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Post Modern Myths #2 by Eric Esquivel – Omnipresence

It's the dawn of summer in Tucson and I'm dressed in a cheap three piece suit.

I'm so nervous that it doesn't register I'm sweating like a schoolgirl at a hentai convention until a droplet falls from my quaff and splashes against the second of three sixes I have tattooed on my left hand (and forgot to rub concealer on before the interview).

Like an idiot, I tossed a promotional copy of my last graphic novel ("Horrible Little People", co-created with Dave Baker) in with my resume.

The woman across from me is thumbing through it, poker face in full effect.

I look to my right, at the soon-to-be-author with whom I'm pitching (Henry), and his expression is that of sheer terror.

"We're screwed like Sue Dibney", he says at that pitch only twenty somethings who've read the complete work of Brad Meltzer can hear.

The woman across from me makes a little inquisitive noise and I kick into high gear:

"If you flip to the inside front cover, you'll find a list of (mostly positive) quotes from industry professionals such as Rick Remender, David Lloyd, Jeffrey Brown, Gene Colan…"

Of course, these names mean nothing to her. She's the marketing/outreach director for The Girl Scouts of America, not the treasurer of the Official "Jim Lee's WildC.A.T.S." Fan Club.

What does interest her is gawking (completely out of context) at the sex scene between two underage furries that occurs midway through the book.

That's right. Oh, Christ.

"Have you ever seen 'V for Vendetta'? David Lloyd is the visual artist who…"

"Mmm hmm…Sure."

She's not listening to a word I'm saying. It's hopeless.

She's completely enthralled.

I can feel Henry's eyes burning holes in the back of my head big enough to repeatedly jam something sharp into as soon as we're escorted off the property by security.

And then the miraculous happens: she grins.

Well, it's a grin at first. Then the grin proceeds to an outright smile, to a chuckle, to a deep, tear-inducing belly laugh.

She jams her index finger into the third panel of page 68 so hard I think for a moment she's going to skewer it and wear the whole thing as a ring.

"'You have a way with words'" She's mocking my dialogue. This is awesome.

She places the back of her hand against her forehead, overacting like a silent movie starlet.

"'I also have a way with my vagina'".

She laughs again. It's a good sign.

"Funny stuff".

The old Esquivelian confidence kicks in.

"You don't have to tell me. I wrote it".

Henry kicks me under the table, and she laughs at that too.

It's at this point that I realize the job is ours. No matter how many stupid tattoos I reveal, how offensive my body of work is, how poorly dressed the both of us are: we've got this one in the bag.

I met Henry Barajas at an in-store signing four years ago, back when he was just a humble fanboy & I was a teenager with just one and a half books under my utility belt.

Henry makes it a habit to attend every nerdy event in or around Arizona, as part of a serial-killer-like-obsession with meeting as many comic book professionals as he can. He has been doing this for as long as anyone (including him) can remember.

Lettered an issue of Uncanny X-Men in the mid-seventies? Henry shook your hand in the elevator at San Diego Con'. Just signed an exclusive with DC? Henry met you ten years ago when you were peddling illegal Lady Death/Charmed fanfiction out of a minivan with a Viking riding a unicorn air brushed on the side at the Tanque Verde Swap Meet. Homeboy knows everybody and everybody knows homeboy.

Barajas is so good at networking with the global community of unlovables we colloquially refer to as "the industry", he landed a gig with The Tucson Comic Con', handling talent relations.

Why?

Because Henry wants to make comic books.

He's not sure in what capacity (writing probably, but one time he "drew a pretty bitchin' Hellboy"), he's not sure for whom (DC being his preferred choice, but he has toyed around with the idea of starting his own company from scratch), but he knows that he wants in—and he has spoken to enough folks in the biz to know that the only way anyone gets in is by knowing "a guy who knows a guy" and by being at the right place at the right time.

So Hank knows everybody. And he does his damndest to be everywhere.

Which leads us to today, in the heart of the headquarters of The Girl Scouts of America.

Somehow, Henry heard through the grapevine that The Girl Scouts were interested in putting together a comic book as part of their "outreach" (recruitment) program.

Rather than go in and pitch cold (with no relevant resume to speak of and no experience pitching to a large, soulless corporation) Hank flipped through his rolodex, saw that I recently wrapped up a book with Spookshow Records, am receiving some critical attention for my new book, and that I had an upcoming speaking engagement at The University of Arizona.

He attended, raised his hand a couple of times during the Q & A, and then reintroduced himself to me afterward informed me about his situation.

Dude had an illustrator, a letterer, a colorist, and a meeting lined up on Tuesday with The Girl Scouts (all secured via the subtle discipline of complete "I've done this a million times" telephone bullshitting) but no story. Not even a hint. No idea of where to begin.

Cue dollar signs in my eyes.

Cue cheesy montage of he and I meeting at Kinko's and Starbucks several times after work, going over The Heroic Journey and cardstock samples.

Cut to the present, wherein this Marketing Director woman is eating out of the palm of our hands, despite my best attempts at self-sabotage.

I might as well not even be here. I'm useless.

It's true that my experience will probably lead to a better end result when all is said and done, but as far as employment acquisition is concerned: this shit's already in the bank. And it's all because Henry has made himself such a fixture in the comic book community that his name immediately comes to mind when a project become available and he hasn't even written a single God damn panel, yet.

My personal catalogue means nothing to a real person. The dust jacket quotes on my novel might as well be the half-hearted generic, encouragement a collection of aunts and uncles gives to their sweetly retarded nephew for his crayon scribbles. I can recite Robert McKee's "Story" until the Kryptonians come home, but the truth is that nobody expects comics to be written well, anyway. Nobody cares.

What matters is "knowing a guy who knows a guy". And, in Tucson: that guy is Henry.

Cue those dollar signs, again.

Eric Esquivel.

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