouncing up the incline. We grabbed the poster, and sure enough Ellison was behind it.
He shook hands all round. The poster was from the Starlost series [before the incredible hassles], the film can contained Demon with a Glass Hand, and the typewriter was the legendary fourteen-year-old Oliver portable. George had to fight to get it away from him.
While we waited for the baggage, Harlan and George shot the shit about Milford (which they’d attended two weeks before) and Joe Bob ran around trying to find luggage. Harlan was cool, he waited until the baggage came off the truck, leaped the rope, and picked it up. Harlan complained because someone at the studio had ordered a kosher inflight meal for him on the airline.
Harlan spotted a magazine rack and went to buy the new Hulk. We trooped to the car and waved goodbye to them.
We decided to eat while waiting for the Bails, so found ourselves in the gourmet airport snackbar, munching on potato chips and burgers. We drifted up, talking about magazines in the racks. The Bails’ flight came in two hours late, at 7:20.
Jerry and Jean Bails are these very nice people, much younger than you would expect. Like, in the early sixties when Jerry published Alter Ego, people thought he was already an octogenarian. No dice. He shook hands and we were mildly surprised that they knew of us, though neither of us had worked in comics fandom for years.
Getting them back to the hotel: I meet Dave Gerrold.
This very tall dude who looks a lot like David Gerrold’s photo comes up to me. He has this portable tape recorder in his hand, and the earphone sticking in his ear.
What will be the first words he says to me? Will he see my name badge and know me? Will we become fast friends? I tremble.
His mouth moves. He speaks.
“How do you get to the Belman Theatre?” he asks.
I mumble directions, he nods and leaves.
We get the Bails settled in about nine, then Steve and I and George go up to the room for some drinking. We may have collected some others along the way.
THURSDAY: A Day Like Other Days
We were up early (we were always up early) and headed down to chow. Nothing was shaking. We rummaged through the dealer’s room, which was nothing but people already. I picked up a couple of Imaginations from Joanne Burger, and was sore tempted to buy Startlings and Thrilling Wonder Stories. But my ten $s had gone down to four already, what with meals, etc. (The cake was gone now.)
11:30. Official greetings. Everyone present was introduced, being Harlan, the Bails, and I think, Kenneth Smith. Joe Bob announced when Gaines and Hogarth would arrive. He looked around for more people to introduce. Utley and I started pointing in Gerrold’s direction.
George is sitting with Gerrold.
“Don’t worry,” said Joe Bob. “I’ll introduce him.”
“Ladeez an gennulmen,” he continued, “one of our best new writers, George R. R. Martin!”
Steve and I fell over the backs of our chairs. This was to be the first in a series of slights (unintentional) towards Gerrold. He took them all with Rare Good Graces.
Following was the auction with Harlan auctioneering. In his inimitable style. Which means we were royally entertained. As soon as the auction was over, I heard the first of many gripes.
“Goddam,” said a dealer. “We came here to sell stuff, not make jokes.”
Another said, “Who does he think he is?”
It was not a Good Portent of Things to come.
Arriving that morning were the Houston-Austin-Aggie bunch, including Joe Pumilia, Bill Wallace, Dianne Kraft, and Lisa Tuttle. Lisa was, like George, up for the Campbell Award. I was not present at the meeting between them, but eyewitnesses tell me there wasn’t much enmity. In fact, George and Lisa hit it off like highschool sweethearts.
Comes my time to run the registration desk. Segue to:
D-Con Horror Story #1
I am running the desk. I am also paging people on the PA, trying to keep track of the con officials; the usual hassle.
Up comes (we shall call him Top of the Heap, though the real title he uses involves nobility and comic books) who tells me that he’s one of the guests of the con, and that he’s the man who sold Michael Mehdy the $1801.26 Action No. 1, and that he’d been invited to the HoustonCon the week before but couldn’t make it and now he’s a guest here.
I know who’s supposed to be here and who’s not as well as he does. I give him a glassy stare and call Joe Bob. Joe Bob talks to him, and Joe Bob has a lot on his mind. “Go ahead and give him a ticket,” he says.
I fill out Top of the Heap’s membership badge. Top of the Heap keeps telling me he’s Top of the Heap and how he sold the $1801.26 Action No. 1. Yeah, yeah, I say, have a good time at the con. He asks, “Aren’t you going to give me a guest ribbon? I’m a guest of the con, you know.” He reaches for some of the badges which have been made up for Hogarth or offutt, planning, I suppose, to take the “guest” ribbon off. “Keep your hands off those ribbons,” says Lana Utley, who is in charge of the desk. Top of the Heap walks away, miffed.
