by Jeff Zentner
We’ve been there about an hour, wandering aimlessly around the convention floor booths, in a fog from exhaustion and sensory overload, when someone shouts, “Rayne Ravenscroft! Delilah Darkwood!” in a strong upper Midwestern accent.
We turn. It didn’t occur to me for even a second that someone might recognize us. What a silly thing to be surprised by, though. If there’s one place on earth someone might know who we are, it’s here.
The shout came from a man who appears to be in his late forties, with a graying goatee, wearing an Indiana Jones hat, an olive-green short-sleeved button-down shirt, a tactical kilt with a cell phone clipped to the waistband, and those goony dad sport sandals that are illegal to wear if you’re not at least a forty-two-year-old man with nightmarish hairy orc feet. They’re at least a size too small, and his toes—which look like they were pedicured by lowering them into a tank full of piranhas—extend over the edge. He saunters in our direction unhurriedly. He walks like how a tuba sounds. “Rayne, Delilah,” he says again in a tone of vague irritation.
“Hi. Rayne Ravenscroft,” I say as he nears. The earthy bouquet of mashed potatoes precedes him by a few feet. I extend my hand. He shakes it with a large, meaty, warm-yet-somehow-still-clammy butt cheek of a hand.
“Delilah Darkwood,” Delia says, and shakes his hand too.
“Larry Doehnat.”
“Larry Donut?” Delia asks.
“Doehnat. There’s an h in there. Huh-huh. Doe-huh-nut.”
“It really sounds like donut,” Delia says.
“Doe-huh-nut.”
“Donut.”
“Doe-huh-nut. H. Huh.”
“Donut.”
“Your friends call you Dunkin?” I ask. Not my A game, but listen: I’m tired.
“I do not subscribe to the antiquated notion of ‘friendship,’ ” he replies in a grandiose tone. I’ve never heard such smugness over being friendless.
“Oh,” I say.
“I need signatures from you two.” He says it like we have to sign for the load of chicken manure he’s dumping in our front yard.
“Yeah, definitely,” Delia says. She fumbles around. “Do you have a—”
He’s way ahead of her. He pulls out a tattered, grease-spotted journal, opens it to a page, clicks open a pen, and hands it to Delia, studying her through round glasses that look like he washed them with sausage gravy. “Please sign on this line right here. Kindly take care that your signature not encroach onto other lines.”
“Okay, cool.” Delia signs carefully and hands the journal to me.
“Same instructions for you,” Larry says. “Please don’t—”
“Yep. Got it, no encroaching,” I say. I sign carefully for the most part but definitely encroach a little bit on purpose. Encroach. What a dumb word. I’ll croach; I don’t care.
“So, where are you from, Larry?” Delia asks sweetly while I sign.
He looks at her for a second like it’s a stupid question. “Milwaukee.”
“We air in Milwaukee?” Delia asks with an eager lilt.
Larry snort-laughs. “Heavens no.”
“Then how did you know us?” Delia sounds deflated.
“Well, it wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that. You’re rather obscure.”
“Oh. Cool,” I say, not trying too hard to tamp down the irritation in my voice.
“I’m the one who introduced you to the Obscure Horror Hosts subreddit.”
“How can we ever repay you?” I mutter.
“I’m collecting autographs and getting photos with all of the active horror hosts in the United States. I never thought I’d bag you two so quick.” Larry gives a turkey-choking-on-a-grasshopper chuckle at his good fortune.
“That’s a…fun way to put it,” Delia says, the sweetness dissolving from her like cotton candy sprayed with a hose.
Her tone, like mine, is completely lost on Larry. “All right, let’s get a picture.” He unclips his phone from the waistband of his kilt and shoves it at Lawson. “You here to make sure these two behave?”
Lawson doesn’t smile or respond. He takes the phone. Larry pushes up his glasses and stands between Delia and me, wrapping his pale, sweaty, hairy, squid-tentacle arms around our waists. His hand is on my ribs, right below my boobs. He’s doing the same to Delia.
