The Happiest Days of Our Lives (3 page)

I listened to astronauts talk about doing for real what I used to do for fake, which was nothing new for me (I’ve had the great fortune to meet and talk with several different astronauts over the years) but is also something I will never, ever, take for granted. These guys have been telling the same stories for nearly forty years, but whenever they talk about blasting off, or looking back at Earth from orbit, they recreate those moments with such clarity and passion that they could have just stepped out of the capsule after splashdown.

When they were finished, I wandered over to the dealer’s room for a bit of shopping and reminiscing.

At one point, I walked past a booth that had lots of classic
Star Wars
toys. My eyes fell on an original model of Darth Vader’s TIE Fighter. I had that toy when I was a kid, and just looking at it was like those car commercials where the guy touches the car and gets this rapid-fire burst of images until he takes his hand off of it. I saw myself riding in the car to Kmart with my parents, hoping to buy a new
Star Wars
toy, playing with the toys on the gold shag carpeting in front of the brick fireplace in the house in Sunland, running around the back yard in the fading evening light in the summer of 1980. I piloted my TIE fighter, chasing my brother who piloted a snow speeder. (We weren’t afraid to combine
Star Wars
and He-Man, so why not combine
Star Wars
and
Empire Strikes Back
?)

I know I only stood there and looked at it for a few seconds, but it felt like several minutes. I like it when that happens. I restrained myself in ways that were not possible before I had a family to support, and bought only one thing: a little keychain that said “geek” on it. Then, I headed over to the main auditorium to listen to Ron Moore.

I knew Ron was coming to the show because I’d read it in his blog late the night before, and I hoped that I’d get a chance to talk with him one-on-one, but I didn’t expect that I’d run right into him backstage before he went on.

He lit up when he saw me. My prepared speech about how I didn’t know if he remembered me from 15 years ago flew out of my head. As he closed the distance between us, some of the things he did for my character flashed through my mind: “Yesterday’s Enterprise,” the first time I got to do something really different on the bridge; “The First Duty,” the first (and only) time we saw Wesley interact with his peers, act his age, and witness his angst-ridden humanity; and “Journey’s End,” the first (and only) time we saw Wesley as an adult, willing to take a principled stand against his father figure, Captain Picard. I felt a surge of emotion well up in my chest. Before I knew the words were coming out of my mouth, I said, “When we worked together on
Next Generation
, I was too young and too immature to appreciate what you gave me as an actor, and what you did for my character. I know it’s fifteen years late, but I wanted to thank you.”

He smiled warmly. “Thank you,” he said. “It really means a lot to me to hear that.”

I wanted so badly to tell him how I’d do anything in the world to be on
Battlestar Galactica
, but I couldn’t think of a way to say that without spoiling the moment or coming off like a schmuck, so I just congratulated him on his success, and asked him if he had as much creative control as he wanted.

“I do,” he said. “I’m very lucky to work with great people, and the network is very supportive of what we want to do. Of course, we battle, but they are always good battles that make the show better.”

He was called onto the stage before we could talk any longer, and as he stepped through the curtain to absolutely deafening applause, I felt happy. I’ve discovered that all I want to do as an artist (whether it’s acting, or writing, or whatever) is create something that matters to people. That is true for all the artists I know, particularly the writers. Like Joss Whedon, Ron has done that, and I felt happy for him in a weird I-was-just-talking-to-you way when the crowd went nuts for him.

When Ron was done, I headed out of the convention for some lunch. When I came back into the hall, someone said to me, “Frakes was talking smack about you on stage,” and I instantly knew that Jonathan told the “you used to be cool” story.
*
I laughed out loud and wished there was some way I could stop time long enough to visit with him before I left to pick up my kids.

I found Jonathan backstage and said, “I can tell, just by looking at you…”

“…That you used to be cool,” he said. He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me.

“W,” he said, “it is so great to see you.”

“You too,” I said.

“Are you on your way out, or are you hanging around?” he asked.