So I get called away for some nitty thing or other, and when I get back, here’s Top of the Heap with these two dynamite-looking wimmen.
Top of the Heap is saying, “Miss Smith here is with me. I’d like to get her in free, and if you could, see to it that she gets a free room at the hotel.”
He’s got his hands in the “guest” ribbons again, and pulls out the one for Kenneth Smith’s wife. “See,” he says, waving the badge which says “Smith,” “here’s her badge.” He hands it to her. I’m hearing all this out of the side of my ear as I’ve got a list of ten people to page, the phone is ringing, etc. It ends up that the girl gets the badge and Top of the Heap escorts her off towards the hotel desk.
I’m trying to find out what happened when the girl comes back.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m Marc Rains’ sister, and I’ve never seen that guy in my life. He met me at the door, says ‘I’m a guest here,’ and drug me to the registration desk.” She is slightly embarrassed. “I’m used to this,” she says, “and I’m sorry you had this trouble.”
Marc Rains is probably the best friend the con ever had. He ran a bookstore in Ft. Worth, put up posters, got us phone calls, helped with everything. He’s told his sister and sister-in-law how good sf people are, and now they’ve come to the con and the first thing they meet is Top of the Heap.
“Joe Bob!” I scream. I apologize to Marc’s sister for all the trouble. Top of the Heap is hovering around in the corner, like a hyena waiting for a lion to leave its kill. You know the kind.
Marc’s sister leaves, Top of the Heap following. He walks past, rebuffed, in a few seconds, no doubt looking for new targets.
Joe Bob comes up. I tell him the whole story. “Joe Bob,” I say, “you better talk to him or I’m going over and punching him out. I mean it.”
“Calm down, Howard,” says Joe Bob. “He’s been here two hours, and I’ve already had to talk to him twice. First he tried to get the hotel to give him a free room and gave them my name. They took his word for it until they could check with me. When they found out he wasn’t, they told him no freebies.
“When Channel Four interviewed Harlan, he walks right into the camera and says, ‘Hi. You’re the press, aren’t you? I’m the Top of the Heap. I sold the Action No. 1 …’”
“Why didn’t Harlan kill him?” I asked.
“He didn’t. He was very nice,” said Joe Bob. “Some of Heap’s friends came to apologize, say he’s not really like that. But I’m going to tell him if there’s one more complaint about him, he’s going out on his ass.”
Joe Bob went off to have a heart-to-Heap talk, and it worked a little. He didn’t give us too much trouble for the rest of the con.
Top of the Heap: I ever meet you at another con, you better be nice.
(end of first D-Con Horror Story)
Thursday afternoon finds our heroes at the Amateur Film Festival, wherein a thing called Pipes of Pan blows our minds. An animated three-minute short, and it is good. Plus several other films, some very well done and entertaining, some well done and not entertaining, and some neither. Reamy was one of the judges.
We ate. Eating at con consists of finding the three or four people you want to eat with, then waiting while they find all the people they wanted to eat with, ad infinitum. When you leave, there are fifty-seven people with you, most of whom you don’t know. We tried to find a place in downtown Dallas that wasn’t a) expensive b) closed at six p.m. The only place I knew was the Eatwell Café, and it was twenty blocks the other way. So we spent an aimless thirty minutes going from one closed place to another. We consisted of George, Tom, Steve & Lana, Lisa Tuttle, Ken Keller, and me. We had No Luck.
I forgot how we drifted back to the hotel, but I remember eating at the Majestic Steak House. Steve and I went down to the film room to see the last thirty minutes of Catwomen of the Moon. Steve and I, battle-hardened veterans of Robot Monster, Plan 9 from Outer Space, The Leech Woman, Invasion of the Star Creatures, and Zontar, Thing from Venus, couldn’t take it. Even with the 3-D effects. We left.
Sometime during the day I met Judith Weiss, world’s smallest artist. She is three feet tall and beautiful. She draws like a maniac. She would have to stand on tiptoe to kiss Billy Barty in the knee. She used to live in Dallas and now lives in Philadelphia (on the whole.)
Anyway, she was doing these sketches, and I looked at them and said, “Dynamite.” George knew her from Discons and Pghlanges and whatever, and before long we were blood (brothers) persons.
Everybody was waiting for the Con Bheer Party at ten. We waited and the longer we waited, the more people stood in the lobby, around the dealer’s room and film room. Ah, tension was in the air.
