Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Nov 12, 2008 13:07:59 GMT -5
Author’s Note: Original writing is not something that I usually pursue, and unless it is masked by fictional characters, autobiographical writing is something I steer completely clear of. I find that writing about myself is just weird. I also feel that by writing this, I’m proving to the world just how weird and crazy I truly am. But I wanted so much to record yesterday’s event, so here it is…
Today was the day. I was literally going on no more than two hours of sleep, but I didn’t care. All that mattered now was that we left as early as possible, so that I would be sure to get to the bookstore in Ridgewood, New Jersey before they ran out of tickets. That was my biggest fear. To come this far, only to be dragged down again by fate. But that was me: Kat a.k.a. Emma Squalor, the girl who led an uneventful life and spent every moment of her spare time writing stories involving characters whom she held no claim to. A woman who, at twenty-seven years old, was madly in love with a fictional character and whose only hope of ever getting another boyfriend was if she could find a man who matched Jerome Squalor in every way, shape, and form.
I had fallen asleep the night before shortly after two-thirty with the television blaring, and woken at precisely four-thirty. I had to get up in another four hours to call the bookstore again to see if they had any tickets left. My family was unable to fathom how on Earth a person could be this obsessed with a series of children’s books, which I had first discovered the existence of back in August of 2003. I had been browsing in Walden Books, when I came across a row of books lining one of the shelves near the Harry Potter section entitled A Series of Unfortunate Events. I had reached for a copy of The Bad Beginning, taking notice of how Count Olaf looked remarkably like one of my favorite characters, Cain, from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman comic books. I had read the summary on the back of The Bad Beginning, thinking it a little unusual that the author was telling their reader to put the book back on the shelf. Looking back on it, perhaps that was part of the reason why I bought it.
But I could never have imagined that a series of books written by an author I had never heard of until that afternoon five years ago would have such an unbelievable impact on my life.
The minutes on the clock never seemed to go by more slowly than they did that morning. I decided to wait until 9:30 to call the bookstore, just so I could be sure someone would be there to pick up the telephone. I usually made myself a hot chocolate in the mornings and then went back to my room and played on the computer for a bit before going to take a shower. But not today. Today I was far too preoccupied with the clocks in the house to concentrate on anything else. So I chose to sit at the kitchen table, nervously sipping my hot chocolate. The fact that my brother’s car was not in the driveway only made my feeling of dread grow, and I was beginning to think that he had bailed on me at the last minute. He had mentioned at dinner Friday night that he would be losing money by taking the day off from work so I could attend the event. He had even gone as far as to get me to change my mind the day before, claiming that there probably wouldn’t be any tickets left. I had been in tears at the discovery of this, having woken Saturday morning to my mother’s voice calling from down the hallway: “I was just on the website and it says you have to purchase tickets for this thing!”
I found out from my mother that my brother had gone to return something to someone at work, and that he would be coming straight back. I went into my room and decided to watch some television for the next half-hour. I was unable to pay attention to The Golden Girls episode, as I continuously glanced over my shoulder at the clock. “Hurry up!” I whined.
I was far too excited, knowing deep down that I was setting myself up for what would probably be the biggest disappointment of my life. I had said a prayer the night before— which is something I rarely if ever do, seeing as I’m one of the least religious people in the world —that had, for some reason, given me a strong sense of hope.
At last, nine-thirty came, and I raced for the telephone sitting on top of my dresser. I dialed the number of the bookstore, which I had copied down into my date book. The telephone rang two or three times, and eventually a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, this is BookEnds.”
“Hi,” I said. “I was wondering how many Lemony Snicket tickets you have left?”
“I’m not sure… I think we’re all sold out. But give me a minute and I’ll double-check.”
There it was. My Great Disappointment, like the song by AFI. I wondered if Shelly covered that one in A Series of Quiglet Events…
The tears had barely begun to form at the back of my eyes when the woman returned. “Yes,” she said. “We have some tickets left available.”
