Our
first apartment was haunted, according to the girls who had lived
there as roommates before we rented it. They had conducted an
exorcism after a chandelier fell to the floor, barely missing one of
them. Apparently, that ritual had failed. Unusual noises seemed to
emanate from the air conditioner when it was not running. One of the
bedrooms had a dense, swampy atmosphere. The other bedroom, which
was right next to it and had the same northern exposure and
ventilation, seemed fine. The haunted bedroom felt like a place
where someone had died and left behind an atmosphere of depression,
along with a musty odor. At first we paid no attention to the
ghostly phenomena.
Rumors
were spreading among science fiction fans, at least those who had
heard of Phil, that his brains were burned out from drugs and that he
hadn’t written anything in years. Actually, Phil had written quite
a lot, but it hadn’t been published yet. His novels often came out
several years after he wrote them. He decided to attend the L.A. Con
(World Science Fiction Convention in Los Angeles), despite his
phobias, in an attempt to dispel the rumors that had been spreading
since his stay at a drug rehabilitation center in Canada. The
convention took place over three days during the Labor Day weekend in
September 1972. It wore me out and used up all of our money. We
didn’t even have enough money to attend the awards banquet. But we
did meet a lady who turned out to be a very good friend. Her name
badge read “Linda Wofle”, but her last name was really Wolfe.
The typist had made a mistake. We used to call her Linda Waffle,
affectionately. She had come to the convention on a whim when her
husband asked her to get out of the house for a few hours so he could
rehearse his role in a play. She and her husband were both actors.
Linda and I got trapped inside the restroom by an enormous woman who
insisted upon telling us all about her illnesses and injuries, as
well as her membership in the Dracula Society, so we missed Phil’s
speech. Fortunately, somebody taped it, so we got to hear it later.
It was about how crabgrass and the telephone company were taking over
the universe, as well as the difference between androids and humans.
Despite the surface humor, Phil’s speech was quite serious.
Phil
used to tell people that I had “karate-kicked” David Gerrold at
the World Con. That is not exactly what happened. We were standing
near the booth that was selling “Tribbles”, amorphous blobs of
stuffed faux fur, based on the Star
Trek episode that
David Gerrold had written, “The Trouble with Tribbles”. While
Phil was buying a Tribble for me, David Gerrold sneaked up behind me
and grabbed me. I had no idea who he was or what he was up to, but I
did feel uncomfortable. Almost as a reflex, I kicked him in the shin
and pulled myself free.
The
convention took away all of my energy. It was the first time that I
ever attended any kind of convention, and it was the first time that
I ever stayed in a hotel. All the booths, exhibits and conferences
were overwhelming. For two nights in a row, we were up past midnight
and out of bed before seven. The days were filled with non-stop
action, walking around, talking to people, taking in all the sights
and sounds. Editors urged Phil to write novels for them, freelance
magazine writers begged him for interviews and an occasional fan
questioned whether he really was Philip K. Dick, or just an impostor.
The high point came when someone told Phil that Catherine Moore
wanted to meet him. Even though I had no idea who she was, I could
tell by Phil’s reaction that she was somebody important. He spoke
to that grand lady for a few minutes in the hallway, while she
explained that this was her last convention. Since the death of her
first husband, she had remarried and her new husband wanted nothing
to do with “that science fiction crap”. Phil explained to me
later that the husband-and-wife team of C.L. Moore and Henry Kuttner
had written some of the classic science fiction novels and stories.
