My father’s parallel careers in fantasy, science fiction, and porn occurred during the same years my parents attended SF conventions—or cons—as many as nine per year, where they developed deep relationships with people they rarely saw. To the accepting world of fandom, Dad revealed his secret identity. SF fans enjoyed his porn, or at least knowing about it, and Dad savored the attention. It gave him extra cachet, a touch of glamour in the world of spacecraft and hard SF. There was a precedent of crossover between writers of porn and science fiction, but Dad was the first to forge dual careers. The con committee invited Andrew J. Offutt and got John Cleve in the bargain. He enjoyed playing both roles. At cons he’d wear one set of clothes for a science fiction panel, then change into John Cleve attire for parties. He switched name tags so often that a fan presented him with a large handmade tag of bright fabric. Stitched on one side was OFFUTT. The reverse said CLEVE.
To save money, my parents ceased hiring people to stay with us. At age twelve, I was placed in charge when they went to cons. My brother was nine, and my sisters were eight and seven. My instructions were simple: feed my siblings, feed the dogs, don’t run in the house, and above all, don’t tell anyone that Mom and Dad are gone. At night, I fixed supper and put my siblings to bed, reassuring them that everything was fine. After they were asleep, I sat alone in the house and fretted. I was afraid my parents would never return. I worried how we’d get food and what would happen if the electricity went out during a storm. I feared I’d lose my siblings, that I would fail at taking care of them.
Occasionally my parents were late returning on Sunday afternoon, and I called the state police to ask if there had been any fatal accidents on the interstate. Fortunately, our parents always came home. My relief was mixed with trepidation: They were exhausted, and Dad might fly off the handle at any moment. Mom slipped silently about the house, as fearful of his potential rage as we were. Many years later I understood the dire position she was in, caught between two opposing forces. Any display of loyalty to her children risked Dad’s perception that she was disloyal to him, the worst act of treachery. She strode a rigid and terrible middle ground but invariably chose Dad. It was the wiser decision. His anger at her would quickly extend to all of us and last longer.
In 1971 Dad was invited to be guest of honor at a convention in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, over Thanksgiving weekend. To offset missing the holiday, the chairman offered a free room for the Offutt kids. I had just turned thirteen. It was my first con, representing entrance to the secret world my parents inhabited. After a seven-hour drive, we arrived at dusk, underdressed for the harsh November wind cutting across the plains. Meals hadn’t been part of Dad’s negotiations. While everyone ate turkey at the banquet, my siblings and I shared Kraft cheese sandwiches in our room. The con had severe fiscal problems, prompting my father to forgo the final payment of his fee, which led to his being guest of honor for the next thirty years. As a result of his generosity to strangers, we never had another family Thanksgiving.
For a few years my siblings and I attended nearby cons with our parents, the only form of family vacation we ever had. Cons exposed me to an exotic world beyond the hills. Men in Haldeman carried pistols. At cons, adults wore wizard robes, swords, and space guns. I once witnessed a fatigued con chairman trying to explain to the hotel manager why a man in a Star Trek outfit was sitting in the kiddie pool with a woman wearing a diaphanous gown and holding a snake. Attendees tended to interact with a defensiveness born of insecurity, often dueling via their knowledge of science fiction. Some devoted their time to playing poker, bridge, and hearts. I spent an hour watching two obese fans reading side by side in the hotel lobby. Each time they turned a page, they simultaneously dipped a hand into a bag of potato chips, as if the two actions were synchronized. I understood that this was how they behaved at home, and that cons offered an opportunity to safely display their private quirks. My parents’ devotion to this world confused me. I regarded fans as strange, sad, and extremely obnoxious. The violent world of Haldeman was more secure.
At cons, my siblings and I shared a hotel room with two coolers of food. We were each given a room key, cautioned against embarrassing our parents, and turned loose. They didn’t tell us their room number. If we needed them for a serious reason, we were instructed to go to the main con suite and tell someone. Kids were rare at cons and there was no formal child care. My brother believed that people felt sorry for us, and my sisters retained few memories beyond a general boredom. For me, cons were an opportunity to utterly abdicate my big-brother role. Immediately upon arriving, I’d explore the hotel and memorize its layout in order to elude authority and siblings.