Just a Geek
Page 7
When the turbolift doors open and reveal the bridge of the Enterprise,I gasp.
The bridge is a nearly perfect replica of ours, with a few minor differences that are probably imperceptible to anyone who didn’t spend the better part of five years on it. The hum of the engines, which had only existed in my imagination on Stage 8, is now real. I stare at the view screen, where a beautiful starfield gives the appearance of motion. I remember how much I hated doing blue screen shots on the bridge and how much I loved it when they’d lower the starfield. When I looked at those thousands of tiny mirrors, glued onto a screen of black velvet, I could lose myself in the wonderful fantasy that this spaceship was as real as the view.
I am consumed by hypernostalgia.
I am 14-years-old, walking out of the turbolift during “Encounter at Farpoint.” Corey Allen, the director, excitedly tells me, “Picard controls the sky, man! He controls the sky!"
I am 15-years-old, sitting in my ugly grey spacesuit at the CONN. My fake muscle suit bunches up around my arms. I feel awkward and unsure, a child who desperately wants to be a man.
I am 16-years-old, working on an episode where I say little more than, “Aye, sir.” I want to be anywhere but here.
I am 17-years-old, wearing a security uniform for “Yesterday’s Enterprise.” I am excited to stand in a different place on the bridge, wear a different uniform, and push different imaginary buttons.
I hear the voices of our crew, recall the cool fog that hung around our trailers each morning from Autumn until Spring.
I recall walking to the Paramount commissary with the cast, on our way to have lunch meetings with Gene before he died.
I have an epiphany.
Until this moment, all I have been able to remember is the pain that came with Star Trek. I’d forgotten the joy.
Star Trek was about sitting next to Brent Spiner, who always made me laugh. It wasn’t about the people who made me cry when they booed me off stage at conventions. It was about the awe I felt listening to Patrick Stewart debate the subtle nuances of The Prime Directive with Gene Roddenberry between scenes. It wasn’t about the writers who couldn’t figure out how to write a believable teenage character. It was about the wonder of walking down those corridors and pretending that I was on a real spaceship. It was about the pride I felt when I got to wear my first real uniform, go on my first away mission, fire my first phaser, play poker with the other officers in Riker’s quarters.
Oh my god. Star Trek was wonderful, and I’d forgotten. I have wasted 10 years trying to escape something that I love, for all the wrong reasons.
I am filled with regret. I miss it. I miss my surrogate family, and I will give anything to have those 10 years back. Like Scrooge, I want a second chance, will do anything for a second chance. But Christmas day came and went 10 years ago.
The stars blink out, and I’m looking into the smiling face of Jonathan Frakes on the view screen. I’m smiling back at him and I notice that everyone is staring at me. I become aware of wetness on my cheeks. I am embarrassed and make a joke. I say to the actors walking around the bridge, “If you need any help flying this thing, I’ve totally got your back!” The group laughs. Garrett says something about helping out the security guys if they get into trouble and we laugh over that too.
Jonny tells us that we have to leave the ship now and board a shuttlecraft so that we may safely return to Las Vegas.
I don’t want to leave. I’ve just gotten here. I want to cry out “No! Don’t make me leave! It’s not fair! I want to stay! I need to stay! Please let me stay!”
Instead, I am silent and I stare hard at the bridge, trying to catch a glimpse of a dolly track, or a mark, or maybe my costumer waiting for me to come off stage so she can hand me my fleece jacket.
The group I’m with herds me into the turbolift, and the doors close. I remember all the times the FX guy didn’t pull the doors open in time, and we’d walk into them.
The turbolift takes us to the shuttle bay, where we board a flight simulator that looks like one of our shuttlecraft. I don’t pay any attention to the voyage home—I am deep in my own memories, consumed by thoughts of days gone by and time forever lost.
The ride comes to an end and we walk back to Quark’s. Everyone we pass wants to know what I thought of the ride, if I enjoyed my Star Trek Experience. I tell them, truthfully, that it was just like being back on the set. I tell them that it’s reminded me how cool Star Trek was. I keep the rest to myself. I don’t think I can even give voice to the incredible series of emotions I have felt in the past 15 minutes. I don’t even know if, in recalling that experience and writing these thoughts down, I have been able to convey how it affected me.
But it did. It changedme.
Being inside those walls, even though it was in a casino in Las Vegas, I was safe. I was protected from the bullshit that had been the focus of my life since I quit the show. When that bullshit was washed away, I saw Trek for what it is: a huge part of my life. I will probably never be bigger than Trek, so why try to avoid it? Why not love it, embrace it, and be proud of it? It was cool. Gene was cool. The cast is cool. Star Trek may never be what it once was . . . but I got to be there when it was great.
We stay at the party for another hour. We talk with friends, and I pose for pictures, sign a few autographs, and shake some hands. We watch Armin and Max perform a very funny sketch, and I have my picture taken with a cardboard stand up of WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER, circa 1967.
Finally, the five days in Vegas catch up with us, and Anne and I need to leave. I seek out Dave and Jackie Scott and thank them for a great convention. I tell them that I’ll see them in a few weeks, never thinking that in just two days I will never want to board an airplane again.