“Um, yeah. This is—” I say, fidgeting.
“Could you just—” Delia says.
We squirm and wriggle to put some distance between us and Larry. I buy myself a few centimeters. How does a human smell this much like mashed potatoes? Is he using a mashed potato–infused bodywash?
“Okay, hold still for the picture,” Larry says.
Lawson, clearly seething, takes a couple of pictures and hands back Larry’s phone, still without a word.
Larry gives us one last unnecessary squeeze into him. “Mission accomplished!” he crows.
“Well, it’s exciting to meet a fan,” Delia says.
Larry snort-laughs again. “I wouldn’t call myself a fan, per se. I’m not a great fan of that term.” He gives us a see what I did there smirk.
I point at him and click my tongue. “Rock-solid joke, Larry.”
“I consider myself more a connoisseur of horror hosting. A chronicler of it, good and bad.”
“Oh,” Delia says.
“Right now, you guys…” He makes a high-pitched meh sound. “But I think in time, you’ll improve somewhat,” Larry says, magnanimity dripping from each word.
“Cool, thanks,” I say icily.
“You two could definitely ad-lib less.”
“Duly noted,” Delia says.
“Call your Frankenstein puppet Frankenstein’s Monster instead.”
“Oh, totally. Never heard that before,” I say. Delia, Lawson, and I begin our drift away from Larry, but he’s not taking the hint.
“You could also turn up the comedy on the show,” Larry says.
“Oh, do tell. What do you find funny, Larry Donut?” Delia asks.
“People falling down and internet memes.”
“Fantastic,” Delia says flatly.
“I think that’s about it for feedback,” Larry says.
“Nooo, keep going,” I say under my breath.
“Oh! And don’t be afraid to dress a little sexier. Spice things up. Take a page from SkeleTonya’s book.”
“We graduated from high school like one week ago,” Delia says.
Larry shrugs. “Congratulations.”
“Okaaaay,” Delia and I say almost simultaneously. We cut off Lawson, who started to weigh in too. We pick up the pace.
Larry walks more quickly. “Whew, walking this fast is hard in my Utilikilt. Not much support down there, if you know what I mean.” He starts to say something else—more helpful advice, I’m sure; maybe that we should smile more—but I cut him off.
“Anyway, Larry—”
Then he cuts me off. “Oh, also it wouldn’t kill you two to smile more. The show is mostly fine there, I’m talking about in person now. Makes you seem friendlier.”
“All right, Larry,” I say. “This has been fun the way holding in a fart is fun, but we need to be going,” I say over my shoulder.
Larry stops trying to keep up and bleats after us, “Word to the wise: it’s not a terrific idea to hold in farts. Does liver damage.”
“So, I guess that happened,” I say.
“We just met an anthropomorphic ingrown toenail,” Josie says, throwing a quick look behind us to make sure Larry was indeed thoroughly left in the dust.
“Larry is human broccoli.”
“He has the charisma of mysterious public stickiness.”
“He’s a gift card with thirteen cents on it.”
“He’s as charming as a burp that stinks up the whole room.”
“He was a dick,” Lawson says, interrupting our bit. But he’s not wrong.
“Still, exciting to meet someone who watches the show,” I say.
“Oh, totally,” Josie says.
My phone buzzes. I check it. “Aw, man,” I murmur.
“What?” Josie asks.
“Instead of meeting us in a little bit for lunch, Divine wants to reschedule for a dinner meeting.”
“Ah, that sucks. I wanted to get that over with. I’m nervous.”
“Same.”
As we return to wandering, I settle back into my churning stew of emotions. There’s a healthy shot of irritation with Larry Donut, sure. Definitely a dash of leftover exhilaration at being recognized in public. But then…something else. Something deeper and bigger than both those things.
