The sun is halfway set.

Pinky squints until You Are Here reveals itself to him. What a relief to have existence confirmed by a map. As he scans the architectural layout of the convention center, animalistic chitter-chatter bubbles around the entrance to Hall C. 

“‘Scuse me,” a gruff, commanding voice says from Pinky’s right. Pinky freezes, thinking for a moment it’s a voice he hasn’t heard in seven months, a voice quite different in sound but similar in authority. Pinky turns, but it isn’t his old friend. It’s Aslan, king of kings, in all of his 1979 CBS-broadcasted animated glory. 

“Sorry. B, right?”

“Think so,” Aslan murmurs, running his paw along the perimeter of the map.

Pinky raises his thin arm and points near where Mufasa is sauntering into the building, cub Simba riding atop like a steed.

“‘Preciate ya.”

Pinky finds his route and groans. The hall is only a short walk away, but the quickest route is through the newly added and hotly contested Hentai Hall (Hall G). It isn’t so much the individuals as their being new kids on the block, not understanding the social rulebook of ToonCon. To avoid the schoolgirls and octopi, however, is to needlessly add half an hour walking counterclockwise around the entire convention center.

They’re not even cartoons. Pinky has his paws dug deeply into where pockets would be if he wore clothes. What defines a cartoon as separate from hentai? Pinky doesn’t have time to consider this as a fan from just inside Hentai Hall runs up to him. The thing is vaguely humanoid, with two legs and a torso, but massive, veiny pensies for arms and a bouqeut of breasts as a head. 

From somewhere within the folds of flesh a breathy voice emanates, “Ohm-gee I am such a huge fan! Pinky and the Brain was my fave growing up!”

“Hey thanks,” he musters, “always good to hear.”

If a cluster of boobs can look disappointed, this one does.

“Gee, your voice sure sounds...normal.”

“Yeah, well, just a character y’know? Same as what you do...probably.”

The thing rubs the back of what Pinky presumes is its neck with one of its massive, uncircumcised cocks.

“Yeah, right. Can I at least get a teensy photo?”

Pinky stands for the picture, wondering how a photo could be teensy, and quickly makes his escape afterward. Lesser known toons often forget that the famous ones are not their characters. As he nears Hall C he sees Bugs talking with Judy Hopps as they share a cigarette, readying themselves to enter the fray.

There are certainly two types of toons that come to these conventions, and it was the same split in high school reunion attendees. Some genuinely want to see those they haven’t caught up with in ages, and others come because to skip would be a critical blow to one’s reputation. Pinky mistakenly passes Hall C, sees a slightly drunk Popeye entering the massive Hall A (Humans), realizes his mistake and wheels around.

Hall C (Rodents) is not one of the larger rooms. Roughly the size of a dance hall, there’s a stage at one end and about fifty tables at the other. The middle of the room is full of decked out tables for rodents selling cheese, offering dance classes, trying to coordinate ultimate frisbee, etc. The catering is meek, much to the chagrin of Remy the Rat, who is one of the few toons to share many of the same qualities as his Permanence. Pinky can see Remy, actually, just as he enters. He’s eating lunch (Aglio e Olio) brought from home out of glass tupperware as Despereaux deals cards to Remy, one of the Three Blind Mice, and a large number of The Rescuers cast.

“Where’s The Brain bro?” Splinter calls to Pinky as he walks to the punch bowl. Jerry, standing next to Splinter, nudges him in the ribs to shut up. Pinky does one of those Hey-haha-good-to-see-ya’s and walks towards the punch bowl. This is the first Con since what happened to The Brain; today was his first time thinking about the thing since it happened.

As Pinky pours himself some punch, a rat that Pinky can’t quite place is side-eyeing him as he stands slightly out of the crowd, adding something from a flask to his punch. He’s dressed well, in a tux that compliments his tossed-about hair and he’s got one of those faces you just know belongs to an accent. He eventually screws the cap on his flask and approaches Pinky.

“Evening Pinky.” A strong Australian accent comes out of his posh frame.

“Hey good to see you.”

“It’s Roddy.” He clears his voice and puts on an English lilt. “Roderick St. James.” A flourish of his paws and Pinky’s still blank face. Back to Australian, “Oh, I’ll just tell you: Flushed Away!” He claps Pinky on the shoulder and takes a deep drink. 

“Of course, good to see you Roddy.”

“Ah, don’t worry. Some toons get names remembered, some just get the titles. You get both, I s’pose.”

“I suppose. Seems like a good turnout this year.”

“It does, it does. Listen, I wanted to offer my condolences. I know that co-stars aren’t always close, but it still must’ve been a blow.”

The room's heater kicked on, it must’ve, for Pinky begins to sweat and his ears go red. He hears his own breathing and becomes conscious of each second that he doesn’t reply to Roddy.

“Thank you. We actually were good friends. You’re right though, it is rare.” Pinky uses ‘rare’ here not to mean scarce, but precious.