“So,” I said, “if I come in around, say, one-thirty or two, then I’ll be able to purchase one? I live about a hundred miles away.”
“Well, we should have some left. Just call back right before you’re ready to leave.”
“O.K. Thank you very much.”
The next two and a half hours were literally torture. I was unable to sit still for more than a minute at a time, and was driving my mother (who was sitting at the kitchen table listening to her MP3 player) nuts just by talking too much. In order to work off some of my excess energy, I decided to go outside and circle the apartment a few times. Afterward I came back inside, returned to my room, and for the next hour sat in my desk chair and watched Will & Grace from across the room. This was getting ridiculous. Why couldn’t my brother and I just leave early? I knew I was behaving like a child at Christmastime, but when did I ever get excited about something? Fed up, I stood and headed to my brother’s room.
I peeked through the door, and caught sight of him in bed. He was dressed, but he was fast asleep. Or was pretending to be. He had been like that ever since we were kids and, at twenty-four, he appeared to not have outgrown it. He opened one eye, smiling.
“Tom, it’s noon,” I said. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Did you call the bookstore?” he asked.
“The woman I spoke to said to call again right before we leave.”
“Then go call.”
Once again, I rushed down the hallway to my room. Snatching the phone off of the charger, I dialed the number once more.
This time, a man answered, and I repeated what I had said earlier to the woman.
“We have a fair amount of tickets left,” the man said. “Just make sure you get hear early this afternoon so you’ll have a chance.”
“O.K.,” I said, feeling my hope increase. “Thank you very much.”
I grabbed my purse and the folder containing the drawings of Esmé, Jerome, and Carmelita— my three favorite characters —that I had done for Daniel Handler. I had considered including one featuring Vice Principal Nero (my other favorite character), but figured that something romantic of him and Carmelita together would be weird.
I returned to my brother’s room and announced, “I called the bookstore, and the guy said they have a fair amount of tickets left.”
I kissed my mother goodbye, and together my brother and I headed out to the car. We were stopping to pick up Mallory, his on-again-off-again girlfriend, who had a map-tracker so that we wouldn’t get lost on the way to the bookstore.
It took us about half an hour to arrive at her house, and on the way we passed a place called Jerry’s Self-Storage. Of course, the name made me think of only one thing, and I wondered to myself if I would come across any other Snicket coincidences before we arrived in Ridgewood, or if any of them would be Jerome and/or Esmé-related.
The next coincidence came after Tom and I had picked up Mallory. We were driving along the road that had once been the route taken by my old elementary school bus. I was looking out the window, and noticed a sign for something called The Vineyard. It was either an apparition and I was more obsessed with Jerome and Esmé than I had originally thought, or perhaps (like Jerry’s Self-Storage) this, too was nothing more than a coincidence.
Either way, it was odd.
Truth be told, the state of New Jersey was not a place in which I held particularly pleasant memories. But I was determined to make this the best day since I’d had since meeting my best friend almost three years ago.
We soon arrived at the bookstore, and I begged Tom to let me off at the curb while he drove around to locate a parking space. Not surprised when he refused, I sat back and did my very best to remain patient.
Cybermystery was planning to be at the event as well, and I was hoping to run into him. I knew him as the moderator for the fan art, fanfiction, and RPG sections on 667, but had never communicated with him personally.
Tom, Mallory, and I ended up driving around in a circle for a few minutes, and eventually ended up back in front of the bookstore. My heart was pounding, as I reminded myself that this was the last step before I discovered if I would meet the man whose books and characters had encouraged me to start writing again. Feeling like the Baudelaire orphans at the beginning of The Ersatz Elevator, I stepped through the door of the bookstore.
I raced up to the counter, mildly annoyed that I would be forced to wait a few more seconds to ask my question while the cashier assisted someone. After the person had left, I blurted out like an overly obsessed fangirl: “Please tell me that you have some Lemony Snicket tickets left!”
The cashier pointed me in the direction of a table on which a number of Lemony Snicket books were stacked. “After you purchase a book,” the cashier said, “you’ll get the ticket with it.”
