by Wil Wheaton
I knew this moment would come, and I hoped that I’d be prepared to face it, but I wasn’t. Huge sobs shook my body. Giant tears fell off my face and ran down my nose.
Ferris cautiously walked over to me from the kitchen. She stopped about three feet from me, sat down, and cocked her head to one side.
“Felix is dying, Ferris,” I said. “I’m okay. I’m just sad.”
She sighed and laid down on the floor with her head between her paws. She watched me while I sat there and cried.
Later that night, Anne and I had The Talk. We decided that we’d done all that we could to help him, but it just wasn’t enough. He wasn’t really living…he was just staying alive. We talked about the promise we’d made two years ago, to each other, and to Felix, that we wouldn’t keep him alive just because we didn’t want to say goodbye. I called the vet and had The Talk with her. We made an appointment to bring Felix in the next day.
I knew I was doing the right thing, but that didn’t make it any easier. As I wrote this (and it took most of the day to write—I had to stop writing several times, just to get a grip on myself) I realized that Felix hadn’t been The Bear for a long time.
As I wrote, I thought about how much I would miss him. I wrote in my blog, “I will miss seeing him stand up and stretch himself out on the trunk of Anne’s car before he jumps down onto the driveway and greets me when I open my car door. I will miss him jumping up into my car and talking to me while he walks around and explores the passenger compartment. I will miss watching him sit in the grass and torment the squirrel in the tree next door. I will miss watching him stump around in the backyard. But most of all, I will miss being on his rotation. Even when he decided that four in the morning was when he needed to go outside and the best way to accomplish that was to run across our heads until one of us woke up and let him out.”
Just after nine in the morning on March 30, 2005, we said goodbye to Felix The Bear. He left peacefully and quietly, surrounded by his staff who loved him.
In the days and weeks that followed his death, I kept looking for The Bear in the usual places (not because I thought he was still alive, but out of habit) and when he wasn’t there, the tears often came.
About a week after we said goodbye, his vet called.
“Mr. Wheaton?”
“That’s me,” I said. I don’t think I will ever get used to being called Mister anything.
“Felix’s ashes are here, and you can pick them up whenever you’d like.”
A sob rose out of my chest and caught in my throat. At that moment, I discovered that I had created a totally illogical construct in my mind where I somehow hoped that when we took him to the vet, we would trade the sick, sad, dying Felix for the healthy, tough, stumpy little Bear we used to know.
“Mr. Wheaton? Are you there?”
Felix really is gone. He really isn’t coming back, I thought.
I drew a breath to steady my voice. “Can I come and pick him up right now?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Fifteen minutes later, I stood in the vet’s office as one of the techs gently set a small cedar box on the counter.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wheaton,” she said.
I tried to speak, but all I could do was nod my head as I picked it up. When I got into my car, it all came back to me: the years of giving him fluids and medicine, the ups and downs as his kidney disease progressed and he fought back, the last few weeks of watching him slowly waste away, hoping against hope for a miracle we knew wouldn’t come…and his last night with us, which he spent mostly on Ryan’s bed with his little head tucked into his right arm.
“I miss you so much, Felix,” I said. My eyes filled with tears as I set the box on the passenger seat. I put on my seat belt and started my car. I pulled out of the driveway as Jeff Tweedy sang,
Far, far away
From those city lights
That might be shining on you tonight
Far, far away from you
On the dark side of the moon
I long to hold you in my arms and sway
Kiss and ride on the CTA
I need to see you tonight
And those bright lights
Oh, I know it’s right
Deep in my heart
I’ll know it’s right
I made it about two blocks before I pulled over, put my head in my hands, and completely fell apart.
I still miss Felix. He was a stumpy little guy.
green grass and high tides forever (and ever and
This was written after The Happiest Days of Our Lives was published, but it fits so perfectly with the rest of the book, I included it in this edition.
I spent a lot of Ryan’s first summer home from college bugging him to play the Endless Setlist with me on Rock Band. The Endless Setlist is usually the last thing you unlock in career mode: a concert featuring all 58 songs that come with the game. It takes about six hours to play straight through.
Naturally, being Rock Gods, Ryan and I tackled it on expert. He played guitar and I played bass. We were awesome. We maxed out at five stars on pretty much every one of the first 20 or so songs, including three extra-difficult gold stars. I got the authentic strummer achievement for only using upstrums, and 99% on about half of them. (Those of you who haven’t played Rock Band and don’t know what the hell I’m talking about can rest assured that we kicked 16 different kinds of ass.)
We were seriously having a good time, striking the rock pose, putting our backs together while we jammed through epic songs, and generally bonding through the power of rock.
And then, with five songs left to go, we got to “Green Grass and High Tides.” It’s a fantastic rock song by the Outlaws. It’s also one of the hardest songs in the game and the longest, lasting around 10 minutes. You don’t so much play this song as survive it. If a song could kick you in the junk, this would be it.
So, after having already played for five hours (and not exactly conserving our energy), we started to play this rock epic, knowing it would be the greatest challenge we’d faced yet.