“Still, though,” Roddy says. Pinky inhales, ready for the inevitable ‘Let’s get right down to it’ that always comes after condolences have been gotten out of the way. Pinky wonders why they always start with ‘still’. As if they must not forget that yes, while loss is hard, The Brain is not to escape judgment. ‘Still’ erases all that comes before, an asterisk to remind Pinky that what was just said still falls under the larger umbrella of what is about to be said and is not to stand apart from it. Never to stand apart from it, because to separate the condolence from the judgment would be to separate the death from the suicide. “Still,” he’s saying, “to go ahead and do that. He must’ve been in a pretty bad place.”

Pinky’s thinking he should find conversation elsewhere, or was five minutes a long enough appearance that he could leave the Hall altogether? As he murmurs agreement to Roddy, Pinky spots Minnie talking with someone he hasn’t seen in years. Minnie catches his eye and waves, gesturing that they’ll come to him.

“Oh Pinky, it’s so good to see you,” Minnie says, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him tight. Pinky squeezes back, she’s the first mouse he’s genuinely happy to see.

“You too Minnie.” Pinky looks to who Minnie had been speaking with. “I thought you were banned from ToonCon Speedy, it’s been forever.”

Pinky stoops to shake the paw of Speedy Gonzalez, who’s clearly stoned nearly to sleep.

Speedy sways on the spot, smiling. “It is good to see you too Pinky, can you believe they let me back in?” 

“What made them change their minds?”

“Ah, who knows? I am offensive, I am a Mexican hero, I promote Mexican stereotypes, I am still popular in Latin America, I am damaging to impressionable audiences, I am a piece of history that cannot be ignored.”

“Whoopi Goldberg,” Pinky mutters.

“And they never bothered to ask you what you are?” Minnie asks Speedy.

Speedy chuckles. “Could you imagine!”

“No such thing as bad press,” Roddy says into his cup as he takes another long drink.

Pinky was glad for the change in conversation. “The thing’s that a toon’s existence is almost always defined by their first appearance. I was given life as Pinky, and I’ve stayed Pinky. How often do we get a Mickey or a Bugs that can actually grow and change?”

“A Permanence isn’t so bad,” Minnie says. “Ever since I got in that plane with Mickey I’ve been one character but I don’t mind who I am.”

“Luck of the draw,” Speedy says. “Ha!”

“Why don’t they just call it a Permanent Performance? Or a Performanence?” asks Roddy, though the other three have largely forgotten he’s standing there.

Their conversation is cut short as the lights dim and curtains on the stage at the far end of the room part. A spotlight ignites, and Mickey walks onstage. Pinky is careful not to look at Minnie, remembering her recent separation from Mickey after she’d walked in on he, Tom, and Jerry in the shower.

“Welcome, welcome,” Mickey says to the applause that greets him. “Another year gone by, another ToonCon. I hope everyone's enjoying their day so far, we’ve got Stuart and the Littles about to come out, but I wanted to say a few words on some not-so-great news I’m sure you’re all aware of by now.”

“Goddamn it,” Pinky whispers.

Mickey takes a deep breath. “Six—”

“Seven.”

“—months ago The Brain, an iconic rodent, took his life. Our hearts go out to those who were lucky enough to call him a friend, especially Pinky.”

Pinky closes his eyes in case anyone looks around for him, then mutters: “Still.”

“Still,” Mickey says, “we must take this tragedy as a reminder to reach out to those closest to us when we’re feeling dark thoughts. We have to constantly remind ourselves of the good. As a great man once said, ‘In bad times and in good, I have never lost my sense of zest for life.’ A mindset we all should strive for!”

Does obligatory applause sound any different from the natural stuff? Pinky can take it no longer. He excuses himself from the group and heads toward the doors. Why always the ‘still?’ As Stuart and the Littles begin their set, Pinky side-steps Itchy, who’s shooting Timothy Q. with a BB gun. He ducks to avoid the dead eyes of Chuck E. Cheese (a simpleton, appearing only in ads for the establishment) and only says a passing hello to Templeton.

Finally free, Pinky starts the long walk home. He follows the sun, just beginning to dip below the horizon, searing rays of pink and orange into the sky. Pinky stops for a moment, allowing the weight of Hall C and all the condolences and judgment to alleviate themselves. He looks to the sky and closes his eyes again, feeling the wind on his open paws and missing his friend. Slowly, the anger and frustration melts, and he feels—

Pinky smiles. He hopes he isn’t being overly optimistic or naive, but so what if he is? Maybe they don’t mean that The Brain couldn’t be fully grieved because he took his own life or that sorrow for his death was really sorrow for the act. They certainly offer both sympathy and caution, but perhaps it is also not meant to condemn The Brain; could it be in an effort to protect the friend still living? Are the generalizations and unprompted opinions on suicide meant for Pinky’s sake? Are the rodents in Hall C, not knowing how to speak on the subject, subtly, subconsciously, even unintentionally advising Pinky to remain calm and find peace?

“Why not?” Pinky says to himself. He stretches his paws wider, opens his eyes to the setting sun, and feels throughout himself what’s been imparted to him over and over for the past seven months: still