“O.K.,” I said, and went over to the table. I wasted no time, and grabbed the first copy of A Lump of Coal I saw. I returned to the register and handed the cashier the book and my money.
For the next two and a half hours, I loitered around the bookstore, inspecting my usual favorite sections. During that time, I stumbled upon one more Snicket reference (not including the books on the table): a book entitled Dewey, which had a photograph of a cat on the cover.
Every now and then, I would lift my head to see if there was any sign of Cybermystery. I was unsure if he was a high school or college student, and so I had no idea when he might be arriving.
At about forty-five minutes to three, the clerk who had given me my ticket informed me that I could head downstairs to wait for Daniel Handler. I managed to locate a seat in the third row (talk about lucky!) behind some third-grade girls, who were talking animatedly about the event.
“His last name is Handler.”
“His real name is Daniel— no, David!”
“It’s Daniel.”
One of the girls would be meeting Daniel for the second time, and I wondered if I would ever get another chance like this again. Probably not, but I certainly wasn’t going to let it discourage me.
I kept looking at the stairs, hoping to see Cybermystery. I was beginning to wish I’d asked him for a photograph, since I had no idea who I was looking for. I wasn’t worried about him not knowing who I was, since he had told me he’d seen my pictures on the “Post Your Picture” thread on the 667 Dark Avenue messageboard.
Soon enough, a clerk came down and informed us that Daniel Handler and Brett Helquist had just arrived. I had no idea that Mr. Helquist would be joining him, and I was excited. I wanted to ask him if the man in the pinstripe suit in the illustration with the fish was Jerome. I already had the V.F.D. eye insignia tattooed on my upper right arm, and I was considering getting a second Lemony Snicket tattoo of Jerome done over my heart to symbolize my love for him. I also wanted to ask Daniel what Esmé’s real maiden name was (since something told me that it couldn’t possibly be “Salinger”).
Daniel Handler and Brett Helquist soon made their grant entrance, and the audience applauded. The two men sat down at the table at the head of the room and introduced themselves. Daniel spoke into the microphone, explaining that he would be appearing in Mr. Snicket’s place. At one point, Daniel pretended that the microphone was broken, so that when he spoke into it, no one could hear anything. Everyone laughed.
The time soon came for everyone to start lining up to have their books signed. I decided to wait and let the kids in my row go up first, since they were probably even more impatient than I was. However, one of the mothers ushered me up, telling me that I was next. I stood, and made my way to the end of the row and into the line.
Since we were being given the opportunity to have two books signed, I decided to have Daniel and Brett autograph A Lump of Coal for my best friend, Kara. I had brought along my copy of The Ersatz Elevator, which was my favorite out of all thirteen books, and so I was going to ask Daniel and Brett to autograph it for me.
Because it was necessary to have our books “stamped”, one of the clerks offered to save my spot in line while I ran upstairs to have my book stamped. Expecting to find a huge line, I was grateful when I discovered that there were only a few people.
“I need this stamped,” I said, and handed my book to the cashier.
The stamp device jammed at the page’s edge and tore it slightly, but for once I didn’t mind that one of my possessions was imperfect. Not like The Carnivorous Carnival incident, thank God. The cashier re-stamped my book, handed it back to me, and I hurried down the stairs once more.
I returned to my spot in line, amazed to see that I was now second in line. Since when did I possess any good luck?
I took close notice how good Daniel was with the younger kids. “And what’s your name?” he asked a little boy.
“Kyle,” he replied.
Daniel looked at the woman standing next to Kyle. “And who is this lady?”
“My mom.”
“Ah, I see. And is she a mean mom, or a nice mom?”
“Mean.”
I had to laugh at that.
I was shocked by how calm I was when my turn finally came. On the way over in the car, my palms had actually begun to sweat, which never happens. Less than three weeks ago, I’d had a very clear vision of myself fainting in front of Daniel Handler. I admired him beyond all explanation, and he was the only (living) man I had almost as big of a crush on as Jerome Squalor.
