Highway 62

So, set up that standing display, array the books in an appealing and alluring manner, get the postcards out in easy reach and put the bookplates far enough back that folks get the idea that they’re not free. Who’d have thought that I’d have to be my own merchandiser as well as publisher, as well as editor and letterer, yadda yadda yadda. And on top of that, I’ve gotta be personable. This personable thing isn’t first or even second nature to me. More like Greek, really.

And yet, there I was, attempting to smile, or at least be approachable, or at least not exude palpable menace. Of course, when placed next to the sunny cheeriness that is Colleen Coover and husband Paul Tobin, it’s tough not to perk up at least a little bit. But you already saw the picture from Saturday, right?

Really though, I didn’t have much time to wallow in being a grouch because the crowds didn’t dilly-dally about getting into the show. Within an hour of the show opening, getting up and down the hallways was a not-inconsiderable task. Now, we’re not talking SDCC or even Wonder-Con density, but respectable crowds, and far more folks milling about than I’d remembered from last year. Well, not so much milling, but they weren’t operating with military precision either. Maybe precision milling is the phrase I’m looking for.

The crowd, as last year, heavily skewed to the indie side of the spectrum. This is far from a surprise. However, unlike a lot of folks at APE, these folks didn’t seem to be exclusively interested in comic as lifestyle accessory. Which is a good thing, because the folks for whom STRANGEWAYS is a lifestyle accessory, I probably don’t really need to meet. My life is weird enough as it stands.

Sold some copies of the book. Not enough to be relieved, mind you, but enough to make me think that this wasn’t going to be a total waste of time. Then I ran into a customer whose awesomeness cannot properly be conveyed by mere human language. See, he PRE-ORDERED the book from his comic service. You can’t know how great it was to hear that. It was an instant validation of all the work that I’d been putting into things, hoping that the system would at least be gentle with me as it chewed me into tiny little bits. Here was living proof that some of that effort was not wasted.

There were a handful of return customers from the last Stumptown show, who’d bought ashcans and were ready to buy the whole book. Also completely awesome and a welcome sight. It’s like I’m building an audience or something. Who’d have thought such a thing possible?

Took a quick break for some lunch, running down to the nearby Quizno’s. Which was a mistake, as the line was curled around the inside of the shop and there were only two beleagured humans behind the counter, trying desperately, Lucy and Ethel-like to get all the sandwiches made as quickly as possible and not getting it done. I’d still be there, had I not said, audibly, “Fuckit” and walked back to the Doubletree Hotel for a sandwich out of the cold case.

That was probably where I made my mistake. Hard to tell. It might have been the stress of being a stressmonkey at the show, or mild dehydration, or my failure to maintain the proper dosage of Aspartame in my system (delivery vehicle: Diet Coke, usually), but after the sandwich, I noticed that things Just Weren’t Right.

But I put that aside. I had books to sell. What use did I have for a mild headache and seemingly-benign case of indigestion? No use. No time. Books to sell. Word to spread. Postcards to hand out. Spiels to spiel. But that headache was beginning to gnaw.

Right about then, the unthinkable happened. I ran out of books. And not just because I was handing them out to anyone who even showed a glimmer of a possibility of reviewing the book for free (as had happened in the past.) I was actually SELLING BOOKS. By the time I’d gotten down to the last three or so, Parker was dashing back to his house to pick up more from the stash I’d left there. Before he’d returned, I’d gotten down to just the chewed-up reading copy which I’d marked with THIS IS A READING COPY, as well as prominently marking the places that it’d gotten scarred on the way up (whether to blame Southwest or my ham-handed handling of the book afterwards remains unclear.)

Luckily I was without books for only a moment. I grabbed a fat stack from the car and dashed back in, ready to sell, despite the increasing discomfort of Whatever It Was in my stomach and head. I showed off the gorgeous interior art. Gnaw. The beautiful Guy Davis pin-up pages. Gnaw. Passed out postcards. Gnaw. Signed books in my Steadman-like-scrawl. Gnaw. Belch unappealingly. Wish for a Tylenol. Taste the bilious mustard creeping around the back of my throat. Gnaw.

The afternoon steadily became less and less pleasant. Another hour or so to go. It’s okay. I’ll finish up, grab a Diet Coke dose from somewhere and everything will be peachy again. Endure. Gnaw. Belch. Bile. Gnaw.

Okay, this might be trickier than I thought at first. What’s that? Need to get a ride to the studio with Steve and Sara (and Carla McNeill, who passed me two Tylenol when I needed them most). Wait as Steve gets Lebanese food and sweat a bit. Find an open grocery store and slowly sip the coke, because if I guzzle it, I know that I’m going to paint the inside of Sara’s car an unappealing shade of puke.

Back to the studio. Sheer force of will keeps my gorge in place. Never was any good at riding around in the backseat. My mind becomes a stream of Frank Miller clipped mini-sentences. Hold onto the handle above the door, window open not so much for the night air but to give me a safe place to aim for should my willpower hold out.

What should have been a hell of a lot of fun, a group meal of Lebanese and other ethinic cuisines back at Periscope, was instead an exercise in torture. I nibbled at a bit of flatbread, hoping, praying that a little bit of food was what I really needed. That’s a nugatory, Rubber Duck, looks like we got us a Convoy.

Thank god that Sarah noticed that I was not improving, and instead was descending into a (mostly) private Hell of nausea and crainum-sundering pain. She asked “Do you want me to…” OHPLEASEGODYESDRIVEMEBACKTOPARKER’SSOTHATIMAYDIEALONEANDWITHASHREDOFDIGNITY. I think it came out as just one word, and not nearly as loud as the caps would indicated. But I was THINKING it that hard. At least. The audible portion of my answer was probably nothing more than a gurgling whimper. Sarah's a fundamentally good person and took it easy on the way back instead of racing around like Steve McQueen over Broadway and Sandy Drive and the streets of Portland of my youth, of summers long past.

Called my wife to tell her I loved her, should I perish in this far-off land, croaked out a last goodbye and grabbed a plastic bucket should the unthinkable happen and I find the need to empty out whatever evil resided in my stomach. Sleep came blissfully quickly, while other, smarter cartoonists and comics folk were partying it down at Cosmic Monkey, where printsters versus websters squared off in a no-holds-barred gladiatorial spectacle of ink and destruction.

But I'd still managed to sell more copies of the book than I sold of previews all of my two-day stint at the show last year. My inner Alec Baldwin was pleased.