The VIP line got one pre-signed 8 X10, a grab bag of trinkets related to his career, and one quick picture with Mitch Kaliber.
It was almost all women, and Mitch took pride in the fact that he put his arms around them.
Some stars in his position wouldn’t touch the fans at all.
In Gainesville one woman got so excited she puked. He felt bad for her.
The women, even the young male nerds, knew they only had a few seconds to say something to Captain Triton of the Starship Galactic Beacon, or Blas Fernace from Heavy Metal Revenge Squad.
Two or three would always take Mitch by surprise and mention The Volcano Trap or Prayers For Sally Mayfield.
He would respond if he thought of something clever, sometimes they’d shriek if he said a line from one of the movies.
His management once made him stop wearing clothes with pockets, because women would shove hotel room entry cards in them.
That lasted all of one show, at Hilton Head when women just reached right into the elastic waistband of his $9000 pocketless tracksuit and dropped the entry cards in.
But he would always touch them.
He knew that made it more special.
Late at night, gakked out of his cabana on cocaine, he would lurk the fan sites, read truths and lies about himself.
The touch was big. The touch, the embrace was here to stay.
He was in San Diego, the big one, people from all over the world.
At this one, he wasn’t the biggest draw. This one got the huge ones; Shatner, Ford, Gadot.
The audience wranglers were security pros, kept the crowd moving at an amazing pace.
Everyone here was a Galactic Beacon fan. By noon he felt like he had recited 30 pages of the movie’s dialogue and had removed six entry cards from his pockets.
A shorter woman approached. Mitch expertly crouched and folded in his six-four frame for a seamless shoulder embrace, facing the camera helmed by a nerdy dude.
“Linda, I could never forget you,” the woman said.
Mitch laughed. “That’s definitely not from Galactic Beacon.”
“Midnight Basketball, Floyd,” the woman said, using his given name. A short you shot the week before you got me pregnant in the walk-in at Pisani’s Subs and Salads.”
Mitch pivoted. The wranglers were already motioning the woman off the meet and greet platform.
“Diana?” Mitch said.
“Deanna,” the woman said. “Close enough. Been thirty-eight years.”
A wrangler grabbed her gently by the wrist and pulled, as another woman was being escorted toward Mitch.
“I put a hotel card in your pocket,” Deanna called over the wrangler’s shoulder. “Stop by tonight, we’ll have a drink and you can reimburse me for the abortion.”
At 3:16 am, Pacific Time, Mitch Kaliber, nee Floyd Stevanovski, with a throbbing septum, entered his third hotel room of the evening.
Deanna Aguirre, jumped, startled. She wore gray sweats and a Purdue hoodie.
Mitch would unsuccessfully try to convince Deanna that he truly hoped she had been in the first hotel room, but it was true.
Mitch told her he didn’t have sex with the other two women whose hotel rooms he visited. This was also true, but Deanna seemed ambivalent about it.
Deanna was polite and pleasant and had horrible taste in tequila.
Mitch had no clue what an abortion cost in the 80’s so he Venmoed her the max he could: $4,999.99
Deanna accepted the money graciously, kissed Floyd on the cheek and calmly asked him to leave.
He was standing down the hall, by the ice machine, doing a key bump, when Deanna noticed his note on the payment said “catering” and screamed.
***
Photo by Alexandru Acea on Unsplash
When I was 18, working my first job as an engineering intern engaged with many suppliers, my manager said, "From this day forward, no matter where you are or what you are doing, you are being taken out to lunch by someone."
I can expense that, right?