TB-9839 – Part Two

Hey Nerdyverse, since this is a continuation of Part One, check it out here if you haven’t read it already! Otherwise, continue on, inrepid reader…

The meeting is being held in the Willow Room, one of the larger sized rooms on the mezzanine. It’s already almost full and I feel like I’m late. I’m not sure what to do. Everyone is talking in small groups, but I don’t know anyone, so I wait. There are plenty of chairs, but nearly half in attendance remain standing (including me – it is next to impossible to sit down in Trooper armor). There’s some tables arranged in the front of the room and the Texas garrison officers are seated there, talking to each other, looking over papers, and checking their cell phones. The 501st and garrison flags are positioned, crossing each other, behind the VIPs. A sign by the door reminds us to take off our helmets so we could all get to know each other on a more personal level. Twenty minutes after the meeting was scheduled to start, the Garrison Executive Officer calls us to order. He’s dressed as a Clone Trooper from The Phantom Menace. The officers introduce themselves one at a time (there are at least ten of them – Garrison XO, GML, Armorer, PR Liaison, half a dozen squad leaders and a merchandising officer) and then they finally get down to the serious business of running an adult costuming club.

A female officer, the North Texas squad leader I think, calls out one of the guards in the back for having his helmet on, telling him that it is “regulation” to remove it for the meeting. We all turn to look at him. He looks around, presumably to see if everyone is, indeed, sans headgear, and realizing that he’s the odd one out, finally capitulates and takes off his helmet. He apologizes sheepishly and tells us he prefers to be behind the mask, because he’s not like the rest of us “pretty boys.” I can see why. The unfortunate kid is afflicted with an Old Testament, wrath-of-God kind of ugliness. Like he not only opened the Ark of the Covenant, but he pissed in it for good measure. His cheeks are so deeply pockmarked that they look like cheese graters and he has a plague of acne so severe that even his pimples have pimples. I make a mental note to introduce myself to him before I leave. Us uggos have to stick together.

The meeting is dull. They talk about upcoming charity events, new officers, new rules, and there seems to be some anger among a vocal minority over the handling of a recent unauthorized merchandising run that resulted in several officers resigning from their posts. A man sitting two rows in front of me speaks up in a thick Texas drawl, demanding to know exactly what happened – the exact chain of events that led to the resignations. The garrison Commanding Officer stands up and tells him it is an internal matter and we all need to put it behind us. I see a few heads shake in disapproval. I’ve been enjoying dressing up in character so far, but not enough to take it this seriously. My feet hurt from standing around and I can’t listen to any more motions to amend the Star Garrison charter, so I duck out for a walk. By now the vendor area is fully set up and I want to get first dibs on some good swag.

The merchant’s square in the Oak Room is the hub of activity and by far the most crowded area. The t-shirt stalls are particularly popular. Designs range from retro video games, to every variety of sci-fi movie and TV show, geek pop culture (BAZINGA!), and comic book logos. Farther in are the specialty shops selling obscure autographed photos (TOM TROUPE – PLAYED “AUGUSTUS” IN EPISODE 13 OF THE PLANET OF THE APES TV SERIES (1978) – $35.00). One of the smaller booths has bumper stickers and pins to display your geek obsession with phrases like “MY OTHER CAR IS A TARDIS” and “BEAM ME UP SCOTTY – THERE’S NO INTELLIGENT LIFE DOWN HERE!” are among the best that are offered. There’s a booth for Jordan’s Sabers, a company that sells unlicensed lightsaber replicas that deviate just enough, aesthetically, to avoid copyright violations. Despite their slick evasion of licensing fees, their cheapest item sells for just over three hundred dollars. To my surprise (and deep regret) there is only one vendor selling action figures.

The biggest attraction here is Neither Noir, a photostudio that specializes in costuming portraits. Not only is there a line waiting to be photographed, but they have also attracted a sizable group of spectators who are watching the costumers pose for the camera. I take a number and get in line. There are several people in front of me, but the line moves at an agreeable pace. The girl under the lights who is currently being ogled by the crowd is a curvy little thing, dressed as Toadette, a minor character from the Super Mario video game franchise – a feminized, anthropomorphic mushroom. She seems to be devouring the attention and she makes a series of increasingly sexual poses. She has a youthful beauty despite, or maybe enhanced by, her sausage-like limbs and frank sexuality. The photographer reluctantly calls short her session before any decency laws are violated. She giggles as she steps out of the studio area and the next number is called.

This new girl doesn’t fair as well under the lens. She’s a member of the Rebel Legion and is dressed as a Jedi Knight. She’s a short girl, with thick glasses, a long face, and a drooping posture that gives the impression that she would look uncomfortable at her own birthday party. Her thin lips are pressed tight together and her brows are furrowed in concentration as she attempts several “action shots,” wielding her lightsaber with less grace than a newborn fawn, goaded on by the photographer who encourages her with allegations that each shot is somehow “Awesome!” or “Bad-Ass!,” occasionally offering up an, “Oh, I like THAT one!” as she stumbles through another pose.

At length it’s finally my turn. I take only one picture. Standing upright, stoically, I fancy myself like a grim-faced civil war soldier, posing for his daguerreotype to send home to his wife. The photographer is insistent that I do more, that I take some shots with my gun out and pointed at the camera like James Bond, or maybe lying down in the prone position, or something equally stalwart. I refuse. I’m terrified of looking stupid (oh, the irony, I know). The fear of looking like a complete tool overshadows any want for a dynamic picture, and ten minutes later I walk away with my somber antiquated photograph.

