Just a Geek (22 page)

By the time I had achieved escape velocity from my petulant teenage years, Aunt Betty and Uncle Dick had sold the house and 4th of July would never happen with them again.

The irony is not lost on me, that I wanted so badly to show them all how grown up I was, only to behave more childishly than ever the following years.

This 4th of July, I sat on the roof of my friend Darin's house with Anne and the boys and watched fireworks from the high school. Nolan held my hand and Ryan leaned against me as we watched the Chamber of Commerce create magic in the sky over La Crescenta.

I thought back to that day, 15 years ago and once again I saw the groundflower roll under that chair and try to ignite great-great-great aunt whatever her name was.

Then I looked down at Nolan's smiling face, illuminated in flashes of color.

"This is so cool, Wil!" he declared. "Thanks for bringing us to watch this."

"Just be glad you're on a roof and not in a lawn chair," I told him.

"Why?"

"Well . . ." I began to tell him the story, but we were distracted by a particularly spectacular aerial flower of light and sparks.

In that moment, I realized that no matter how hard I try, I will never get back that day in 1987, nor will I get to relive the sullen years afterward . . . but I do get to sit on the roof with my wife and her boys now and enjoy 4th of July as a stepdad . . . at least until the kids hit the sullen years themselves.

Then I'm going to sit them in lawn chairs and force them to watch me light groundflowers.

I wrote that while I was still in my bathrobe on the morning of July 5th. When I was done, I printed it out, and read it to my wife before I posted it.

"Do you like it?" I asked.

"Yeah. Is it true?"

"Anne, I'm not a good enough writer to make stuff up. Do you think other people will like it?"

She smiled. "Duh."

When
Fireworks
was posted on WIL WHEATON dot NET, hundreds of people commented or e-mailed their approval. Many of them suggested that I write a book, and I began to give the idea some serious consideration. I still didn't know what it would be about, but the seed, planted years earlier by Mrs. Westerholm, began to grow.

Part VII. ACT IV

"I keep looking for a place to fit
Where I can speak my mind
I've been trying hard to find the people
That I won't leave behind."

--The Beach Boys I Just Wasn't Made For These Times

"Mellow is the man who knows what he's been missing
Many many men can't see the open road. "

--Led Zeppelin Over the Hills and Far Away

Chapter 11. The Wesley Dialogues

IT WAS LATE MAY
, and Pasadena was in the middle of a heat wave. I sat at my dining room table, surrounded by bills. Many of them had PAST DUE stamped on them in threatening red letters. Others contained direct threats about my credit rating and veiled threats about my personal well-being. When the phone rang, I cringed. I had run out of excuses for creditors, and I was scared about losing my house.

Anne walked into the dining room and sat across from me.

"I am so tired of this," I said.

"Tired of what?" she said.

"Everything! I'm tired of court! I'm tired of lawyers! I'm tired of never getting cast in anything! I'm just tired of . . ." I picked up a fistful of bills. "THIS!"

I was humiliated. I was ashamed. I was frustrated. I was angry. How did I get here? How did I go from
Mr. Big TV and Movie Star
to
Mr. Dodging the Bill Collectors
?

"Maybe I shouldn't have quit
Star Trek
," I said. "You know, I quit to have this big fucking movie career, and that never happened. It's just been one shitty movie after another."

"You always say that when money gets tight, or you have a bad audition. You've got to stop worrying about a choice you made 15 years ago, because you can't change it." She took my hand in hers. "Maybe you could wr—"

"I'm not a good enough writer to write a book!" I said, "There's a world of difference between writing for my website and trying to write a book."

She sighed. "I don't know what to tell you. Maybe you could auction something on eBay again. That really helped out last time."

"I feel like such a fucking loser when I do that, Anne."

"How many other people are selling your autograph online?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. 10? 15, maybe?"

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Of course not."

"Well, if someone's going to make money off your signature, why not you?"

"But I don't want to exploit the people who read my website."

