So far I've talked about tales of arrogant bullshit ( of which there will be more ) and tales of blinding speed ( of which there's just the one ) but what I have yet to talk about, is what are probably the bread and butter of these experiences at shows. The vast majority of these guys are hopeful, or surprised that their dick is going to get a chance to play some tonsil hockey with me. So without further ado, let me begin the tale of generic comic book show #237.
In the year of the show, 2010, the comic book market was coming into a resurgence. Iron Man had begun a chain of events that I've seen change the industry to this day. And so I find myself dressed up as supergirl, helping a man in his mid 60s sell the remnants of his collection at a comic con down in florida. I arrive at the show in my civies, then make an A-line for the women's restroom. (no phone booths inside the convention hall)
I make my way past the larger companies, towards the back of the hall where many of the small and independent vendors are. This guy that hired me has this tiny little booth. It's all personal collection. No toys or posters. Just boxes of cheap books. Initially I feel sorry for the guy. I know what I charged him to be there. I have a pretty good idea of what renting the space costs. I don't see those numbers adding up to less than what he could possibly have in all his longboxes. I say this because sellers don't put their wall books in longboxes. The books that go anywhere from $10 to $10,000+.
"Wow, you're right off of the page, miss. How can I help you?" he says to me, and I realize he doesn't recognize me from our email exchanges and photos. He eyes me toes to head, and only stops to stare at my tits for a few seconds, which is impressive in this industry.
"I'm Jessica. You hired me. I guess I should be asking how can I help you?" i say, smiling, offering him my hand. He blinks, than laughs, swearing as he does recognize me at the mention. He compliments my choice of costume, and I say how I thought it would really be great for the crowd, leaving off that at the time, it was just one of the few costumes I had from previous shows that fit the bill.
He asks me what I know about comics, and I tell him basically nothing. He seems slightly disappointed, but I reassure him that what I lack in comics history, I'll more than make up for with my salesmanship. I walk over, thumbing through the boxes, seeing that they're at least organized by price, but it's a lot of bulk. Lot's of 3 for $5, 7 for $10 deals. He makes some small talk, asking how my flight in was. I say i'm in town visiting my parents (which I was) and the flight was nothing special. He asks if i want a coffee, he wants to run over to the food court before things pick up. I say, sure, and he's off.
I watch him leave. He's a little frumpy, but he smelled pleasant, no visible sweat stains, and didn't leer at me like some sex-starved lunatic, which I can't say about a lot of these guys. I'm kinda into him. I make a mental note to actually try to move books, not just go on autopilot.
The doors to the hall open, he's still not back from the food court. I put on a smile, calling guys over as soon as I can see them, asking them what they're looking for, who their favorite character is, what movies they hope get made. These guys just eat this stuff up. For the most part, anyway. There are some really jaded fans that get annoyed when I don't know every tiny little detail about supergirl. There always are, always will be. But they get a smile and a tour of the booth same as everyone else. It's slow going at first. It's easier to get dull men to the booth, but it's easier to talk a kid into buying a bundle of cheap books. They just want to read. I offer to pose for a picture with anyone that buys a bundle.
By the time my boss gets back with the coffees, business is doing well. I've sold about a box's worth of books and there's a dozen more people standing around contemplating buying some more.
"Sorry, this place is packed," he apologizes. He offers me my coffee, but i decline, telling him to set it somewhere safe, and get back to work. I make a point to put my arm around his shoulder, as I walk with him and ask about taking credit cards. I'm maybe a half foot taller than him, and my cleavage has a little bounce in that spandex top, and I can see him fighting hard not to turn his head and stare as we talk. He says he'd rather just stick to cash, as all he has is an old manual swipe.