As I make my way down the hall there’s a hush from the crowd and I turn to get my first glimpse of Slave Girl. Standing under the photographer’s lights she poses naturally, not awkward or overtly sexual, but with an easy and inherent grace. Her costume is Princess Leia’s slave outfit from Return of the Jedi, that metal bikini that leaves gloriously little to the imagination. Her costume is flawless, as is she. I sidle closer through the crowd and take full advantage of the tint provided by my helmet’s lens to get a good look. She has a Hellenic beauty, an untouched elegance and simple, undeniable comeliness. She has a thin frame but large, well-formed breasts. She stands with masterful confidence. She calls her entourage, two more girls dressed like her, in metal bikinis. I scarcely notice them. I watch her while she makes her poses (many more than anyone else was allowed to take, but no one complains) and the photographer, who was so animated and vocal before, is now snapping pictures in complete silence. She finishes and floats off stage. Sighing deeply, I move on. I leave the Merchant’s Square with a vintage Star Wars t-shirt, an autographed photo of a Star Wars extra, and my own 8 x 10.

Back at the 501st booth there’s a large crowd looking to catch a glimpse of us in uniform. I make my way behind the booth where there’s some breathing room. There I meet The Soldier. He’s a Stormtrooper, but he doesn’t wear his helmet. Instead, he wears an Army Ranger beret. He tells me he’s authorized to wear it in uniform because he’s currently enlisted. He’s a tall, barrel-chested man with frosted grey hair. Looks to be in his forties. He goes on to tell me that he just got back from a tour of duty in Iraq and will be leaving again soon for Afghanistan. He has the loud, confident voice of an old soldier. We talk for a while. He gives me the low-down on all the internal politics, who to stay away from, who not to mess with. The Soldier warns me against making any costumes of “named” characters – characters that are unique individuals in the Star Wars universe. On official troops only one unique “named” character is allowed (only one Darth Vader per event, for example) and people fight over who gets to go. If you’re buddies with the XO or squad leader, you get the first slot. A newcomer like me would never have a chance. It’s far more of a “good ole boys” club than I had imagined. More troopers begin to show up. They are loud and boisterous and all clearly well acquainted with each other. I feel out of place so I slip back into the crowd for more sight-seeing.

Back out in the hallway I notice that attendance has multiplied exponentially. There’s far too many costumes rushing by for my mind to process. Jedi Knights. Umbrella Security guards. A devil on stilts. Video game characters. A man from the movie 300 with painted on abs. The Disney Princesses. More than one Jon Snow, and a few Browncoats from the short-lived (but much beloved) Firefly TV show. I push my way through the crowd, past some of the smaller rooms that are being used to host some workshop classes. I note the signs on the doors as I pass – “MOLD MAKING FOR BEGINNERS” – “PROPMAKING 101” – “HOW TO STEAMPUNK ANYTHING.” Some of them are standing room only. The crowd is suffocating and I wonder why they didn’t choose a larger building to host this event. I’m stopped by some teenagers who want a picture of me “arresting” their friend. I grab the boy’s arm and put my gun to his back. Cameras seem to come out of nowhere and people who I am sure don’t even know this boy are snapping up pics and suddenly I am mobbed with picture requests. I take a few more, all variations of the “arresting” theme, before I manage to move on.

I make my way down one of the less crowded hallways and a voice calls out from behind an open doorway:

“Hey trooper! Come here.”

I turn to see who it is and my heart stops: It’s Slave Girl. She’s sitting at a table as part of a panel for one of those workshops. I glance at the sign on the door. It reads: “CREATIVE COSPLAY” (cosplay means “costume play” but I despise that word so I use it here only this once for the sake of authenticity). I walk into the room, panic setting in.

It’s a small auditorium, but it’s packed. She’s a popular person and likely used to drawing a crowd.

“Hey, this guy’s being a creep, can you help me out?” she says, motioning to the guy sitting next to her at the table. What the hell, I think, I can humor her. I take out my gun from its holster and grab the guy by the collar, pulling him up to his feet. In my most threatening, authoritarian voice, I tell the guy to get on his feet and come with me. I have a voice converter installed in my helmet, so I sound like an authentic stormtrooper when I say it. He turns on me, fists clenched and face red with rage. I instantly realize that this is not a random photo op. These people do not want a cheesy, staged picture of me “escorting” this “creep” out of the room. No, this is for real. This guy is a genuine jackass and he’s harassing Slave Girl and I’ve been lured in here to deal with the situation. This is usually the time during a confrontation when I shut down and look for a way out, some kind of escape or some way to remedy the conflict. I was just kiddin’ man! Oh, my bad, I thought you were someone else! But I can’t think of a way out, and I don’t trust myself to try and talk down the situation. Instead, I drop my gun to free my hand up and, still clutching this guy’s collar, I move between the Creep and Slave Girl. My legs can barely hold me up and I’m suddenly conscious that the inside of my helmet is soaked with sweat and smells like a Bronze Age Turkish brothel. Creep eyes me up and down, probably wondering what kind of man is underneath all the armor.

My microphone crackles, kkhhh “Don’t try it, asshole”, kkhhh. I manage.

It was enough. After a few agonizing seconds, he throws his hands up and walks out. There’s an audible sigh of relief, both from me and from Slave Girl and she walks over to thank me for my help. I tell her it was no problem and I’m always happy to lend a hand. Inside I’m ready to vomit.

Back at the 501st booth word got around that one of our members had rescued a princess in distress. Somehow, they even know it was me. Creep got picked up by security and kicked out of the Expo Center, they tell me. I feel only a twinge of guilt about how it all actually went down, but I say nothing about it. There’s a party after the convention and I’m asked if I’m going to go but I make an excuse about needing to go to work early tomorrow so I can leave. I don’t feel comfortable quite yet socializing with everyone without hiding behind my costume. I’ve decided that the altercation over Slave Girl was the perfect way to end my day, so I pack up my armor and drive home in my sweat soaked black undersuit.