Thursday, June 26, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Goldberg: Potterville

By Tod Goldberg

In front of me is a woman dressed completely in black, save for the three-foot-long scepter she's leaning on. Behind me is an elf who keeps saying odd sexual things to a girl dressed like Britney Spears in her debut video--you know, the sexy schoolgirl--except that the girl in question tonight is about 50 years old, has pimples on her thighs and her little elvish friend is actually a fat, bald man who just happens to be about 5 feet 1, though judging by the lived-in look of his fancy costume, I'd guess it would be safe to assume that being an actual elf would please this gentleman to no end. Beside me, dressed in a yellow sweater set, white shorts, big shoes and a Kate Spade purse, is my wife of five years.

"Remind me again why we have to be here at the stroke of midnight?" I say. "Why we couldn't just come by in the morning to pick up the book? It's not like Harry Potter is going to go out of print anytime soon."

"Because," my wife says.

We're standing near the end of a serpentine line, our tickets indicating that we are No. 156 in the grand lottery of Harry Potterness. I look at my watch. It's 11:45 p.m. "I'm gonna walk around a bit," I say, because being among all these people fixed in line at a bookstore without being able to actually flog my own literary wares seems a cruel and ego-crushing blow.

"Be back before midnight," my wife says seriously, as if Borders is going to go Thunderdome when the hounds of magic are finally released in 15 minutes and only I will be able protect my young wife's honor. "You have the credit card."

I wander the aisles of the store and it occurs to me that I haven't seen this motley of a crew since I attended a Star Trek convention in the early '80s (just FYI: I did not attend on my own volition...my brother Lee forced me to go in order to help him score Klingon babes...we all have fetishes...). Lurching about the store are grown men and women dressed in all forms of magical-looking costumes, wands and brooms grasped firmly in their gloved hands. Many are also shepherding around small humans who've been forced to dress as a variety of animals, creatures and young English schoolchildren, replete with lightning scars on their foreheads and perfect grammar.

Just as I'm about to call the police to report the apparent child abuse, I notice the local high school's Nebulous Secondary Sexual Characteristics Club is meeting around the Sci-Fi/Fantasy section. Festooned in a variety of dark-hued garments and sporting ironic lunch boxes, the group is enraptured by a very dramatic reading being conducted by what looks to be an alumnus of the club--a (wo)man of about 25 with long, stringy brown hair and clunky black boots. As soon as I arrive in the section to hear the goings-on, however, the person stops reading and just stares at me.

"Sorry," I say, "just wanted to hear what you were reading from."

"If you don't mind, this is private," the person says, as if something taking place in the middle of a Borders Books currently filled with hundreds of people could possibly be private in any way.

"No problem," I say. I step into the Mystery section, approximately two feet away, and the person begins to read again. What I discern is that the person is reading from a Harry Potter book that exists only in J.K. Rowling's worst nightmare: Harry and Ron are taking part in some vaguely erotic activities with each other. Good God, I realize, they're reading fan fiction, a subgenre of copyright infringement and obsessive fandom that compels otherwise normal (kind of) people to imagine their own--often nefarious--storylines for their favorite fictional characters.

The work is truly awful. Revolting, really. I stay and listen for another 10 minutes in hopes that perhaps the story will morph into a "Choose Your Own Adventure" and I'll be allowed to step in so I may guide poor Harry and Ron into a mutual therapy session where they're able to work through the horrors that have befallen them at the hands of our dear reader. Alas, it doesn't happen before an otherworldly voice comes over the store's sound system.

"Muggles, only two minutes more!"

I make my way back to the bulging line of consumers and have to force myself through to my wife by using the elbow-first approach of a veteran slampitter. When I finally reach her, the countdown from 60 to 1 has begun and the Dungeons & Dragons/Day Care audience has molted into a frenzy.

"Where were you?" my wife shouts.

"Listening to how Harry and Ron whacked each other off on the train," I say.

My wife's eyes widen and her mouth begins to move in odd ways, but before she can really say anything, bells starting ringing, flashbulbs start flashing and cash registers start registering.