Then I place it: when I heard my name (sorta) being called, it made me wonder for a split second (even though the voice and accent were all wrong) if my dad was around this convention somewhere. It’s only a few hours from where he lives now. It’s a horror convention, so that fits. I can’t remember him ever going to one when I was little, but…
The thought sets my pulse thrumming and makes me feel sick with nerves. I somehow managed to put him out of my mind, with all of the distractions of the con.
You’re so close to him. Closer than you’ve been in years. I keep looking for him in the crowd. Just in case. I have no clue what I’d do if I actually saw him. Freeze. Cry. Who knows?
My jitters mount as the day wears on and I add being apprehensive about meeting Jack Divine to the mix. If it weren’t for all of that, I’d be having a ball. We attend a couple of panels. Watch some amateur short horror films. Someone from Little Rock recognizes us. She’s a lot cooler than Larry. We sign her autograph book.
I get an autograph from Sick-ola Tesla, a web-only horror host I’m into. We talk a little shop. He praises us for keeping the tradition of public access TV horror hosting alive. He’s weird but nice.
At one point, I strike up a conversation with a director of independent horror films who lives in Birmingham, Alabama, and works at the public access station there. I give him one of our DVDs. We exchange phone numbers and promise to stay in touch. I sense friend potential.
Lawson and Josie make goo-goo eyes at each other. He carries her heels for her while she wears more walking-friendly flip-flops around the con. Honestly, I’m glad they’re keeping each other occupied, because I can tell Josie would be massively bored otherwise, and I’m in no state of mind to entertain her. I keep thinking how much my dad would love this convention. How it should be him and me here together.
We’re now scheduled to meet Jack Divine at 5:00. By the time 4:45 rolls around, I feel like puking. You went to all that trouble to get your dad’s info. You hired a PI while you and Mom barely had money to keep the lights on. You’ve chickened out every time you’ve tried to write him. When are you going to be this close to him again? You can’t afford to just up and travel to Florida.
My stomach winds around itself. I chew on my thumbnail.
“DeeDee?” Josie says, eyeing me with concern.
“Huh?”
“You okay?”
“Totally.”
“You look a little…ghostly.”
“Just, you know, tired.”
“Same.”
“And nervous.”
You won’t get another chance. You’re a few hours away. You know where he lives right now. You can do it. You can go and ask him why. You can finally exorcise that question from haunting your life. You have to leave by noon tomorrow to get home for work. Josie has a job interview on Monday. Lawson has to be back too. It’s tonight or never.
I start literally wringing my hands.
“It’ll be fine,” Josie says.
I swallow hard and nod. “Josie?”
“Yeah?”
I pause for a beat or two. “Nothing.”
“What?”
I gnaw on the inside of my lip. “Remember how I told you my dad lives in Florida now?”
“Here?”
“Boca Raton. A few hours away.”
“Did you think you saw him here?”
“No…but…” The words catch in my chest. “I’m thinking of trying to go see him.”
“DeeDee,” Josie says quietly, in almost a gasp.
“I know. I can’t decide if I should.”
“Part of you must have wanted to, or you wouldn’t have tracked him down.”
“I know, I know.” I make my hands into fists to stop them from shaking.
“If you want to go, you can take my car. Lawson and I can handle the meeting with Divine.”
I stop and look up at the ceiling. “Arrrrrrrgh. Why did I put myself through this?” I ask through clenched teeth.
“Because you had to. Go see him.”
“Should I?”
“You’ll torment yourself forever if you don’t. I know you.”
“You’re cool handling our meeting?”
“I definitely don’t know horror stuff like you do, but yeah, I’m cool.”
I believe her. If only one of us has to handle this meeting, it should be Josie. She’s got an easy confidence that naturally draws people in. Better that than my knowledge of horror film and hosting history and culture. “I don’t think he’s going to quiz us or anything. You’re better at dealing with people than me, anyway.”
“So. Confronting your dad.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I know,” I say from between my fingers. “I’m fully freaking out here.”
