Walt-Con, Part II: Getting to know you. Getting to know all about you (continued from previous post)

"Helloooo," I said timidly.  The group fell silent and shifted their attention to me.  Even the crickets stopped chirping.  The group, as if with one mind (similar to synchronized swimmers) became guarded and assumed a defensive posture.  It was a dramatic moment and I feared I had made an enormous mistake.  One woman scrambled to a table that had a hat and other things placed around a lantnern.  She stood in front of it with the intention of  protecting it.  Suddenly, I was uncertain and frightened.  I was starring in my own horror movie that could only conclude with the sound of bones being crushed.  My bones.  

Another woman approached me, clearly hostile. The only thing I could do was hold my copy of Cold Dish before me like van Helsing held his cross to ward off Dracula and pray that she wouldn't hurt my book.  Her hand inched toward a sheathed knife.  And then she saw my book.  Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and a heartbreakingly sweet smile spread across her face, revealing the lack of dental insurance.  

"She's all right," she said as she turned to the group.  "She's got herself a Walt book."  Her voice was beyond gravelly and she spoke as though she'd been buttered, bred, and born waaay back in the Arkansas hills.  In fact, she reminded me of one of the women in a recent movie I had seen, Winter's Bone, where I first heard the buttered, bred, and born bit.  The crickets resumed their chirping and the group, again like synchronized swimmers, drew near and then encircled me.  

"Hey, there," one man said as he grabbed my hand and just about shook it off my wrist.  "I'm Lucian.  Glad to meet you."

A woman embraced me like we were reunited twins who had been separated at birth.  "I'm Ruby, and we're so happy you're here!"

"Folks call me Vic.  That's short for Victoria," another woman said as she patted me on the back.  "This here is Dog," she said, as she stroked the German Shepherd.  

The introductions came one after another, Dorothy, Henry, Cady, Cliff Cly, and many more.  I knew most of the names.  They were people involved in Walt's life.  I assumed the names I didn't know came from the novels I hadn't yet read.  Even though I had all of my teeth (except one, but no one could see its absence), and I didn't use "ain't" and employed subject-verb and noun-pronoun agreement, I felt like one of them and relished in their warmth and that of the fire, even at this distance.  I was home.  

"So, what's a Walt-Con?" I asked, as we walked toward the campfire.

Lucian offered the information.  "Well (said with two syllables), every year, we go to Sheridan and meet up with other folks that's fans of the Sheriff.  Usually we just camp out, but this year we stayed at the conference hotel.  It was niiiiiiice.  Doggies it was nice."  He turned his head and spat.  "People present papers.  Ruby, here, did a paper on gender performance.  What was the title of that paper, Ruby?

"Gender Performance and the Rugged Man Syndrome: When Strong 'Men' Cry."  Judith Butler was my main theorist, but I included some of them French feminist theorists.  It was well received."   She was clearly pleased with herself.

"I am Henry.  I do not use contractions.  I also know a great deal about wine."  He perfectly captured the tone and cadence of Henry's speech in the novels (none of the other people did).  His voice was deep and wonderfully sonorous.  He spoke slowly and deliberately, weighing his words.   "I presented a paper on the postmodern man, 'Living the Wild West Way in a Postmodern World.'  I know postmodernism is passe and we have moved beyond it, but I am not ready to let it go yet.  It has become a way of life for me.  Yes.  It is so.  I cannot remember what this thought process is called, but I see everything through a specific lens.  Leo, over there, sees everything as ideological.  He cannot help himself."

"Me, too!" I replied excitedly.  "Althusser, ideological state apparatuses, interpellation," words that are music to my ears.

Leo came closer.  "I can see me and you's gonna get along just fine," he said, and draped an arm over my shoulder.  This made me uncomfortable, for he had invaded my personal space, but I liked this man.  He seemed honest and earnest. But then he started rubbing my back.  Maybe not, so I slipped from under his arm and walked to a table with a lantern and several other artifacts.

"What's this? I asked.  But I knew.  It was a shrine.  A shrine to Walt.  Placed on a blanket that looked just like the one I had won on eBay (see "An unsettling encounter at the campground" below) were a badge, a silver-belly hat, a box of Ultra-Max shells, all of Craig Johnson's novels, and other items associated with Walt, including an unopened can of Rainier beer, nestled in a bucket of ice.  In the center was a lantern that bathed the objects in its comforting yellow glow.  

Leo had followed me and had again come too close.  I edged around the table looking at but not touching the items.  Vic came to my rescue and stood between Leo and me.

She gazed at the shrine and spoke with a soft and reverent voice.  "These are just things that help remind us of Walt and who we are and what we stand for. When we're feeling blue, or when we get a case of the green meanies, we just light this here lantern, breathe deeply, and all the bad things go away."  She sighed and looked at me.  "Let's go back to the fire," and she took my hand and guided me to a lawn chair between her and Ruby.  Leo followed, but there was no place for him.  He sneered, shrugged and returned to his lawn chair on the far side of the fire.

To be continued in the next installment.