Julie Halpern - The F- It List

“Why do I have to pretend that I can’t work a camera?”

“It adds tension. It’s how I envisioned it.” Becca vibrated with excitement in her bubblegum pink wig.

“I hope you don’t freak him out,” Becca added, looking me over. I woke up extra early to ensure my blood was distributed in a grotesque, yet natural, fashion.

“Me freak him out? This is expected. It’s a horror convention. I’m not the one grabbing genitalia.”

“I’m not grabbing genitalia! Butts are not genitalia!”

“Calm down. I just wanted to use the word. I didn’t know you’d have an aneurysm over it.”

Speaking of aneurysms, I also spent a good portion of the morning and previous night pre-enacting scenarios of running into Leo. What if he ignored me? Pretended he didn’t know who I was?

What if he was with another girl?

We arrived at the convention center and followed the herd of costumed kindred spirits into the hall. The walls were lined with vendors selling everything from bootlegged DVDs to homemade dead babies. D-level celebrities with huge, fake boobs attempted to lure lonely fanboys in for a photo and fifty-dollar autograph. We watched a twenty-something girl break down crying after meeting the star of Gremlins. The place was a freak show, and I reveled in it. The spirit of horror filled me, and I immediately plunked down forty dollars for a Children of the Corn DVD, signed by Malachai himself. “You were totally scary,” I told him. He thanked me, although as I walked off I wondered if that was a compliment. He was mostly scary because of how naturally creepy-looking he was.

Becca’s mom asked me to watch over her, make sure she sat down to rest even before she needed to. We made a habit of popping a squat at every corner of the hall, where others congregated to sift through their swag. People-watching at cons was one of my favorite parts of the experience. Grown men who spent their days as personal bankers changed into Rick Grimes and Freddy Krueger. Mild-mannered secretaries shed their clothes and showed off their stretch marks to the world. Nobody judged. My favorite costume at the con was a man wearing a psycho rubber baby mask, a tiny t-shirt, and a giant diaper, his hairy legs and oversized white gym shoes adding to the dementedness. I had Becca take a picture for my Facebook profile, and we moved on to the Fuck-It List quest.

No Leo sightings yet.

Jamie Bamber’s booth was in a row amid other actors from horror and sci-fi TV shows. I usually had to look at the signs behind them to figure out who they were, if I recognized them at all. Jamie looked different from the military Apollo, even after his character turned into a politician and wore a pin-striped suit and longer hair. Bamber’s con hair was wild and outgrown, as though to prove to the world that he was nothing like his somewhat tight-assed TV character. Of course, that show ended years ago, so maybe he grew his hair out for a role. I always wondered what it was like for actors signing at cons; was it a happy occasion, greeting fans, or did they feel pathetic in some way that their fame was stuck in a past life? What if I made one horror film that everyone loved, and then a bunch of movies most people hated? Would I be okay, signing Blu-ray covers at horror conventions, only to be remembered for my single triumph? Hell yeah, I would. It’s better than not being remembered at all.

We camped out on a floor spot with optimum Bamber vision and pulled out the snacks Becca’s mom forced us to bring. Becca was so enchanted with Jamie Bamber that she missed her mouth every time she attempted to insert a pretzel stick. “He’s cute, right? Definitely not Fat Apollo.” Bamber looked to be in excellent shape, wearing a t-shirt that showed off his efforts at the gym. “Why is his line so short?” Becca’s eyes remained fixed on Bamber.

“Chewbacca’s next to him. That’s hard to compete with. Plus, Chewbacca’s like two feet taller than him.” One thing you learned going to cons is that most celebrities, unless they were playing a Wookie, were much shorter than they appeared on screen.

“When there are two people in line, we’ll go.” I was about to ask her how she chose that arbitrarily small number, but she sprung into action mode instantly and announced, “Two! There are two! It’s go time!” I helped her off the floor, and she adjusted her wig and I ♥ Fat Apollo t-shirt before we stepped into his line. Becca gripped my hand as we waited and watched him smile for the fans in front of us. He looked rather darling, and I was sucked in, thinking of the countless hours I’d spent watching him on TV. Soon it was our turn, and I was glad this was Becca’s show. She deserved something this great in her life. Becca strode right up to Bamber’s table, and drew his attention to her shirt with a flourish of her hands.

“I will never live that down,” he laughed. I had completely forgotten he was British.

“You do an amazing American accent,” I told him as Becca fished some money out of her wallet. Another hilarious aspect of cons was how you were talking to someone you admired, but at the same time you had to ask them how much money it cost to pay for their autograph. Jamie was smart and had a handler to take the money. Some celebrities were alone at their booths and looked mortified every time they had to interrupt a gushing fan to collect cash. I stood back and let Becca charm him with her crazy fangirl chatter. He politely smiled and said things to make her laugh. When it came time for the picture, it was Jamie who asked if Becca wanted him to come around his table. Some celebrities would only lean over a table, so the pictures turned out to be you leaning backward against a table with a celebrity torso next to you. The cool ones came out, put their arms over your shoulders and acted like your best friend for thirty seconds. I played my part of bumbling photographer. “Is this where I press?” I asked, like a ninety-year-old woman. Becca took her cue, and I watched as she slowly, subtly moved her hand into position. “One, two, three!” I cried, and just as the picture snapped, Becca offered her hand on Jamie Bamber’s ass.

“Whoa!” He jumped forward. I took picture after ass-groping picture to capture the hilarity of the moment. Stunned but not angry, Jamie looked at her in a jokingly scolding manner.

Becca gave her sweetest grin and told him, “Sorry! I have cancer and just had to do that.” He looked confused, so she rambled on, “I wrote this bucket list, but we called it the Fuck-It List, and one of the things on it was to touch your butt and I never really thought I’d have the chance to do it especially because I got cancer but then you were here and I’m in radiation now and thank you—” I pulled her away as she finished. “You have a really solid butt!”

Jamie, ever the British gentleman, nodded a “you’re welcome,” and we ran off. I was laughing so hard that I didn’t realize Becca sat down to rest somewhere behind me. I stopped walking and turned around to sit with her. Together, we panted and laughed and flipped through the pictures to relive the moment we just had. I hadn’t noticed that two Chuck-wearing feet approached me until someone tapped my heel with his. I looked up, and there was Leo.

“HEY.” LEO NUDGED my shoe. I stood up so his towering height was a bit less towering. Not seeing him for so long, I thought I was over the magnetic quality his body had with mine. Not so much. He looked really good. “You shaved your head,” I noted, and reached up to feel it. He only slightly recoiled.

“We match.” Becca smiled. Leo forcibly smiled back.

“I’m Brian, by the way. Thanks for introducing me, bro.” Leo’s friend extended a hand for me to shake, then down to Becca. He didn’t go to our school, but I had seen him with Leo once or twice on stalking expeditions. And Jason’s funeral. He wore a slight pompadour in his dyed black hair and carried a friendly rockabilly vibe.