Crap, she noticed. “I love your work.”
“Thank you!”
My body started moving of its own volition, shifting weight back and forth, a move taken from a Motown group, while my mind seized up. Say something smart, something more about how you love her work, except less general . . . “Uh . . . you’re in a golf cart!” NOT THAT! SHE MIGHT HAVE A HIP PROBLEM! WHY BRING THAT UP?!
“Yes, it’s easier to get around the crowds this way.”
I babbled. “I still can’t believe you know my . . . why did you want to . . . I’m a big fan of your work!” COMPLETE A SENTENCE, GOD!
“Thank you!”
Mention your favorite episode of hers! No, for some reason, your mind isn’t working. I am your mind, and I’m not working. I’m warning you, if you say something right now, you might accidentally say “Star Wars” instead of “Star Trek” and then you’ll have to commit hari-kari, right here, right now in this hallway, so just compliment her jacket again . . . NO! WRONG CHOICE! NO-WIN CONDITION! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!
“I have to pee. Nicetomeetyoubye!”
And I ran away. Like, full-tilt running down the hallway. If you haven’t guessed already, it’s a habit of mine. I never found out why she wanted to meet me, either. I felt so ridiculous that I sat on the toilet for fifteen minutes until I was able to rewrite the scene in my head into a more functional account of what happened so I could live with myself. (It included a conversation about her sister, who was once an actor in The Guild. Why couldn’t I have remembered that during the panic attack? I’m the WORST!)
I’m sure the conversation wasn’t that weird from her point of view (maybe) but from mine it was mortifying. All I wanted to have said was one thing, one simple thing to have her remember me. To make an impact. To summarize why I was having a loose-bowel situation just LOOKING at her in person. Because I admired her so much.
Those experiences make me appreciate every interaction I have with fans of my own work at conventions. I try to go out of my way to connect with each person as much as I possibly can despite the long lines and stifling crowds and people in cosplay with fake weapons who accidentally poke people in the eyes with rubber broadswords. Because that single moment you get with someone you admire is so important, I never want anyone to walk away feeling mortified like I generally do when meeting someone I fan over.
That’s why, when I take pictures with people, I’m open to almost any request.
“Can I pick you up?”
“Yes!”
“Can I pretend to propose to you?”
“As long as it’s not legally binding, ha!”
“Can you pretend to stab me with this light saber?”
“Which organ?”
“Can I put you in a headlock?”
Long pause. “Uh . . . sure! Why not.”
Of course, it’s hard to please everyone. Especially if you’re entering/exiting a toilet stall and someone comes running up saying, “Oh my God, can I have a selfie with you here? So hilarious!” Or you see someone tweet, “Felicia Day was eating a salad while she signed autographs today. No respect for her fans.” I WAS HUNGRY AND DIDN’T WANT PEOPLE TO WAIT IN LINE! (But I haven’t eaten in public at a convention since, so good job, Tweeter! You showed me.)
If you’ve never been to one of these events, you probably have a very Big Bang Theory idea about the attendants and want to know, “What’s the creepiest thing a fan’s ever done to you?” Aside from a few restraining orders I can’t legally talk about, I can relate a few standout oddball encounters.
One time a dude wanted to buy a lock of my hair for $1,000. And he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“You have a lot of hair, and my friend would be so happy! He loves you.”
“I appreciate his appreciation, but I’m not selling you my hair.”
“Just an inch. It’s a lot of money!”
I tried to get the guy to move along in a way that he wouldn’t feel ashamed about being creepy. (Which he totally was.) “I don’t know him and wouldn’t want anyone to be able to clone me, haha.”
When I mentioned “cloning,” the guy got WAY too excited. “Cloning would be AWESOME. I’d only need a fingernail, how’s that for a compromise? Say five hundred dollars?”
At that point, I stopped worrying about his self-esteem. “Security!”
Another time I had a guy in his early twenties approach me and ask me to autograph his arm. I’ve signed a ton of babies, breasts, and Nintendo power gloves, so I was cool with it. Until he let slip, “I’m gonna go tattoo over it.”
I withdrew the pen. “Um, I don’t think you should do that, why would you do that? Do you really want to do that?”
“I’m a big fan. And my buddy bet me five hundred dollars that I wouldn’t do it. I need you to sign because I could use the five hundred dollars for community college tuition.”
I was conflicted. This guy wanted to disfigure his body permanently and was asking me to enable him.
On the other hand, I REALLY wanted to see what it would look like.