“And who might you be?” Daniel asked me.
Grinning like the blatantly obsessive fangirl I so obviously was, I replied through embarrassing giggles: “Kat.”
“Why, Kat, what large fangs you have, as I’m sure many men have told you before.”
Did he just compare me to Sunny Baudelaire?
“I’m Emma Squalor,” I said, “from the 667 Dark Avenue message board.”
Daniel looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s a rather suspicious name. Are you on some sort of mission?”
“No.”
“Do you spend a lot of time on there?”
“Yes.”
“And do you find yourself continuously spiraling down into darkening depths of despair?”
I giggled. “No.”
Not knowing what else to say, I reached inside my bag for the drawings I had done. Though I had drawn them more than a year ago, I still considered them to be some of my best work. “Um…” I began nervously. “I brought you something… and I feel really bad, because I had no idea that Brett Helquist was going to be here, too… and I don’t have anything for him…” I gave up trying to explain myself, and slid the folder across the table to Daniel.
I watched anxiously as he opened the folder, wondering if he was going to tell me I was a terrible artist like the troll who had stumbled across my deviantART gallery had done.
But to my surprise…
“These are gorgeous,” Daniel gushed, and I couldn’t help but beam. Here I was, just a small-town girl from a middle-class, single-parent family, and someone famous was telling me I was good. I had given up on drawing more than a year ago, having come to the conclusion that I just flat-out sucked and would get more satisfaction out of writing.
However, I still wasn’t prepared for what Daniel said next…
Turning to Brett, he demanded jokingly, “Mr. Helquist, why can’t you apply yourself like this?”
I laughed. The very idea that I would be compared to one of the greatest artists of all time like Brett Helquist had never even occurred to me, and even now I don’t consider myself to be all that talented. I actually felt a little bad for him.
Daniel sifted through my drawings some more until he came to the last picture, which was the one I had done of Carmelita as an adult. “An adult Carmelita,” he said aloud. “Now that’s disconcerting.”
I smiled, and handed Daniel and Brett my books to sign.
Opening The Lump of Coal, Daniel looked down at the slip of paper that the clerk had attached to my book. “Who’s Kara?” he asked.
“My best friend,” I replied.
“And where does she live?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Oh… that’s unfortunate.”
I waited for Daniel and Brett to finish signing my books, and then asked Daniel if he would be so kind as to take a picture with me. He said he would be happy to, and I handed the photographer my digital camera. Daniel and I leaned in close together, and the man snapped a picture of us both.
“We can send that out with our Hanukkah cards,” Daniel said.
“Thank you so much!” I said, and waved goodbye right before turning toward the stairs.
It wasn’t until I was outside that I remembered that I had— in what must have been at least five minutes of excitement —completely forgotten three very important things: 1). To show Daniel and Brett my “authentic” tattoo of the V.F.D. eye insignia, 2). To ask Daniel what Esmé’s maiden name was, and 3). To ask Brett if the man in the illustration on page 217 of The Ersatz Elevator is indeed my beloved Jerome.
I hadn’t gotten to meet Cybermystery, who I would have loved to talk with.
Since I didn’t want to run back in and risk holding anyone else still waiting to meet the wonderful writer and incredible illustrator, I decided that the best thing to do would be to wait on it. And who knew? Maybe I would get another chance, like the little girl sitting in the second row had. My whole purpose had been to meet the man I admired, and I had done it. And without making a total idiot out of myself like I thought I would. I had successfully overcome every obstacle in my way, and in the end succeeded.
I’d gotten my miracle.
For those interested, here is the photograph of Daniel and I together, as well as what he and Brett wrote in my books…
Daniel and I (Note: I wasn’t even going to post this one since I hate my smile, so please be kind. ^_^;
The Ersatz Elevator
The Lump of Coal
The Drawings I gave to Daniel:
Esme
Jerome
Carmelita
The Miraculous Meeting
By Emma Squalor
~*~
Dedicated To:
Kara, Jenny, May, and Shelly, who I wish could have been there;
Cybermystery, who I wish I could have met;
Daniel Handler and Brett Helquist, who I did meet.
