Harlan Ellison

[Martin Hash]

Marshall and I went to MegaCon in Orlando. Harlan Ellison was the Guest of Honor. As a teenager, his book "Deathbird Stories" triggered my coming of age. I always faithfully read his famous introductions. What could he possibly be like in real life? I went early to his autograph line to make sure I'd get to meet him. The first person in line, a man in a wheelchair, was trying to convince Mr. Ellison of something. "No, I won't sign it." I heard Mr. Ellison's voice over the crowd. "Joe lives one block from me. He's a good friend of mine. He wouldn't have said that..."
There was a pause. The fan continued to make his case.
Mr. Ellison interrupted, "I'll tell you what: when Joe signs it, I'll sign it. Get out of here."
The next fan in line also had a heartfelt discussion with Mr. Ellison.
Abruptly, Mr. Ellison says, "Do you have anything for me to sign or not?"
Next.
The guy just ahead of me had a cassette recorder but no books. I knew this was going to be trouble. Hadn't this guy been paying attention? There was a short exchange where the guy put the machine in Mr. Ellison's face. Another short burst, then "It's inappropriate because I'm f**king working here!" was loud and clear. "Stand against that wall!" commanded Mr. Ellison. The chastised fan slunk over and stood facing the wall. I had visions of grade school, and it was my turn!
I put my books in front of Mr. Ellison, forcing myself to remain calm. There would be no need for anyone to castigate me. No-sir-ee.
Mr. Ellison looked at my badge. "Hash," he said.
"Martin," I said.
"Martin," he said.
"Martin," I said.
"Martin Martin?"
"No. Just Martin."
Harlan gave me a stern look.
"Sorry," I say meekly.
"Say please," he commands.
"Please."
While he's signing my book he gets interrupted. Something about his typing in the hotel room at 3 am waking up the woman in the next room.
"Tell me to stop, I'll stop," he announces to her.
She tries to be tactful; offers some platitude or suggestion.
"Tell me to stop, I'll stop!"
Exasperated, the woman turns to me. "Would you be the one to tell Harlan Ellison to stop writing?" she asks pleadingly.
I'm thinking, "Don't get me involved in this. I'm almost out of here."

Next day over the loud speaker, "Harlan Ellison will be speaking in the Ballroom."
"You going to that?" asks Marshall.
"Uh."
"Go ahead man. It's Harlan Ellison."
That's what I'm afraid of.
There's a couple hundred people in the auditorium.
"So you want the secret to success?" Harlan Ellison asks the audience. There's silence in the room.
"Do you want the f**king secret of success or don't you?" he asks again irritated.
There's hesitant clapping.
"I thought so. Do you really, really want it?" he says one last time, his voice booming.
There's more restrained applause.
"Well then. It must be worth a buck to you. Give me a buck."
People are looking at each other.
"I mean it. Each of you reach in your wallets and give me a f**king buck."
Slowly people are taking out money.
"Hand it down the aisle."
Mr. Ellison walks along collecting handfulls of dollar bills.
"There's 190 people in this room. I'm not saying another f**king word until I have 190 dollars."
The threat seemed to work; more people were handing money down.
Harlan has his wife count the money. Finally she nods her head. He looks out to all of us.
"I'm f**king rich. I'm one of those lucky guys whose mom didn't throw out his comics. I got the entire collection of Spirit, except for number 53. I was down on the show floor yesterday and I seen number 53 at a dealer. I'm filthy f**king rich but I'm not paying $250 for a f**king comic I paid 10 cents for as a kid. I got the guy to come down to $190."
Harlan looked at the audience to see if his point was getting across.
"Now, did you get your buck worth? Do you know the f**king secret of success now?"
Yeah. I guess I do, because you see, I wrote www.hash.com all over my dollar bill before I gave it to him.