We'll Always Have Parrots(8)

We weren’t the only people in the room in civilian clothes, but the man’s conservative business suit, combined with the expression on his face, made me wonder if he’d strayed into the wrong convention. Possibly the wrong universe. He wore a convention badge, but turned around, so I couldn’t tell if it was a Jungles of Amblyopia badge like mine.

“It’s the opening session of the Porfiria convention,” I said.

“Yes, I see,” he said, holding up what I now recognized as a convention program identical to the one I’d studied earlier. “But just what is a Porfiria convention? I know I probably should have asked that question much earlier, but it never occurred to me.”

“It’s a television show,” I began. “Called—”

“I only watch CNN,” he said, with a slightly haughty air. “And sometimes The History Channel.”

Heaven preserve us from TV snobs, I thought. Aloud, I explained.

“That could be why you find this so…different. You’re at a convention for fans of a TV show called Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle.”

“Ah,” he said, still sounding puzzled. “And what are they all supposed to do at this convention?”

“They attend panels and presentations by the actors,” I said. “Also the scriptwriters and the costume designers and anyone else the organizers can round up. And they stand in line for the stars’ autographs, and they buy and sell Porfiria merchandise. Have a Porfiria costume contest. Things like that. Typical con. Convention, that is,” I added, realizing that for someone who’d never been to one, con might have other more sinister meanings.

“They really spend the whole weekend doing this?” he asked.

“And pay handsomely for the privilege.”

“Insane,” he muttered. “No offense meant,” he added, looking at me.

“None taken,” I said. “I’m not a Porfiria fan.”

“Then why are you…ah…”

He gestured weakly at the surrounding crowd.

“My boyfriend’s on the show,” I said, pointing to the stage, where Michael had just stepped out, accompanied by the diminutive Amazon, who walked to the microphone and began unsuccessfully trying to make herself heard over the cheering.

“Before I introduce Michael—” she began, but the cheers drowned out her words. She had to try again several times before the crowd finally let her finish.

“I wanted to remind you about our very special guest!” she said.

A murmur of anticipation swept through the crowd.

“Thanks to the diligent detective work of our organizing committee,” the Amazon continued, “for the first time ever at a Porfiria convention, we will be presenting…Ichabod Dilley!”

For a few moments, the auditorium remained silent. I could see people looking at each other with puzzled expressions, and shrugging their shoulders.

“What’s an Ichabod Dilley?” someone said, from the back of the room, and scattered titters followed.

Then Michael stepped forward and began applauding vigorously. I followed suit, as did the Amazon, and after a moment, so did the rest of the crowd. Still applauding, Michael took a step toward the tiny Amazon, bent down, and said something into her ear. She nodded.

“Yes,” she said, when the clapping diminished. “Ichabod Dilley, the author and artist who created the original Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle comic books!”

The applause that followed this clarification was genuine, if considerably less passionate than that which had greeted Michael’s arrival.

“Comic books?” said the civilian beside me.

“Yes,” I said, as the applause died down and Michael stepped to the microphone. “The TV show is based on a series of comic books from the seventies—written and drawn by a guy named Ichabod Dilley. Apparently someone hunted down the old guy and invited him to the convention.”

“Oh, my God,” he said.

As Michael began, I saw the little man slip along the back wall and disappear through the exit door.

Well, to each his own. I was going to stay for Michael’s talk, even though I’d heard it all before. There were only so many questions Porfiria fans ever asked, and only so many ways to answer them. I’d heard the same tales of his salad days in the soap operas, the same funny anecdotes about hijinks and bloopers on the set, dozens of times. Especially the story of how his old friend and fellow soap opera star, Walker Morris, who had been with the show since season one, had gotten him the part of Mephisto.

“They needed someone to play a dashing, debonaire, devilishly handsome, but thoroughly corrupt and conniving wizard,” he would say. “Of course Walker thought of me immediately!”