"Please. Running an auction is not exploiting anyone. Charging memberships is exploiting people. You just need to get over yourself."

One of the things I adore about my wife is her ability to get right to the heart of my bullshit. I couldn't argue with her. The only thing that was preventing me from putting up auctions was pride. I made a little mental scale. On one side, I put my family. On the other, my ego.

It took me all of two minutes to make the decision.

"Okay," I said, "You're right. But I'm not going to put up another stupid headshot." I stood up. "I'm going to find something cool and do that instead."

21 MAY, 2002

Mirror, Mirror

I'm in my garage, digging through a box of stuff, trying to find my Awful Green Things From Outer Space game.

I'm on the cold concrete floor, looking through the open box. I move aside some books and find my game. As I lift it out of the box, it reveals this Cadet Wesley Crusher action figure, just sitting there in the bottom of the box.

I look at him, wondering whether I should just look away and pretend that I didn't see him, or take him out and say hello.

After an awkward silence, I pick him up and say, "Hey, how you doin'?"

He just stares back at me, silent and stoic from within his plastic cell.

I consider him for a moment and tell him, "You know, you look sort of cool in this uniform. You should have stuck around a bit longer, so you could have worn it more."

He gives no response and I pause a moment to admire his perfect hair. I run my hand through my own unwashed hair and my fingers get thick with yesterday's water wax. I wonder if his perfect hair still smells like Sebastian Shaper hairspray.

His eyes burn into mine, his blank stare mocking me and I can't take it any longer.

I put him back into the box and as I'm about to put an unopened box of 1990 Topps NHL trading cards on him he says, "Wait!"

I lift up the box of cards and he's looking up at me, his smug confidence replaced with sadness.

"Hey, I don't want to stay in this box any more. You gotta let me out." His green eyes implore me to release him.

"Sorry, Wesley, but if I take you off of that card, you're worthless."

"Well, at least let me come sit on a shelf in your house! This box is cold and dark and since you took out the Ren and Stimpy plush toys in December, there isn't even anyone to talk to!"

I think of the years he and I spent together. I think back to our falling out and I can't believe that someone I was so close to has become such a stranger.

I know what I must do.

"You're right, Wesley. You can't stay in this box any longer. It's just not right. I'm going to find you a new home. Someplace where you will have lots of other action figures to talk to and maybe even a collectible plate or two."

"You mean . . . you're going to put me on eBay?"

"Yep."

"No! You suck, Wheaton!"

"Shut up, Wesley."

When I started to write that entry, I thought, "
Hey, why make a boring announcement when you can turn it into a story?"
I also thought that Wesley would be sweet and polite, and would talk about how excited he was to have a new home—but I couldn't do it. It was too much fun to make him profane, and to reclaim the line, "Shut up, Wesley."

I checked the auction frequently over the next few days, and when I blogged about the auction's progress, I saw a chance to have another conversation. Cadet Crusher had to get some more things off his tiny plastic chest.

24 MAY 2002

Turnabout Intruder

It's late at night and the rest of my house is asleep. The only sound other than my typing is that soft comforting hum of the fan in my computer. The room is dark, except for the light falling off of my monitor.

He's sitting on my desk, just outside the monitor's soft glow, staring at me.

"Hey, Wesley, I've got some good news."

"You've had a change of heart and you're going to put me in a Jello mold with Counselor Troi and Princess Leah?"

"No. First of all, Princess Leah isn't even the right scale for you—"

"Who said anything about scale? I'm articulated!"

"Do you want to hear the good news, or not?"

He sighs the perturbed yet insecure sigh of an 18-year-old. He strains his little plastic body against the twisty-tie that is holding him to his cardboard backing.

"Yes."

"You're way more popular that I thought. People have bid nearly 300 dollars for you on eBay! You're a hit, Crusher! They love you!"

He stops straining and looks at me, incredulous.

"What?"

"Yeah! Take a look."

I pick him up and turn him to face the monitor.