We take a cab back to our hotel. Anne puts her head on my shoulder and is asleep before we’re even out of the driveway.
We drive up a wide and empty street, about a quarter mile off the strip. This part of Vegas seems lonely, desolate. The carnival glare of lights along The Strip robs the rest of the world of any light, and the whole desert is black, like outer space . . . I stare out the window into the darkness and imagine a starfield that’s 15 years away.
I had forgotten how cool Star Trek was and how much I missed it. I feel a little sad.
The cabbie keeps looking at me in the rear view mirror, giving me that `I think I know you but I’m not sure why’ look. He says, “What brings you to Vegas?”
"Star Trek,” I tell him.
“Oh yeah? You a big fan or something?”
“Yes I am,” I tell him. “I love Star Trek.”
When I left Las Vegas, I felt like I’d taken first place in the World Series of Poker. My sketch comedy show was an unqualified success,[5] and I’d found a way to temporarily silence the relentless Voice of Self Doubt, and Prove To Everyone That Quitting Star Trek Wasn’t A Mistake. For the first time in almost a decade, I was able to watch Star Trek without much regret, enjoy the stories, and welcome the memories that came with each episode.
6 OCTOBER, 2001
Life in the so-called space age
Tonight I watched “All Good Things . . .” on TNN, as I wrapped up a week of watching the best of TNG.
God dammit all to hell if it didn’t reduce me to tears, at the end, seeing all my friends seated around that poker table. I thought, as I watched them, about how much I wished I was at that table . . . and I can admit something here, to myself and to fandom: I miss Star Trek. I miss working with that amazing cast. I miss being part of that amazing show. Watching TNG all this week has been the closest I will ever get to watching lots of home movies, or reading a high school yearbook over and over and over again.
So many memories came flooding back over the past few days. Here are some of them, in list form:
In the first season, when LeVar was driving the ship (before a certain strapping young ensign took over), the chairs we had were really reclined. More suited for sleeping, than sitting . . . and that’s what LeVar w
ould do, all the time! When he was in a scene without any dialogue, he would sit in that recliner, VISOR securely in place and just doze off. More than once, he got busted for snoring.
In one episode and I can’t remember the title, so you’ll have to excuse me, Patrick was strolling around the bridge, saying something about how we all needed to “consider the source” of something. Thing is, he was saying “consider the sauce.” I didn’t catch it the first few times, but Brent did and he turned to me, at the beginning of a take and just as they were about to roll, he said, “Patrick wants more sauce.” I asked him what the hell that meant, because Brent was always fucking with me and he said, “Just listen.” So they roll, and Patrick says that we should “consider the sauce.” I cracked up. Out loud. I couldn’t help it. They cut, everyone looked at me, all pissed off, because it was okay for the adults to crack, but if The Kid did it, it was another thing completely. I pointed to Brent, stammered that he made me laugh and Brent just looked angelic (in gold, mind you; I think that helped him pull it off). Nobody believed me, until later, when someone else heard Patrick saying something else, in his, er . . . unique . . . accent and Marina said, “I’m British and I know that’s not how we talk.” So I took the opportunity to point out “the sauce.”
I remember the first time Wesley got to play in one of those poker games that they had on the show. I remember how genuinely thrilled I was to be in that scene, because I felt like I was finally accepted as something other than The Kid.
It’s weird to watch TNG now, because when I watch Enterprise, my imagination fills in the ship around what the camera is currently showing . . . but when I watch TNG, my memory fills in the stage around the set . . . instead of picturing the rest of the corridors, or the Battle Bridge (my personal favorite set), I remember our chairs and the craft service table . . .
I remembered, as I was watching “All Good Things . . .” tonight, something that happened a very long time ago. Two things, actually, which, at the time, seemed to validate my reasons for leaving.
There was a big deal made about the screening of the final episode of TNG over at Paramount and I was asked to attend. I agreed, mostly because I wanted to see my friends, but also because I was curious to see how they had ended it.
They did the screening in a theater at Paramount and they sat all of us from the cast together in the theater. I sat between Marina and Brent, if memory serves. Some of our more high-profile guest stars had been invited and there were some empty seats on the other side of our row where they would have sat if they’d shown—somehow I’m not surprised that Mick Fleetwood didn’t show—but John DeLancie was sitting behind me. That’s important, as you’ll see in a second.
Some stuffed shirt from Viacom got up, made some stupid speech that nobody wanted to hear about how great Star Trek was and he introduced Rick Berman, who came up to the podium and made another speech, about how great the last seven years had been and how it was through the work of some people, some people who are here tonight, that TNG was possible. Would those people please stand up? Patrick Stewart. Jonathan Frakes. Brent Spiner. Marina Sirtis. Gates McFadden. LeVar Burton. Michael Dorn. Denise Crosby. John DeLancie.
They all stood up. The entire theater was now on its feet, applauding their hard work and commitment to the show. Berman was beaming as he applauded them.
