First Show

[Martin Hash]

My son, Heath, and his cousin, James, drove the company van down to San Diego, California, a 22-hour drive, for Comicon, the largest comic book show in the world. They were supposed to set up the booth before my brother, Marshall, arrived by airplane the morning of the show’s start. It was their first time being primarily responsible for a show. Marshall had warned them “not to screw it up.”

Comicon is a five day show, and so far on the third day everything had gone fine. Units were moving almost too briskly for only three people, with crowds so large there wasn’t a moment of breathing time. After a long day, they were heading back to their motel room for some much needed rest.

“You guys did okay today,” congratulated Marshall. “So far, so good, but Saturday and Sunday are big days, so get some sleep.”
“We’re going to Mexico,” said James.
Marshall looked at them surprised. “Tonight?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Heath chimed in.
“You’re going to Mexico the night before the big Comicon weekend, during the first show you’re responsible for?” Marshall continued, incredulous.
They both nodded.
Marshall looked back and forth between both young men. He could remember when he was that young. Tired, he warned, “Don’t go to Mexico. You can go AFTER the show - go someplace here in the Gaslight District. Don’t drive the van – take cabs.” Then he went off to bed.

The next morning, early, having breakfast before going on the floor to begin the show, Marshall looked at his watch: the boys were late. Must have been drinking, he thought. Heath finally showed up as Marshall was opening up the booth.
“You’re late,” was the first thing Marshall said. “And you look hung-over. Comb your hair… Where’s James?”
Heath hesitated before slowly answering. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in Mexico.”
“In Mexico?”
“In Tijuana.”
“In Tijuana?”
“In jail in Tijuana.”
“IN JAIL IN TIJUANA!”
“Well,” Heath explained. “We had a few beers, and you know how James is when he gets drunk, and he picked a fight in a bar, and they took his wallet, and the police came, and James didn’t have any ID, and they put him in jail.”
Marshall was speechless. “Well, go get him,” he ordered.
Heath didn’t say a thing.
“Where’s the van?” Marshall asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know. Somebody said they towed it away for illegal parking.”

Marshall called me: “Do you know where Jame’s yearbook is?”
“What do you need Jame’s yearbook for?” I asked.
“He needs to use it as proof of citizenship in Mexico.”
“Do you need Heath’s yearbook too?” I asked.
“No, but you’ll need to wire bail to get the van out of a Mexican impound yard.”

Heath and James didn’t run another show by themselves for a long time.