"Hey, slow down, jackass. You're going to give me motion sickness."

I wonder if this is the correct doll. I wonder if I've picked up the Evil Wesley Crusher, instead. I spin him around again and look for the tell-tale goatee, but it's not there. I guess he's just cranky.

"Dude! Take it easy!"

"Sorry."

I slowly turn him back around and point him at the monitor. I click the URL and show him the bidding, which has climbed to nearly 300 dollars.

"See? Isn't that cool? All this time we thought people hated us, but they like us, Wesley! They really like us!"

He is silent for a moment and when he finally speaks, his voice is thick with emotion.

"Yeah. That's . . . well . . . that's really cool," he says and I swear I can feel the cardboard shudder a little bit in my hands.

"Hey, Wheaton,"

"Yeah?"

"Can you just put me down on the desk for a while? I've . . . uh . . . I think I have something in my eye."

"Are you crying, Wesley?"

"Shut up, Wheaton."

When I told Wesley, "All this time we thought people hated us, but they like us . . ." I could have said, "All this time, I hated you. I hated you so much, I started to hate myself. But it was time wasted. I've learned to like you, and the part of me that you represent." When he cried, the tears rolled off my face.

I had started out this auction as a means to an end: I just wanted to keep the water turned on in my house. I didn't know that it would become this enormous confrontation with one of my greatest personal demons, but when I wrote the final installment in the trilogy, I put Wesley in his place . . . and he put me in mine.

28 MAY 2002

The Big Goodbye

The time has come.

I've been putting it off over the weekend, attending my best friend's wedding, going geocaching with my stepson.

But it is time. Money has changed hands and I have an obligation to fulfill.

I pick him up from my desk and avoid eye contact as I carry him into the dining room.

I gingerly put him down on my dining room table and he looks like a patient about to undergo some sort of surgery. Strangely, I feel more like Doctor Giggles than Doctor Green.

He looks up at me and says, "Hey, Wheaton. What do you say you let me out of this box and take me for a spin in your Land Speeder?"

"Can't do it, Wesley. First, you're the wrong scale and second, you don't belong to me anymore."

He doesn't reply. He knows that I'm right.

I uncap a gold paint pen and get ready. The familiar burn of acetone and paint hits me in the face and a series of convention memories blurs through my mind, in hyper-real Hunter S. Thompson-o-vision: I sign a plate, a photo, a poster, field a question that I don't know the answer to, politely decline the offer of a hug from a sweaty woman in a "Spock Lives!" T-shirt. The memories race past and I watch them with a certain amount of detachment, a spectator to my own life.

Although the places and people changed, there was little difference from one hotel convention hall to the next: The same questions, the same jokes, the same inescapable smell . . . the memories engulf me with a frightening and surprising lucidity. I think that I've allowed these events to drift into the distance of memory, but they come back, immediate and insistent, as if no time has passed.

He looks at me, daring me to give voice to these thoughts.

I realize that we are very interwoven, whether we like it or not and as I open my mouth to speak, something I'd never thought of before comes into my mind: I can exist without him, but he could not, would not, does not exist without me.

Suddenly, I feel free.

I lift the pen up and touch it to the plastic and write what I've been asked to write:

Vincent -

I am sick of following rules and regulations!

-Wil Wheaton

It's done.

I sit back and regard him. He's obscured by my writing, which casts a latticework of shadows across his face and body. The symbolism of this moment is not lost on me.

"You know, that was a cool line," he says. "Remember how cool it was to stand up to Picard?"

"Yeah. It was fun being you back then," I tell him. "I watched Code of Honor last night though. Jesus, you were a dork, man."

"That wasn't me, dude. That was Wesley Crusher, the doctor's son. I'm Cadet Crusher, the bad-ass. Wesley was a dork. Cadet Crusher was cool. Need I remind you who waxed Robin Lefler's ass?"

"Why do you have to talk that way? People have a certain image of you, you know."