Our first time through, we failed at 84%. It was entirely my fault: I held my guitar too high and deployed our emergency overdrive when we didn’t need it.
“Sorry about that,” I said as we lost 360,000 fans. “I blame my guitar.” Ryan looked at me.
“Okay, I blame myself.”
Ryan laughed and said it was no big deal. He was confident we’d get it on the next try, and when we started the song, I could see why. He was in the zone, nailing 97% of the first solo. I wanted to holler about how awesome he was, but I felt like it would have been the same as talking to a pitcher in the middle of a no-hitter, so I stayed quiet and did my best not to screw things up.
Alas, I screwed things up. We failed the song at 96%. We lost another 360,000 fans, almost wiping out the million we picked up during the Southern Rock Marathon the week before. Compared to the five hours we’d spent playing, that 18 minutes wasn’t that long, but it sure felt demoralizing—especially because it was entirely my fault we’d failed twice. There’s this bass phrase that’s repeated over…and over…and over…and if you’re just a tiny bit off (like I was) you’re screwed (like I was), and…well, you get the point (like I did).
I dropped my hands to my side and let the guitar hang around my neck. My arms were tired, my legs hurt, and my vision was getting blurry.
“I think I’ve identified the weak link in our band, and it’s me,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Ryan said, “but I think I want to take a break.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s pause this, go out for something to eat, and come back later.”
Ryan walked into his room and turned on his shower. I unplugged my guitar so we didn’t have to worry about our dogs knocking it down and restarting the game while we were gone.
In my memory, the next few moments happen in slow motion:
�
�� I pick up Ryan’s wireless guitar controller.
• I hold down the button to get the control screen.
• The dashboard comes up, giving me the option to cancel, turn off the controller, or turn off the system.
• I click the strum bar to select “turn off the controller.”
• I set the guitar on the ground—carefully—and reach up to click the green fret button.
• I hear the Xbox beep.
• I push the button.
• I realize that the beep was the strum bar clicking one more time when I set the guitar down, selecting “Shut Down the System.”
• The system shuts down, taking all of our progress with it.
• For the next 120 seconds, I use every curse word I know—a couple of them twice—until my throat is raw. It takes everything I have not to grab the guitar and get all Pete Townshend on it.
As time returned to its normal flow, Ryan came out of his room. “What happened?”
I told him.
Ryan didn’t freak out or even get upset. Instead, he told me, “Calm down, Wil. It’s just a game. We can do it again.”
Despite his calm, sane words, I was still really upset. Yes, it was an accident, but it was my fault. There were several different ways I could have powered down his guitar that would have been more careful. I felt like an asshole, because I screwed up twice in the game and caused us to fail both times, because I screwed up and lost all the progress we’d made … and mostly because I really wanted to get this particular Xbox achievement with my son. I really wanted that memory.
What I got, though, was better than what I’d hoped for. I saw Ryan exhibit one of the key values I’d raised him with. He kept everything in perspective and found all the good things in the experience: the gold stars we scored, the fun we had playing all the other songs, and the time we spent together. He reminded me that Rock Band is just like rooting for the Dodgers; it’s not about winning, it’s about playing the game.
It felt great to hear my values, not my 120 seconds of swears, come out of my son’s mouth. It isn’t reflected in my Xbox Live account, but the 100G Parenting achievement picked up that day means more to me than anything I have in my gamerscore.
who’s gonna drive you home tonight?
Anne and I took Nolan out to Glendale for this art thing he likes to do. After we dropped him off, Anne put her arms around my waist, kissed my face, and said, “Hey, I want to have a dinner date with my husband.”
Bonus, unexpected dinner dates are always awesome, so I didn’t even put up token resistance, and we had a wonderful meal together while Nolan did his thing a few blocks away.
When we were finished, Nolan met us in the parking garage and told us that he wanted to drive home. At that point, he’d had his permit for about five weeks, and even though he was a very competent and careful driver, we were both a little nervous about exposing him to the L.A. Freeways at night.
“You’ve never driven on the freeway at night,” Anne said. “Maybe we should just take side streets.”
“But the freeway is much faster, and we have Family Guy on TiVo at home,” Nolan said.
“We’re concerned that you don’t have a lot of night-time freeway driving experience,” she said, invoking the dreaded Royal We.
He put his hand on my shoulder, and quite seriously said, “Wil, how am I going to get that experience if I don’t drive on the freeway at night?”
I looked at Anne. “He has a point,” I said.
I felt like The Old Man, the keys to my car turning into a Red Rider Carbine Action Range Model Air Rifle With A Compass In The Stock And This Thing That Tells Time.
“Okay, just be careful,” Anne said. I can’t be certain, but I think I heard her add, “Just don’t shoot your eye out.”
A few minutes later, as we drove down the freeway, I sat as quietly as I could, gently nudging Nolan with occasional driving reminders. He’s really quite good, and I didn’t have to point out too many things to him, but near one ramp, one of those spiffy milk-carton-looking Scions sped up and cut in front of us without bothering to use his turn indicator.