“I have to go pick up my kids,” I said.

“How are they?”

“They’re great. They’re teenagers now, you know.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Man, we are getting so old!” I always look for that impish glint I loved when we worked together. It was still in his eye.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“Mostly,” I said. “You?”

“I am great, man.”

We talked as long as we could, about kids, and houses, and
Star Trek
and work and wives and all the things that I never could have talked about when I was younger. I just adore Jonathan, and I was genuinely sad when I saw that I had to leave to get the kids.

“I gotta go, Jonny,” I said, “and I hope that it won’t be a year again before I get to see you, but I’m pretty sure it will be.”

“You look great, W,” he said. Then he pointed at the huge screen that made up the back of the stage, where Avery Brooks talked about his time as Captain Sisko. “But not as good as Avery.”

Avery Brooks did look great. He looked cooler than Shaft and more stylish than anyone else in the convention hall.

“He’s really fucking up the cool curve for us, isn’t he?” I said.

“Ah, don’t worry, W,” he said with a grin. “I can tell just by looking at you that you used to be cool.”

“You too,” I said.

Star Trek
has changed a lot in twenty years, and so have the conventions, but one thing remains unchanged in two decades: As a speaker and as a fan, taking that Friday red-eye sounds like a pretty cool thing to do.

_______________

*
This story is in chapter 7 of
Just A Geek
.

see a little light

B
ob Mould’s voice came out of my computer’s speakers—“Listen, there’s music in the air. I hear your voice, coming from somewhere”—as I dug through a cabinet in my office, beneath my desk.

I sensed movement behind me, and felt the presence of another person in the room. I turned and saw Ryan standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m looking for my
GURPS Horror
book,” I said.

He came into the room and crouched down on the floor next to me. “That
GURPS
seems cool.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s really fun, and was one of my favorite systems when I was your age.” I thought for a second. “Wait. I mean, when I was even younger than you.”

Goddamn, I feel old.

I pulled out a stack of graphic novels, thinking that maybe my
GURPS
books were behind them, and carefully set them on the floor between us.

Ryan pointed to
V for Vendetta
, which was on top. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I think the book is better than the movie.”

“It usually is.”

“They should have kept in a lot of stuff that they cut, and they sort of changed the entire meaning of the story with the screenplay.”

I dug deeper in my cabinet, up to my elbows in a lifetime of geeky literature.

“Yeah, I agree with you, and so does Alan Moore.”

My book was not there. I sighed heavily, exasperated, defeated.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I can’t find the book, and I’m pretty sure that means it’s in the garage somewhere.”

“Oh man,” he said. “That’s like -10 to your search roll right there.” I was too frustrated to laugh, but it put a smile on my face, regardless. I don’t think there’s a parent in the world who would get too frustrated to enjoy a glimpse of himself as it flashes across his son’s face. “Yeah, -10, if I’m lucky.” I picked up my books, and as I began to put them back on my shelf, one of them caught my eye.

“Hey. I think you’d like this.”

I handed him
Vertigo’s First Offenses
.

“It’s a few first issues from classic Vertigo titles, like
Fables
,
The Invisibles
,
Sandman Mystery Theater—
”

“You gave me this when you got it a few months ago. I really liked it.”

“Oh? Awesome.” I set it on the shelf.

“Yeah,
Fables
was great.”

I put more of my books back:
Watchmen
, a few
Hellblazer
, the entire collection of
Preacher
, and several hardback
Sandman
.

Bob Mould finished and Michael Stipe replaced him. “Let’s put our heads together and start a new country up. Our father’s father’s father tried, erased the parts he didn’t like…”

“Ryan, I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but…” My throat had suddenly become dry and I stopped to swallow. “I think you’re mature enough to have full access to my comic and graphic novel library.”

“…What?”

“You appreciate the art, you appreciate the writing, and—most importantly—you appreciate the value these books inherently have, as well as their value to me. If you’d like to read them, I’d be happy to share them with you.”

