8 Armand is Capable of Human Interaction

July 16th - (Still) Thirty days until the convention

I stepped away from the glass entryway, found a secluded corner of the lavatories, and attempted to slowly cram my fist into my mouth.

Nervouswas to an understatement what Stalin was to the description bit of a dick.

I closed my eyes and took deep breaths through my nose, trying to discourage my heart from its current velocity. I did not do well with figures of authority, and I was about to meet with a whole lot of them who planned to temporarily induct me into their ranks.

I should've shaved. Maybe got a haircut ...

... Finished university.

Moment of truth, Demetrio, gird your fucking loins.

I was far too sober for this. That was what it came down to. The world was rushing at me at an unprecedented pace, and I'd been left exposed, unprotected, with nothing between myself and the yawning void. Luckily, there awaited a tastefully sized bottle of Sonoma Bourbon Whiskey among the chocolates and fruits I'd found in the welcome basket the day before, which was, at this stage, the only bright point in my future.

I'd wrestled with my conscience—after all, I'd worked hard this past year to get as clean as I was—but there was only so much that could be expected of a man. It was one thing to face an empty flat while sober, quite another to perform without at least the promise of relief down the line. I just had to make it through the luncheon, and then the introductory class later that evening, then I could reward myself with a little numbness.

Once I'd got myself in hand, I found the correct conference room for the luncheon and was given a folder full of papers by a frighteningly blonde woman, who told me to enjoy the buffet. I sat down at the large round table and glanced around, wondering which of the people in it could tell that I still wasn't capable of doing maths without a computer and wasn't entirely confident of the meaning of Deconstructionist.

There were eight of them, all over forty and dressed casually but well. Most of them were raiding the aforementioned buffet; one woman, however, was seated across the table, smiling alternately at me and at— Oh bloody hell, last month's issue of Surrogate Goose.

My collar grew hot.

Watching people read my work always made me feel as if I were standing naked in the middle of a crowded room; I had to fight the urge to grab it from her hand and bolt out the door. Instead, I managed a grimacey little smile the next time she looked up, and she beamed.

"I love the new storyline." She leaned forward, the beads on her glasses' chain clinking softly against the table. "A bit racy, isn't it?"

I swallowed hard, but mercifully wasn't made to answer as the remainder of the board, or panel, faculty ... whatever they were, finished their grazing and took their seats. After a few introductory statements in which I was warmly welcomed, interspersed with chewing noises, a bearded man wearing a Tanglewood sweatshirt told me not to worry about teaching.

"People aren't coming to this workshop to learn how to draw." He gave me a Father Christmas smile, eyes disappearing behind folds of happy cheeks. "They're coming to learn how to draw from you! All you have to do is be yourself, and they'll be getting their money's worth."

I nodded brokenly.

"Your agent, Ms. Ranjit, informed us that you may have a few ... hang-ups"—this was from a much less kind-looking man in matching polo shirt and toupee—"about speaking to the class. Some anxiety issues, I gather?"

If I'd been blushing a minute ago, I was now in danger of permanently bruising my cheeks. It might come as a surprise, but I have, in fact, spoken in public before, and aye, all right, I get a bit nervous, but I wasn't in the habit of pulling an A.J. Rimmer and claiming that I was, in fact, a fish. Well, not yet anyway. Still, Lakshmi had always been conscientious about limiting my performance in front of a microphone to a few well-rehearsed soundbites. Until now. "I th-think I'll b-be fine." I swallowed again. "I've b-been practicing a-and, er ..." I used both hands to push my hair out of my face, "I've g-gotten better."

Polo-Toupee smiled thinly, but Father-Christmas-Tanglewood reached over and thumped me twice on the shoulder. "That's the spirit! You'll be fantastic, kiddo!"

I did my best to smile at him, but then Beaded-Glasses-Chain pointed to the schedule in my folder.

"The first class this evening is just the introductory portion," she said, "so don't feel too pressured to showcase your best work. Take it as easy as you like. You've got a whole month."

"Don't worry, we've worked with plenty of Drake House artists. This is an easy gig: fans pay money, the school makes money, you make money, everyone's happy!" Father Christmas-Tanglewood patted my shoulder again. "Easy as pie."

The rest of the meeting was a lot of talk about "the enterprising culture of Norsemen," which mainly involved, as far as I could gather, an innate understanding of what phrases like enterprising culture meant. I was turned loose with an hour or so of free time, and I spent it worrying myself sick.

There was half an hour to go before the introductory class began, and I was back in the men's, trying to avoid my own gaze in the mirror and waiting for a call to go through.