“You’ve got to watch for drivers like that,” I said. “And remember my fundamental rule of driving, which is…?”
Nolan scrunched up his face like he was thinking and said, “Don’t be a dick?”
“That’s my fundamental rule for life,” I said. “My fundamental rule for driving is—”
“Oh, everyone on the road is an idiot, and they’re actively trying to kill you.”
“That’s the one.”
“I got it,” he said.
“But, you know, you can use them both,” I said.
“Okay, Wil,” he said, patiently. “I got it.”
“If you need them,” I added.
“I’m trying to drive here, Wil.”
“Sorry.”
lying in odessa
The club is on the eastern edge of Hollywood, in a pretty seedy area where the cops are too busy busting crack-heads to bother a poker game. To get in, you walk down an alley and knock on the door with the big red bar painted horizontally across the middle. Most of the people who play here are in the entertainment industry, so it’s appropriate that it’s something out of a movie.
I show the doorman a business card with the club’s address written on the back, and he lets me in. I’m here for a no-limit hold-’em tournament. It’s the first time I’ve ever played in an illegal game. It’s the first time I’ve played outside of a friendly home game. It’s the first time I’ve ever played for money.
I buy in and get my table assignment: I’m seat six at table two. We don’t start for about ten minutes, so I get a bitters and soda from the bar and try to act like I belong here.
A few weeks earlier, as we waited for the subway, my friend Shane said to me, “You play poker, right?”
“Kind of. You have a game?” I said. Since I read Big Deal, I’ve entertained notions of playing in my own Tuesday Night Game.
“You ever heard of the Odessa Room?” he said.
I shook my head. “I’m spectacularly uncool, Shane, and I live in suburbia. What’s the Odessa Room?”
“It’s an honest-to-goodness speakeasy in Hollywood. Twice a month they have poker tournaments.”
“What are the stakes?” I said.
“You can afford it. Why don’t you come with me next Wednesday?”
“Because I’m not good enough to play for serious money.”
“How much money is ‘serious’?” he asked.
“Any,” I said.
“Come on, don’t be a pussy.”
“I appreciate the invite, but…”
He took out his business card and wrote down the address.
“Think about it. If you change your mind, I’ll see you there. Show this card at the door.”
With a blast of warm, humid air, the Wilshire/Western train pulled into the station. Shane got into the car.
As the doors closed, he said, “Of course, if you’d rather, you can just give me 100 bucks and cut out the formality of playing.”
I laughed and flipped him the bird. He gave it back as the train pulled away.
I turned his card over in my hand. His office at Walt Disney Studios on one side, the address to an illegal poker game on the other.
Sometimes, I love this town.
The Odessa’s illegal nature means its unknown owners have forgone the interior decorating that would make it truly cinematic; the only thing of real value is a sound system that rivals any Sunset Strip night club. Three well-worn area rugs cover most of the cold cement floor. The indirect lighting is provided by those halogen uplights that were popular in the ’80s. Twelve of them line one wall, and large cathedral-like candles sit in sconces that are nailed to the other walls. There are several enormous Samoan bouncers who watch over the entire place with bored expressions that make me a little uneasy.
Everything is portable, including the bar. When I lean against it, it
rolls back a few inches.
“Watch it,” the bartender says. His tone tells me that this happens all the time…when fuckin’ new guys like me show up.
“Sorry.”
I swallow hard. I think about leaving, but my money is already spent. Better not lose my nerve now. For the first time since I decided to come here, I wonder if the club’s name has anything to do with the Russian mafia. Then I wonder how many of these Samoan guys have guns. What the hell am I doing here? And where the hell is Shane?
The game starts at 8. My watch—a gift from Sean Astin when we were promoting Toy Soldiers—says it’s 7:55. The tables are starting to fill up, so I ask the bartender for a glass of water. I take it, tip him a dollar, and head for my table.
The blinds start out at 10-20 and double every 30 minutes.
My seat is the only empty one at table two. I put my coat over the back of my chair, stack my chips, and sit down.
Eventually, we shuffle up and deal. I soon discover that I’m surrounded by a crew of regulars who all know each other. I don’t know nothin’ about playin’ no poker, but I know enough to understand that this puts me at a significant disadvantage.
For a game in Hollywood, there’s precious little coffee-housing until Mr. Lawyer, in seat one, says to me, “Hey guy, aren’t you an actor?”
I hate that question, because I always have to answer, “I used to be.”
“Whaddaya mean, ‘used to be’?” says the guy to my right. He’s a webmaster from Long Beach who could have saved an hour on the freeway and played at the Bike, but I find out later that he comes here because he’s a starfucker.
“I haven’t done any acting in a long time. I’m a writer now.” This answer doesn’t seem to satisfy them, so I say, “I only act when something really great comes along.”
That is, before my agents dumped me over the phone a year ago. Where the hell is Shane?
“What show do you write for?” says Mr. Agent’s Assistant, from seat three.
“Oh, I don’t work in the industry. I write books.”
A knowing look passes among them. “You published?” he says.