“I mean, yeah.” Josie hugs me. She must be able to feel me trembling.
“Like I think I would be useless to you if we met with Jack Divine. I’d be obsessing over how I’m missing a chance to visit my dad.”
“Do it. Go see him.”
“I’m doing it.” I try to say it with enough resolve to convince myself.
“Are you gonna leave now?”
“I came all this way. I have to at least meet Jack Divine first. Then I will.”
“We’re still wearing our show clothes,” Josie says. “I’m so tired, I didn’t even think about it. Do we have time to change?”
“I think it’s fine,” I say. “I’ve been reading up on Jack Divine, and he definitely seems like the type who’d be okay with costumes. Might even help.”
We go to the meeting place I planned out with Divine’s assistant, in the lobby of the convention center. We wait in apprehensive silence. Five o’clock comes and goes. Then 5:05. Then 5:10.
“Should we…contact him?” Josie asks.
“I don’t know.” My stomach feels like a burlap sack of baby spiders. “Let’s give it a few more minutes.” It’s 5:15. Come on. Come on.
At 5:19, we spot him. He’s stalk-thin and maybe five-foot-three. He looks to be in his sixties, but he has a shoe-polish-black pompadour that gleams purple-blue under the harsh convention-center lighting. His skin is gas-station-hot-dog orange from some industrial-grade fake tanner. A thin black worm of a mustache sits just atop his upper lip. It looks penciled on. He’s clothed in a shiny red suit that he does not so much wear as he is festooned by, a lemon-yellow dress shirt with the top three buttons undone, and white alligator shoes with black tips.
Behind him lumbers a hulking slab (also slob) of a man, who’s grizzled and gray in every way—his buzz cut, his skin, his teeth, his watery eyes, his dour facial expression. He looks like he’s made of scrap iron smeared with Crisco. He’s probably six-foot-three and 275 pounds, wearing a long leather jacket (that appears to have been slapped together by the makers of my skunk pants) with cheap-looking black dress slacks and those old-man dress shoes that are sorta sneakers. Elaborate tattoos of stars, skulls, and some big, ornate Russian-looking church with a bunch of onion domes peek ou
t from under the cuffs and above the collar of his yellowed-white dress shirt.
We stand at attention and try to smile as they approach. They walk right past us.
“Mr. Divine?” Josie calls after him.
He holds up his hand without turning around. “Can’t. Meeting someone.” He talks with that weird old-timey radio accent from the 1940s that doesn’t exist anymore.
“I think we’re who you’re meeting?” I say.
He and his henchman turn and eye us.
“I set up this meeting with your assistant, Celeste?” I say.
“Celeste?”
“…St. James?”
He still looks flummoxed for a moment. Then, “Ahhh, haha, yes! Celeste. Of course. Dear Celeste.”
We laugh nervously. He forgot his assistant’s name? Weird.
He walks up. “Jack Divine, as you obviously know. And you are?”
“Josie Howard. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Lawson Vargas. Good to meet you.”
“Delia Wilkes, sir. Pleasure. My dad and I used to watch your show. And SkeleTonya, obviously.”
“And what about my more recent work?”
“Um.” I gulp.
“Love it,” Josie says. “Of course.”
He’s all too happy to not call her bluff. His face glows with pleasure. “Well, well, I think we’ll get along fine. Oh! Where are my manners? This is Yuri.” He gestures at the Gray Hulk. Yuri grunts. “Yuri is my…associate?” He looks to Yuri for approval.
Yuri nods. “Associate,” he says in a heavy Russian accent. “And financial planner.”
Jack Divine giggles strangely.
We all murmur hello to Yuri.
I have no idea how this sort of meeting works. I guess we might as well get to the point. “So, we were hoping to—to talk to you about our show. We’re—we’re horror hosts,” I stammer.
“Are you, now? I certainly haven’t heard of you,” Divine says.