~*~
By Emma Squalor
~*~
Dedicated To:
Kara, Jenny, May, and Shelly, who I wish could have been there;
Cybermystery, who I wish I could have met;
Daniel Handler and Brett Helquist, who I did meet.
~*~
Today was the day. I was literally going on no more than two hours of sleep, but I didn’t care. All that mattered now was that we left as early as possible, so that I would be sure to get to the bookstore in Ridgewood, New Jersey before they ran out of tickets. That was my biggest fear. To come this far, only to be dragged down again by fate. But that was me: Kat a.k.a. Emma Squalor, the girl who led an uneventful life and spent every moment of her spare time writing stories involving characters whom she held no claim to. A woman who, at twenty-seven years old, was madly in love with a fictional character and whose only hope of ever getting another boyfriend was if she could find a man who matched Jerome Squalor in every way, shape, and form.
I had fallen asleep the night before shortly after two-thirty with the television blaring, and woken at precisely four-thirty. I had to get up in another four hours to call the bookstore again to see if they had any tickets left. My family was unable to fathom how on Earth a person could be this obsessed with a series of children’s books, which I had first discovered the existence of back in August of 2003. I had been browsing in Walden Books, when I came across a row of books lining one of the shelves near the Harry Potter section entitled A Series of Unfortunate Events. I had reached for a copy of The Bad Beginning, taking notice of how Count Olaf looked remarkably like one of my favorite characters, Cain, from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman comic books. I had read the summary on the back of The Bad Beginning, thinking it a little unusual that the author was telling their reader to put the book back on the shelf. Looking back on it, perhaps that was part of the reason why I bought it.
But I could never have imagined that a series of books written by an author I had never heard of until that afternoon five years ago would have such an unbelievable impact on my life.
The minutes on the clock never seemed to go by more slowly than they did that morning. I decided to wait until 9:30 to call the bookstore, just so I could be sure someone would be there to pick up the telephone. I usually made myself a hot chocolate in the mornings and then went back to my room and played on the computer for a bit before going to take a shower. But not today. Today I was far too preoccupied with the clocks in the house to concentrate on anything else. So I chose to sit at the kitchen table, nervously sipping my hot chocolate. The fact that my brother’s car was not in the driveway only made my feeling of dread grow, and I was beginning to think that he had bailed on me at the last minute. He had mentioned at dinner Friday night that he would be losing money by taking the day off from work so I could attend the event. He had even gone as far as to get me to change my mind the day before, claiming that there probably wouldn’t be any tickets left. I had been in tears at the discovery of this, having woken Saturday morning to my mother’s voice calling from down the hallway: “I was just on the website and it says you have to purchase tickets for this thing!”
I found out from my mother that my brother had gone to return something to someone at work, and that he would be coming straight back. I went into my room and decided to watch some television for the next half-hour. I was unable to pay attention to The Golden Girls episode, as I continuously glanced over my shoulder at the clock. “Hurry up!” I whined.
I was far too excited, knowing deep down that I was setting myself up for what would probably be the biggest disappointment of my life. I had said a prayer the night before— which is something I rarely if ever do, seeing as I’m one of the least religious people in the world —that had, for some reason, given me a strong sense of hope.
At last, nine-thirty came, and I raced for the telephone sitting on top of my dresser. I dialed the number of the bookstore, which I had copied down into my date book. The telephone rang two or three times, and eventually a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, this is BookEnds.”
“Hi,” I said. “I was wondering how many Lemony Snicket tickets you have left?”
“I’m not sure… I think we’re all sold out. But give me a minute and I’ll double-check.”
There it was. My Great Disappointment, like the song by AFI. I wondered if Shelly covered that one in A Series of Quiglet Events…
The tears had barely begun to form at the back of my eyes when the woman returned. “Yes,” she said. “We have some tickets left available.”
