Aisles of dreams and plastic laser beams. At ’
and , masks and cloaks and more Jokers
than you can shake his stick at. And those bewigged
girls who want to look like a Japanese cat. The R2D2s
and the Pennywise clown shoes. The Arnold
and the of the dead, the Star Wars skimmers
and the Scooby Doo head. I even saw one dressed like
Dredd. Bags and bags of vinyl pop heads, held close,
ready to take home to mum-made beds. The Shining
twins and the little-girl-Harley-, the parents who
don’t seem to understand - the parents who dress up
while the kids are in civvies. The ambitious ones who
want to be entire Gotham cities. And yet there are so few !
The and the Zelda schools, the homemade
Ghostbuster tools and costume’s-too-big fools. An entire
Transformer: huge cardboard legs and everybody begs
to be something else, something different, anything else.
To pretend to be anything but me. Or them. Never them.
None of them are like them. They’re the awkward ones,
the sweaty ones, the make-up-running teary ones, the
aisle-running annoying ones, the bursting-out-for-the-day
ones, the WWE ones and the not-dressed-up-at-all ones.
A normal so blatant they’re a beacon of confidence: Kirks in civvies.
Or the shy and shifty, 18 or 50 - or 60 or 70. Original Series
or a t-shirt with Picard looking nifty. Greasy hair and
dreaming of Kirk – you'll never suck that stomach in!
Nothing new, only old: novelties and tat to celebrate
stories already told. A forcefield around stalls with new
art or new books. New ideas. They don’t anything
till they play it or binge it or energy drink it 3 am. Finger it,
dirty it they own it, set it up in their own mental den. Hide
with it, lie with it, live with it, love it. Know it, inside and out:
abuse it, dismiss it, love it in secret till it’s not new, till it’s fodder
for their online crew. The geek’s stomach is always empty,
always full. Minds so sharp can be so often dull.