They were all standing up, except for me. Berman looked right at me and didn’t call out my name. The son of a bitch knew that I was there and didn’t call on me to stand. Later, I asked him why he’d left me out and he said he didn’t know I was there. I told him that I was the one person who was sitting with the cast who wasn’t standing up. Maybe he remembered making eye contact with me, after he called Denise and before he called on John DeLancie? It sucked, it was petty, and it hurt.
Another time, I was invited to a big party for the 25th anniversary of Star Trek, also at Paramount. Again, I can’t remember if this was before, or after the aforementioned snubbing. Again, they sat us all together and again, there was a “stand up and be counted” thing. Only this time, it was with all three casts. Maybe you’ve seen the picture? All three casts are on stage, holding these miniature American flags, which were given to them by astronauts who flew them on various space shuttle missions. Again, I was left sitting, surrounded by empty chairs. I was so embarrassed, as I sat there, feeling genuinely happy for my friends, from all the casts, who were standing on stage and at the same time, I felt so tiny and so lame . . . afterward, I told Berman that I thought that was really shitty and he said he hadn’t known that I was coming. Well, the thing is, when you’re the executive producer of Star Trek, you approve everything that goes on. Even guest lists.
I recall all this publicly, to maybe give some context to my remarks over the years and to help you, my dear monkey, appreciate what I will say next: I am filled with regret that I left. Now, I know some asshole out there will say that I feel that way because I didn’t work as much after I left, but the truth is, that was by my choice. As soon as I was off the show, I realized that I could do whatever I wanted with my life and I quit. Ran away to Topeka, joined a computer company and discovered that I hated myself. I was truly disgusted with the person I looked at in the mirror each day and getting away from the environment I had always lived in was the only way to ensure that I changed all that.
You know who I would be if I had never left? Say it with me, my people: WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER.
So, regrets? I have a few . . . but then again, I wouldn’t be the person I am now, if I’d stuck around and I like who I’ve become.
That’s an interesting entry for a couple of reasons. I genuinely enjoyed sharing those “on the set” memories with WWdN readers as much as I enjoyed recalling them . . . but I’m also trying to clarify—for myself, as much as for anyone else—why I had spent so much time and effort distancing myself from the franchise. I still miss the cast and my time spent with them, but I can’t deny how awful Rick Berman made me feel, and it’s pretty clear to me now that Prove To Everyone That Quitting Star Trek Wasn’t A Mistake was born largely because of those events.
* * *
[4] What I’ve reprinted here is just part of the story. All the stuff I couldn’t put in because of space limitations is in Dancing Barefoot.
[5] Three years later, it’s taken on a a life of its own in fandom. I still get e-mails from people who were there, and people who have heard about it. Whenever I attend a Star Trek event, someone asks me if I’ve brought my comedy group with me.
Part III. BREAKING NEWS
“Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.”
—John Lennon
The World Has Turned
WE WERE IN LAS VEGAS from September 4th until September 10th. The day after we came home, the joy I’d felt just 24 hours before was replaced by shock, horror, and confusion.
13 SEPTEMBER, 2001
He didn’t know what to do. But he’d think of something.
I wasn’t going to talk about this, because it’s all anyone is talking about. I mean, I turn on TLC to get away from it and they’re just running a feed of FOX News. Same for Discovery. Even ESPN has a ticker with updates scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
So since I can’t get away from it, I give in. I will write about it. Because I am scared. I am distraught. I am upset. I am depressed. I am angry. Mostly, I don’t know what to do and I’m not quite sure how to feel. It reminds me of when my friend hanged himself. How helpless I felt, how angry, sad, and scared.
My wife woke me up Tuesday, much earlier than we normally get up, because my mom had called and told her about the attack on the WTC. So I sat up, turned on the TV and watched in horror as that plane crashed into the tower, over and over and over and over.
I felt like I was watching a bad Steven Segal movie. I mean, this just doesn’t happen in real life, right?
But here’s the deal: I can’t cry. I really want to. I feel it well up in my chest, but the tears won’t come. A
nd that is the hardest thing, so far. That and the fear.
I was walking Ferris last night and I kept getting this completely irrational fear that something awful was going to happen while I was away from the house. Didn’t help that she kept stopping and looking behind us, like there was something there.
Here I find myself, at an uncommon loss for words. I don’t think I really have much to add, so that’s it for tonight.
Hrm. Worst. Entry. Ever.
Like much of the world, I spent the rest of September in a daze. I’ve never been a big fan of flying, and my thoughts often drifted to the passengers on those planes. I wondered what they did, how they felt, when they knew they were going to die. I had grown accustomed to feeling depressed about Hollywood, but 9/11 made my frustrations about work feel petty, and proving to everyone that quitting Star Trek wasn’t a mistake seemed pretty goddamned unimportant.
Part IV. ACT II
“You’re out of control—and you want the world to love you
Or maybe you just want a chance to let them know
That you live and breathe and suffer
And your back is in the corner and you’ve got nowhere to go”
—Oingo Boingo Out of Control
“You’ve got to cry without weeping,
talk without speaking,
scream without raising your voice.”