I looked at him, and he said nothing. I didn’t expect it to be as important or significant to him as it was to me, and that was okay. Part of being in high school is not attaching importance or significance to moments like this while attaching them to other things—like what exactly it meant when the cute girl from chemistry said your shirt was “funny.”
What kind of funny did she mean? Why did she twirl her pen in her hand when she talked to me? Did that mean something?

“Wow. Thanks! Does that include…” he spoke gravely, “The Collection?”

Oh. I guess he did understand the importance and significance of the moment after all.

“Well,” I said, “let’s start in this cabinet, and work our way up. I mean, I haven’t even opened some of those in almost twenty years.”

Goddammit, I feel old.

“Okay,” he said.

“But if you ever feel interested in reading one of these,” I pointed to a shelf that was filled with stories that mattered to me, stories that I hoped to gently pass along to Ryan, “you have my permission to come up and read any of them you like.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Just be careful with them.”

He grinned at me. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Because if you’re having second thoughts…”

“No. No. I said I’m sure.”

“Because you look a little nervous, is all.”

Oh, my kid is giving me shit and busting my balls.

I laughed, and he joined me.

“Ryan, I trust you with my comic books. There, I said it.”

“Wow. That’s hardcore, Wil.”

“Yes, it is.”

Michael Stipe sang, “Take a picture here, take a souvenir.”

      
I told this story to my wife before I wrote it, while we were driving to the store. When I got to the end, and dramatically revealed that I’d given Ryan permission to read my comic books, and he appreciated the magnitude of the whole thing, all I got in return was a blank look.

      
“It’s a big deal,” I said.

      
“Uh-huh.”

      
“A really big deal.”

      
“Uh-huh.”

      
“This is one of those times when I totally geek out and you politely humor me, isn’t it?” I asked.

      
“Uh-huh.”

blue light special

      
This story is dedicated with tremendous affection and gratitude to Jean Shepherd.

I
f someone asked you what toy defined your childhood, what would you say? My kids would probably say Game Boy if you asked Ryan, and Micro Machines if you asked Nolan. My brother would probably say NES. My sister would probably say Cabbage Patch Kids. My dad would probably say baseball cards.

My answer comes without a moment’s thought or second-guessing:
Star Wars
figures.

They were affordable, easily obtainable at Kmart, and allowed me to create my nine-year-old version of fan fiction, re-enacting scenes from “my most bestest movie ever” or making up my own. My core cast was Han Solo (in Hoth and regular outfits), Luke Skywalker (X-wing fighter or Bespin version), Greedo (shoots second, goddammit, version), Obi-Wan Kenobi (I lost the plastic robe and broke the tip off the light saber version), Princess Leia (pre-slave girl “man I wish I could hit that” version), C-3PO (tarnished version), and R2D2 (head stopped clicking a long time ago version). They spent a lot of time fighting on Tatooine (torn cardboard backdrop version), flying around while crammed into a TIE fighter (one wing really wants to fall off version), or rolling around the kitchen floor in my LaNdSPEEdR (kEpP YOU hANdS OFF OF It OR ELSE!! version.
*

Yeah, I loved my Star Wars figures, and I took them everywhere with me. I never owned one of those official carrying cases that looked like C-3PO or anything, but they traveled with me in a Vans shoebox that could double as a Rebel base whenever the need arose.

Last night, Nolan and I ate dinner at Islands. Right after we put our order in, I saw a kid sitting in a booth at the end of our aisle, playing with
Star Wars
figures on his table. It was like looking through a wormhole into 1981, seeing myself in Bob’s Big Boy with my parents.

The kid was eight or nine years old, with a mop of shaggy long hair that was probably cut by his mom with the coupon scissors in a chair in the kitchen. He wore a dirty blue Hot Wheels T-shirt, maroon nylon shorts, and Velcro tennis shoes. On the seat next to him, there was an open shoebox. His
Star Wars
figures were lined up in front of him, and he was making two of them fight.