Reader, I kissed him
As opening gambits go, telling someone who they are is not among the most scintillating. This past weekend, I met the author Junot Díaz, a writer on whom I have the most unhealthy, all-consuming crush. When I saw him, I did a comical double take, and then I walked over to him and said the words we will likely recall at our small, intimate wedding. I said to him, "you’re Junot." In reply, he smiled and said, "yes, I am." Reader, I kissed him. (On the cheek. And actually, he kissed me first. No, I cannot recall what he smelled like.)
All of last weekend I was at Comic Con (here is a thread of my activities) and it was what is always seems to be, based on my limited experience: frenetic and joyous and tiring. I slept like a log on Sunday night, after walking miles through thick crowds of fans and asking “may I take your picture” more than a hundred times over the course of four days. I am never more complimentary than when I am at Comic Con, I am never so tender to strangers than when I see them dressed up and enthusiastic, proud of their fandom and wearing their commitment literally on their sleeves. I aww at every baby in a Spidey costume; I wave at toddler Dianas, their golden lassos glinting. I saw a tiny Moon Girl, afro puffs bobbing, and openly squealed. A man from Rhode Island struck up conversation with me and my friend N as we walked to the Javits Center on the last day of the con and rather than cut him off (I don’t like strangers talking to me!) we walked the four or so blocks in companionable conversation and when we got inside, I waved him off like we were pals, telling him to “have a great last day!” It’s magic, I tells ya.
Anyway. Back to Mr Díaz. There is a theory that you should never meet your heroes, and I think that’s a fair thing to think, because people are unrelentingly rubbish and with enough time they will make that clear to you. But I do love a serendipitous meeting like this. I have loved Junot’s writing for more than a decade. I have pressed his books into the hands of friends and strangers. I have thought up long and involved fantasies of what our life together would look like. [Since you ask, here's one scenario: we would write in separate offices on opposite sides of our house, our dog traipsing between her mistress and master as she saw fit. Junot and I would meet in the farmhouse-style kitchen for lunch and sometimes, when the chapters felt really good, we’d meet in one office or the other for passionate and involved sex. After we broke up—perhaps amicably, but perhaps not—we would both write masterpieces. Later, scholars would scour our correspondence in order to unlock the secret of genius. You know, the usual stuff.]
In the end, my time with Junot lasted less than three minutes. I mentioned my friend, whom he had briefly taught, and he recalled her name with ease. He asked me my name, and when I told him what it was, he pronounced it "great." Come here, he said, and then he kissed the apple of my cheek, rather than merely brushing his cheek against mine. We posed for a photo together after, taken by the man whose booth he was sitting at. As I walked away, I looked at the photograph on my phone. In it, I am grinning wide, most of my 32 teeth on show. My arm is lightly touching his back, and Junot’s hand is on the back of my waist. I look like a fan.
And fandom is sweet.