"Did I not say I was going to bed? Do you know what bloody time it is?"

"Yes, I do, I'm still jet-lagged. Lakshmi, did you tell people I have anxiety?"

She'd turned her camera on, but it was dark. There were a few moments of silence on the other line, then, "Armand, pet, you do have—"

"I do not! I get a bit nervous—"

"And tetchy."

"—and tetchy, but these people seem to think I'm some sort of ... sort of ..."

"Artist?"

It was my turn for a few moments of silence. Angry silence. "Lakshmi, I am capable of human interaction," I growled, finally.

"I know, that's why I got you this job. I know you can teach a month-long workshop to a load of Californian children. The House thinks so too." I heard the soft clicks she lit her cigarette with an old Bic lighter, and for a moment her sharp features appeared outlined in gold. "You're the only one with apparent compunctions on the issue. But think of it this way. Teaching will be great practice for the con." Her eyes, glinting in the red cigarette light, narrowed. "Have you eaten anything today? Mind you, whiskey doesn't count."

Lucky guess.

I took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, leaning my head back against the tiles. "Am I going to make an arse of myself?"

"Probably not. You didn't answer my question." I heard her take a long drag of her cigarette, saw the ruby flare, and instantly began to crave one horribly.

I glanced at my watch—plenty of time for a nip outside for a nicotine fix before the execution. "I attended a luncheon. People were nice at me. I got the feeling you told them I might take off all my clothes and run around singing ‘Don't Rain on My Parade' at the top of my lungs."

"That was a selling point." She appeared to hear my scowl over the phone, and said in a reconciliatory tone, "I'm aware that you don't like to think of yourself as a diva, Demetrio, but that whole temperamental-artist shtick really sells in America. Remember what the product is."

"Me."

"Achcha. Just remember to breathe."

After about half a pack and a cold drink of water, I made my way to the classroom; it was already half-full, and Robin was sat in one of the upper rows. He looked somewhat disheveled and a little pale, which was concerning, but he waved at me enthusiastically. I gave him a brief nod and busied myself setting up my slides—which were just the text of the syllabus blown up. By the time I'd won my battle with the computer, the rest of the class had come in and taken their seats, their whispering making a soft and terrifying sound reminiscent of the ocean.

I looked up, and silence fell.

Clearing my throat, I stepped out from behind the podium, managing to do so without falling or knocking anything over.

"Hullo, er, my name is Armand Demetrio. I—" I had to battle a blush for a few moments while they applauded. "I, er, thank you, that's—that's sweet. Erm, what I'm here to say, er, is you don't actually need to know how to draw to make comics. It's not a strict requirement, you know, for your message, whatever it is, but we're gonna learn that, because it's nice to have under your belt—that is, it's better to have ... that tool. Erm. Than to not have it."

I was suddenly confronted with the complete certainty that my zipper was down.

My hand flew to my waist but found all was fully zipped. I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to remember what I'd been talking about.

"I'm not going to teach you how to draw; there are much better places to learn that and p-people to learn from. What I can teach you, I hope, is quite hard to put into words. Evidently. I-I know this workshop has a bloody complicated name and all, but essentially, I think I'm supposed to show you ... how I do what I do. Er. Part of that is drawing, aye, and we'll do that, but some of it is storytelling and layout and things, so—" It was down, my zipper was down.

I checked, and once again nearly slumped in relief.

"I'm also not going to teach you how to make my comic because, heh, that would be daft, wouldn't it? And pointless. I-I'm meant to— I'm going to try to teach you how to recognize those things which—which might make a comic, yeah? The bits that make it more than another ArchieFun Home rip-off."

The class laughed, and for a moment I thought it was because I'd managed to make a joke, but then I realized it was because my zipper was, indeed, down.

No, it wasn't.

"Erm. So, aye, th-that is what we'll try and figure out, together, in this workshop. It—it shan't be easy—" MY ZIPPER WAS DOWN.

No, it bloody wasn't.

"But eventually we'll, you know, separate the sheep from the goats and maybe some of you lot will be, er, clearer on what you want to say and how you want to say it." I checked my zipper one more time. And then realized that I'd just touched myself in front of a room full of people at least five times in as many minutes.

I couldn't move.

What had Lakshmi said? "Breathe, just breathe, Armand." Oh god, they all must think I'm a pervert.

My vision went blurry for a moment, but I clutched the podium and once again succeeded in not falling over. Get a grip, said Lakshmi's voice in my head, you arecapable of human interaction.

"Errm, so that's, er ... Any questions?"