“So,” I said, “if I come in around, say, one-thirty or two, then I’ll be able to purchase one? I live about a hundred miles away.”
“Well, we should have some left. Just call back right before you’re ready to leave.”
“O.K. Thank you very much.”
The next two and a half hours were literally torture. I was unable to sit still for more than a minute at a time, and was driving my mother (who was sitting at the kitchen table listening to her MP3 player) nuts just by talking too much. In order to work off some of my excess energy, I decided to go outside and circle the apartment a few times. Afterward I came back inside, returned to my room, and for the next hour sat in my desk chair and watched Will & Grace from across the room. This was getting ridiculous. Why couldn’t my brother and I just leave early? I knew I was behaving like a child at Christmastime, but when did I ever get excited about something? Fed up, I stood and headed to my brother’s room.
I peeked through the door, and caught sight of him in bed. He was dressed, but he was fast asleep. Or was pretending to be. He had been like that ever since we were kids and, at twenty-four, he appeared to not have outgrown it. He opened one eye, smiling.
“Tom, it’s noon,” I said. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Did you call the bookstore?” he asked.
“The woman I spoke to said to call again right before we leave.”
“Then go call.”
Once again, I rushed down the hallway to my room. Snatching the phone off of the charger, I dialed the number once more.
This time, a man answered, and I repeated what I had said earlier to the woman.
“We have a fair amount of tickets left,” the man said. “Just make sure you get hear early this afternoon so you’ll have a chance.”
“O.K.,” I said, feeling my hope increase. “Thank you very much.”
I grabbed my purse and the folder containing the drawings of Esmé, Jerome, and Carmelita— my three favorite characters —that I had done for Daniel Handler. I had considered including one featuring Vice Principal Nero (my other favorite character), but figured that something romantic of him and Carmelita together would be weird.
I returned to my brother’s room and announced, “I called the bookstore, and the guy said they have a fair amount of tickets left.”
I kissed my mother goodbye, and together my brother and I headed out to the car. We were stopping to pick up Mallory, his on-again-off-again girlfriend, who had a map-tracker so that we wouldn’t get lost on the way to the bookstore.
It took us about half an hour to arrive at her house, and on the way we passed a place called Jerry’s Self-Storage. Of course, the name made me think of only one thing, and I wondered to myself if I would come across any other Snicket coincidences before we arrived in Ridgewood, or if any of them would be Jerome and/or Esmé-related.
The next coincidence came after Tom and I had picked up Mallory. We were driving along the road that had once been the route taken by my old elementary school bus. I was looking out the window, and noticed a sign for something called The Vineyard. It was either an apparition and I was more obsessed with Jerome and Esmé than I had originally thought, or perhaps (like Jerry’s Self-Storage) this, too was nothing more than a coincidence.
Either way, it was odd.
Truth be told, the state of New Jersey was not a place in which I held particularly pleasant memories. But I was determined to make this the best day since I’d had since meeting my best friend almost three years ago.
We soon arrived at the bookstore, and I begged Tom to let me off at the curb while he drove around to locate a parking space. Not surprised when he refused, I sat back and did my very best to remain patient.
Cybermystery was planning to be at the event as well, and I was hoping to run into him. I knew him as the moderator for the fan art, fanfiction, and RPG sections on 667, but had never communicated with him personally.
Tom, Mallory, and I ended up driving around in a circle for a few minutes, and eventually ended up back in front of the bookstore. My heart was pounding, as I reminded myself that this was the last step before I discovered if I would meet the man whose books and characters had encouraged me to start writing again. Feeling like the Baudelaire orphans at the beginning of The Ersatz Elevator, I stepped through the door of the bookstore.
I raced up to the counter, mildly annoyed that I would be forced to wait a few more seconds to ask my question while the cashier assisted someone. After the person had left, I blurted out like an overly obsessed fangirl: “Please tell me that you have some Lemony Snicket tickets left!”
The cashier pointed me in the direction of a table on which a number of Lemony Snicket books were stacked. “After you purchase a book,” the cashier said, “you’ll get the ticket with it.”
“O.K.,” I said, and went over to the table. I wasted no time, and grabbed the first copy of A Lump of Coal I saw. I returned to the register and handed the cashier the book and my money.
For the next two and a half hours, I loitered around the bookstore, inspecting my usual favorite sections. During that time, I stumbled upon one more Snicket reference (not including the books on the table): a book entitled Dewey, which had a photograph of a cat on the cover.
Every now and then, I would lift my head to see if there was any sign of Cybermystery. I was unsure if he was a high school or college student, and so I had no idea when he might be arriving.
At about forty-five minutes to three, the clerk who had given me my ticket informed me that I could head downstairs to wait for Daniel Handler. I managed to locate a seat in the third row (talk about lucky!) behind some third-grade girls, who were talking animatedly about the event.
“His last name is Handler.”
“His real name is Daniel— no, David!”
“It’s Daniel.”
One of the girls would be meeting Daniel for the second time, and I wondered if I would ever get another chance like this again. Probably not, but I certainly wasn’t going to let it discourage me.
I kept looking at the stairs, hoping to see Cybermystery. I was beginning to wish I’d asked him for a photograph, since I had no idea who I was looking for. I wasn’t worried about him not knowing who I was, since he had told me he’d seen my pictures on the “Post Your Picture” thread on the 667 Dark Avenue messageboard.
Soon enough, a clerk came down and informed us that Daniel Handler and Brett Helquist had just arrived. I had no idea that Mr. Helquist would be joining him, and I was excited. I wanted to ask him if the man in the pinstripe suit in the illustration with the fish was Jerome. I already had the V.F.D. eye insignia tattooed on my upper right arm, and I was considering getting a second Lemony Snicket tattoo of Jerome done over my heart to symbolize my love for him. I also wanted to ask Daniel what Esmé’s real maiden name was (since something told me that it couldn’t possibly be “Salinger”).
Daniel Handler and Brett Helquist soon made their grant entrance, and the audience applauded. The two men sat down at the table at the head of the room and introduced themselves. Daniel spoke into the microphone, explaining that he would be appearing in Mr. Snicket’s place. At one point, Daniel pretended that the microphone was broken, so that when he spoke into it, no one could hear anything. Everyone laughed.
The time soon came for everyone to start lining up to have their books signed. I decided to wait and let the kids in my row go up first, since they were probably even more impatient than I was. However, one of the mothers ushered me up, telling me that I was next. I stood, and made my way to the end of the row and into the line.
Since we were being given the opportunity to have two books signed, I decided to have Daniel and Brett autograph A Lump of Coal for my best friend, Kara. I had brought along my copy of The Ersatz Elevator, which was my favorite out of all thirteen books, and so I was going to ask Daniel and Brett to autograph it for me.
Because it was necessary to have our books “stamped”, one of the clerks offered to save my spot in line while I ran upstairs to have my book stamped. Expecting to find a huge line, I was grateful when I discovered that there were only a few people.
“I need this stamped,” I said, and handed my book to the cashier.
The stamp device jammed at the page’s edge and tore it slightly, but for once I didn’t mind that one of my possessions was imperfect. Not like The Carnivorous Carnival incident, thank God. The cashier re-stamped my book, handed it back to me, and I hurried down the stairs once more.
I returned to my spot in line, amazed to see that I was now second in line. Since when did I possess any good luck?
I took close notice how good Daniel was with the younger kids. “And what’s your name?” he asked a little boy.
“Kyle,” he replied.
Daniel looked at the woman standing next to Kyle. “And who is this lady?”
“My mom.”
“Ah, I see. And is she a mean mom, or a nice mom?”
“Mean.”
I had to laugh at that.
I was shocked by how calm I was when my turn finally came. On the way over in the car, my palms had actually begun to sweat, which never happens. Less than three weeks ago, I’d had a very clear vision of myself fainting in front of Daniel Handler. I admired him beyond all explanation, and he was the only (living) man I had almost as big of a crush on as Jerome Squalor.
“And who might you be?” Daniel asked me.
Grinning like the blatantly obsessive fangirl I so obviously was, I replied through embarrassing giggles: “Kat.”
“Why, Kat, what large fangs you have, as I’m sure many men have told you before.”
Did he just compare me to Sunny Baudelaire?
“I’m Emma Squalor,” I said, “from the 667 Dark Avenue message board.”
Daniel looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s a rather suspicious name. Are you on some sort of mission?”
“No.”
“Do you spend a lot of time on there?”
“Yes.”
“And do you find yourself continuously spiraling down into darkening depths of despair?”
I giggled. “No.”
Not knowing what else to say, I reached inside my bag for the drawings I had done. Though I had drawn them more than a year ago, I still considered them to be some of my best work. “Um…” I began nervously. “I brought you something… and I feel really bad, because I had no idea that Brett Helquist was going to be here, too… and I don’t have anything for him…” I gave up trying to explain myself, and slid the folder across the table to Daniel.
I watched anxiously as he opened the folder, wondering if he was going to tell me I was a terrible artist like the troll who had stumbled across my deviantART gallery had done.
But to my surprise…
“These are gorgeous,” Daniel gushed, and I couldn’t help but beam. Here I was, just a small-town girl from a middle-class, single-parent family, and someone famous was telling me I was good. I had given up on drawing more than a year ago, having come to the conclusion that I just flat-out sucked and would get more satisfaction out of writing.
However, I still wasn’t prepared for what Daniel said next…
Turning to Brett, he demanded jokingly, “Mr. Helquist, why can’t you apply yourself like this?”
I laughed. The very idea that I would be compared to one of the greatest artists of all time like Brett Helquist had never even occurred to me, and even now I don’t consider myself to be all that talented. I actually felt a little bad for him.
Daniel sifted through my drawings some more until he came to the last picture, which was the one I had done of Carmelita as an adult. “An adult Carmelita,” he said aloud. “Now that’s disconcerting.”
I smiled, and handed Daniel and Brett my books to sign.
Opening The Lump of Coal, Daniel looked down at the slip of paper that the clerk had attached to my book. “Who’s Kara?” he asked.
“My best friend,” I replied.
“And where does she live?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Oh… that’s unfortunate.”
I waited for Daniel and Brett to finish signing my books, and then asked Daniel if he would be so kind as to take a picture with me. He said he would be happy to, and I handed the photographer my digital camera. Daniel and I leaned in close together, and the man snapped a picture of us both.
“We can send that out with our Hanukkah cards,” Daniel said.
“Thank you so much!” I said, and waved goodbye right before turning toward the stairs.
It wasn’t until I was outside that I remembered that I had— in what must have been at least five minutes of excitement —completely forgotten three very important things: 1). To show Daniel and Brett my “authentic” tattoo of the V.F.D. eye insignia, 2). To ask Daniel what Esmé’s maiden name was, and 3). To ask Brett if the man in the illustration on page 217 of The Ersatz Elevator is indeed my beloved Jerome.
I hadn’t gotten to meet Cybermystery, who I would have loved to talk with.
Since I didn’t want to run back in and risk holding anyone else still waiting to meet the wonderful writer and incredible illustrator, I decided that the best thing to do would be to wait on it. And who knew? Maybe I would get another chance, like the little girl sitting in the second row had. My whole purpose had been to meet the man I admired, and I had done it. And without making a total idiot out of myself like I thought I would. I had successfully overcome every obstacle in my way, and in the end succeeded.
I’d gotten my miracle.
The End
*~*
*~*
For those interested, here is the photograph of Daniel and I together, as well as what he and Brett wrote in my books…
Daniel and I (Note: I wasn’t even going to post this one since I hate my smile, so please be kind. ^_^;
The Ersatz Elevator
The Lump of Coal
The Drawings I gave to Daniel:
Esme
Jerome
Carmelita