“The problem with getting old,” she told the boy, “is it’s the only way to really know anything.”
Which sounds deep and timeless in a cliched fashion, until you have the context that the woman was twenty-two and the boy barely fifteen. Both just babies compared to myself in my middling forties, for example, or most of the people who’d be reading their story now? “If we could know what it takes lifetimes of failure and loss to learn when we’re fresh and young, imagine what we could accomplish,” she concluded with a curt sigh, “how happy we’d all be.”
They sat together, exhausted, in the green room of some convention center both pausing for the half-hour before he had to sit on another panel and she had to return to a far corner of the space to sell autographs with other lesser stars. He picked at what was left of a cheese plate. She tried to get drunk on cheap complimentary champagne. But their hearts weren’t in it.
“I wanted to be the very best,” he finally responded, “I mean, like no one ever was?” “And you were,” she reassured him, clearly trying to reassure herself in the bargain, “for a while.” “For a while when I was just twelve, sure,” he groused, “but now here I am, dancing for dollars, huh?”
It was a convention for fans of Pokémon, a competitive semi-sport where kids and young teens travel the world capturing magical beasts and violently dog-fighting them in tournaments. Why only kids and why it was okay to have animals beat the shit out of each other on worldwide TV was lost to time or, at least, covered up by all the corporations that made billions on it all? This was just how you made money off culture that people are childishly nostalgic for. Conventions.
The boy was Ash Ketchum who’d been Pokémon’s world champion fewer than three years ago.
The woman was Ranko Takahashi who’d been Japan’s champion nearly a decade ago, herself.
They were different in many ways, but as far as the world was concerned, they’d both peaked before either could attend Homecoming. They’d commiserate together during these breathers.
He’d talk about how he was still a headliner at these things now, but he knew it wouldn’t last. She’d dream out loud about taking what was left of her money, turning around, changing her name and getting a nursing degree in The States where less people would remember her past.
But the best thing for either of them that day had to end, a star-struck volunteer came back to take “Mr. Ketchum” to Hall H for a Q&A and remind “Ms. Takahashi” that Photos Alley was reopening after their dinner break. They hugged, then went separate ways. As she went about resetting her booth for another cash-grab, she paused and looked at the selection on her price board. “I hope the poor kid never has to price out feet-pics,” she thought, “hope for the best.”
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