The electricity fairly crackled. I was talking with Jodie and andy offutt, along with about forty other people. This was the first time I’d really looked at the wimmen at the convention. I had never seen so many wimmen hanging out of their dresses at (two times) one time. My goodness gracious.
At eight, I went to check the mail/messages at the desk. There was a note from Linda for George to call her. George and I went up to the room. I called home, put George on.
The father of George’s girlfriend had died. George was on the phone when I left to go up to the party. Tom and I arrived at the same time at the film room before the party began upstairs.
The starting gun had sounded, and the lobby was deserted. I stopped out of the film room where Victor Mature was getting shot in 3-D. I floated up to the London Room on the second floor. The London Room is built like a pub. At one end was approximately four hundred people. At the other was 200 gallons of bheer. The two met, like the Blob ingesting the farmer’s arm.
What a party. (Chairs were flying around like rockets. Furniture was coming in the door and going out the windows. It quieted down, then someone hit Jones with a bottle and it started all over again.)
There was an immense amount of people in the room. Harlan was ever-present. andy offutt was over in the corner. Jodie was with Jerry Mayes, Barbara was with offutt. The Proctors came in. Keller was talking with Lisa Tuttle, Gerrold was wandering around with the Texas A&M fans.
I went over to andy, who was with this mature gentleman I’d never seen before. I looked at his nametag.
“andy,” I said, “introduce me to Neal Barrett, Jr.”
Sure as hell, he did. We were talking, andy was telling jokes. Finally, Neal said, “I only know one joke. I might as well tell it now.”
“Sure,” said andy.
And Neal did.
The Neal Barrett, Jr. Joke
Neal: (Holding up his fingers in a V) You know what this is?
andy: What?
Neal: A Roman centurion ordering five beers.
The joke swept the room. I heard it four more times that night.
The party went on, but did not wear. Nobody got drunk, but nobody felt pain, either. It was a ghood party. The beer ran out in about forty-five minutes. Floyd Johnson was everywhere, taking photos. There was no lack of conviviality.
Then came the parties. I do not know here if I am confusing Thursday and Saturday nights, but I think this party was in Bob Stahl’s room. Whatever, it roared on. Then about two, we went back to the room. Buddy was there, asleep like a ton of bricks. Buddy has to get his kibby-bye. Remember this. This will be very important.
Judith Weiss was with us, looking for a place to crash. Dynamite, Judith, said George and I, you take the couch, Judy. I had been planning to sleep on the floor near the couch (heeheehee). George was going to bed, Judith may have already been asleep, when the Door Bammed.
Then I remembered Buddy was letting Steve Morrell use the floor. He lay down. That left Howard with two choices: a) bathtub b) film room.
When we put this con together, one of the things we said was NO SLEEPING IN THE FILM ROOM.
This is about like Cnut telling the ocean to stop rolling.
Since other people were going to do it, I would too.
Now is time for:
D-Con Horror Story #2
It is now 3:50 a.m. I have been up twenty-one hours, and I had that incredible hassle on the desk, and I’m not Feeling My Best.
I am halfway down the hall to the movie room when I hear what I take to be Alarums & Excursions from that direction. The doors burst open, and out comes Mr. Spleen.
(I might add here that Mr. Spleen later apologized, in a half-hearted way, for his behavior, so I shan’t go too hard on him in this account. Mr. Spleen is not his real name, either.)
Roar. “Where’s some goddam con people.” Roar. “Look, you!” he says, seeing my committee ribbon, “I’ve helped Sueling run the New York Con and I can get all the free space in Rocket’s Blast I want and I’ll make this con smell like shit.”
You must remember it is four a.m. I am tired. I have not got my second wind. My eyes are burning. I am not, as I have said, Feeling My Best.
“What seems to be the trouble?” I ask, politely as possible.
Roar. “Goddam, all you people would have to do would be to announce that you weren’t going to show a film. I’ve stayed up all night, there are fifty other people in there who’ve stayed up all night to see Planet Outlaws, and we’re mad.”
“Well, as you can see,” I say, holding up my ribbon which says POSTER ADVERTISING, “I’m not in charge of the movie room. If … ”
“Where’s Williams? I’m sure he’s not losing any sleep.”
“I’m sure Joe Bob is asleep,” I say. “What happened?”
“They’re showing Dr. Phibes,” he says. Roar. “I’ve helped Sueling run the New York Con, and any time there’s a change, we always announce it.” Roar.
Before I can answer, he uses The Killer Line. I have heard it before; if I stay in fandom, I’ll no doubt hear it again. It goes like this:
