StanleyWheeler

A Lunch in P-Town

I had come to town for a conference. It wasn’t just any town. It was P-town rising from the shadow of the mountains. It was the bustling university town below the humongous white letter plastered upon the slope, shouting its endless interrogatory. It was DJ’s P-town. Sure, plenty of authors and wanna-be writers inhabited the P-town hood, but I knew only one of them personally. Provided “personally” includes strictly via the internet.

Powers beyond my control—which doesn’t narrow it down much, I know—decided to move the conference to another day. They did not consult me. I understood that my personal gravitas fell somewhat short of swaying those mysterious powers to reschedule the matter at a time more suitable for my schedule. While I missed the conference, I did get to rend the virtual veil and meet the esteemed Duke of American Speculative Fiction in person. It happened like this—mostly:

I contacted the author on Friday to confirm the lunch appointment. He didn’t even attempt to feign ignorance of the rendezvous which had been set a week earlier. I chalked that up to the fact that he had not previously met me, and had not read anything I’ve written. I allowed him to enjoy his blissful ignorance. He informed me that he would be the 6’7” guy with a mustache. I let him know that I would be the opposite of that, at least as far as the height and facial hair were concerned.

The following day I sent him a picture so he would know what I looked like and what I was wearing. When I looked at my picture, the shirt looked gray to me. I wore a pale maroon or burgundy shirt (that might be mauve for those of you who can recognize such things), so I sent another clarification text as to the color of the shirt, as if my mug beneath the pate, which the follicles were abandoning like rats from a sinking ship, was insufficient to identify me. A certain nervous tension had crept into the corners of my consciousness. I had never met an author with his own Wikipedia entry before.

Google told me that I was only three minutes from the location for the lunch meeting. I decided to leave ten minutes ahead of the scheduled hour, just to be safe. Once I got to the car, I remembered that I had forgotten something—my wallet or phone or something, I think. By the time I found whatever it was I had forgotten, and got on the road, I only had three minutes. The Google directions refused to work, but I did have the map. I nearly drove right past the place. I turned the car rapidly into the cross street but couldn’t find a spot on the side. I had to drive over the curb to get a spot back in front of the establishment.

I recognized him immediately as I got out of the car. He stood five inches taller than John Carter, and he was the only guy standing in front of the door. The picture he had sent earlier also helped. I must admit that while the numbers would indicate that he is only a foot or so taller than I am, it felt like he was about three feet taller. He welcomed me inside like a gracious host, and never made a move for either the radium pistol or the longsword. In fact, he bought lunch for me.

While we enjoyed our meal, he answered my questions. The narrow mustache, which was full but not bushy, and turned down past the corners of his mouth, along with the lively eyebrows communicated a look of both intensity and devil-may-care—sort of like Snidely Whiplash after a shot of morphine. He didn’t merely answer my questions, he provided explanations and reasoning beyond the answers. I should have asked more follow-up questions, but the information came rapidly enough that my short attention span moved from one topic to the next.

I could have spent several hours, instead of only two, talking with DJ. Like a good conversationalist, he asked about my family, and writing, and background. He has an ability to cultivate people, to draw them into engaging conversation so that they feel important as well. I stumbled over my words and forgot how to describe topics upon which I had given complete and detailed presentations—it’s a gift, really, that I would return if I could; I think it makes me approachable and endearing, notwithstanding contrary opinions.

We did discover an insane amount of parallels in our lives. I’m convinced he’s a taller, better looking, more successful version of myself. He expounded on his ability to be stupid, proud, and vain – but those weren’t the only things we had in common, and those may be the only areas in which my abilities exceed his. I hope we have the chance to get together again.

***

A quick game of my skirmish game. I've changed the dice used for the game to make the numbers smaller. It seems to work quite well, accomplishing my aim without messing up my great system. In this scenario, which I've played multiple times under the previous rules, some musketeers are attempting to rescue a condemned man from the hangman's noose. Five of the Cardinal's Guard are on hand to thwart the rescue.

Above, the musketeers have entered the fray. Several bystanders are also in the square to witness the hanging. Andre, in the lower left didn't get very far before failing his activation. D'Hubert on the lower right has rushed in to distract two guards. Armand has knocked down the leader of the guards, knocked out the hangman, and snatched the prison at the upper center, but the guards are about to set upon him. Paul, just left of the gallows, has engaged two guards.

 D'Hubert slew one guard before introducing his own vital organs to the sword of the other. Armand also went down beneath the combined steel of two guards, leaving the prisoner standing alone. Paul, in the foreground left, has been twice wounded and retreated from the two guards with which he was engaged. Andre rushed into the fray, killing one of Paul's antagonists, and is racing to save the prisoner. The green bottle caps mark special things which may help or hinder the musketeers in their mission.

Here we have Andre, the last musketeer, holding three guards at bay. You can also see the red martian model acting as the hangman who has regained his feet. Andre did get to the prisoner and escaped with him before the guards could stop him. The guards couldn't get coordinated against the bold musketeer. Andre got off to a poor start, but completed the mission even after the rest of his team had perished.