by Wil Wheaton
Maybe I’d stand outside the doors of Sunland Discount Variety, offering low-interest loans to kids wanting to play Gyruss or Star Castle.
I even thought about opening a savings account at the local Crocker Bank, where I’d get my own passbook and a set of Crocker Spaniels as a thank-you gift.
Ultimately, though, like any normal 8-year-old, I kept it for myself and there was a brief but shining moment in the summer of 1980, when I was allowed to ride my bike all the way to Hober’s Pharmacy, stopping at every intersection along the way. Oh, sure, I told my parents that it was to watch for cars, but in reality, it was to check the front pocket of my two-tone OP shorts to ensure that my $5 bill, which I’d folded into a tight little square and tucked into my Velcro wallet, hadn’t somehow escaped my possession. I took that five bucks and bought myself Wacky Packs, a Slush Puppy and enough surgical tubing to make several water weenies. I even had enough left over after playing Bagman, Donkey Kong and Asteroids Deluxe to take a chance on the intimidating wall of buttons that was Stargate. It was one of the grandest days of my young life and helped soften the disappointment that came when my friend Stephen proclaimed that my Land Speeder wasn’t “rad,” but “sucked.”
I recently went back to Sunland, hoping to pick up a Slush Puppy and maybe see one or two of the phantoms of my youth haunting those stores, but they were nowhere to be found. I ended up getting a Mello Yello-flavored Slurpee from 7–11 and heading back home, where I spent some time looking for that Land Speeder in my garage.
I don’t know why, but I still have it. There’s an inscription on the bottom which proclaims “THIS IS WIL’S LaNdSPEEdR! kEpP YOU hANdS OFF OF It OR ELSE!!”
I took it out of the box and dusted it off. I held it in my hands for the first time in 20 years and suddenly that trade didn’t seem like such a bad idea, after all.
I have a message for Darth Vader: you can build your Prison Fortress on my kitchen floor, but the Rebel Alliance has a new escape pod on the way and you’d better “kEpP YOU hANDS OFF OF It OR ELSE!!”
That story started out when a friend of mine made a passing reference to Wacky Packages in an e-mail, and my brief millionaire summer flashed through my mind in Cinemascope. I started to compose my reply, and after about two paragraphs, I realized that I was telling a story . . . with a beginning, middle, and end. I wondered to myself, “How would David Sedaris write this?” and I then wrote in my best Me Talk Pretty One Day impression. It was the step across the rubicon that I had needed to take for months, if not years. After a lifetime of bringing other people’s words to life, I did it with my own: my memories, my thoughts, and my images were brought to life by me. It felt wonderful.
My mom called me that afternoon, told me she had read my story, and said, “I need to tell you two things. We didn’t listen to the Grateful Dead. It was Fleetwood Mac.”
I laughed and asked her what the other thing was.
“I told you that you were a writer,” she said. “I am so proud of you.”
“Thanks, mom.”
“When are you going to write a book?”
“Uhh . . . I don’t know. There’s a big difference between writing a book and writing a blog,” I said.
“Why?” she said. Then, before I could answer, she added, “You should do it. I bet you’ll surprise yourself.”
After I wrote The Trade, I looked for those Cinemascope memories everywhere I went. I wanted to stop Prove To Everyone That I Can Write More Than Just One Story About Something That Happened When I Was A Kid from growing into a monster like his big brother, but another memory didn’t surface for two months. When it did, though, it was worth the wait.
05 JULY 2002
Fireworks
When I was growing up, we always spent Fourth of July with my father’s aunt and uncle, at their fabulous house in Toluca Lake.
It was always a grand affair and I looked forward to spending each Independence Day listening to Sousa marches, swimming in their enormous pool and watching a fireworks show on the back patio.
This fireworks display was always exciting because we were in the middle of L.A. County, where even the most banal of fireworks—the glow worms—are highly illegal and carried severe fines and the threat of imprisonment, should we be discovered by L.A.’s finest. The excitement of watching the beautiful cascade of sparks and color pouring out of a Happy Flower With Report was enhanced by the knowledge that we were doing something forbidden and subversive.
Yes, even as a child I was already on my way to being a dangerous subversive. Feel free to talk to any of my middle-school teachers if you doubt me.
Each year, the older children, usually teenagers and college-aged, would be chosen to light the fireworks and create the display for the rest of the family.
I was Chosen in 1987, three weeks before my fifteenth birthday.
The younger cousins, with whom I’d sat for so many years, would now watch me the way we’d watched Tommy, Bobby, Richard and Crazy Cousin Bruce, who always brought highly illegal firecrackers up from Mexico.
I was going to be a man in the eyes of my family.
This particular 4th of July was also memorable because it was the first 4th that was celebrated post-Stand By Me and at the time I had become something of a mini-celebrity around the family. Uncles who had never talked to me before were asking me to sign autographs for people at work, older cousins who had bullied me for years were proclaiming me “cool,” and I was the recipient of a lot of unexpected attention.
I was initially excited to get all this newfound attention, because I’d always wanted to impress my dad’s family and make my dad proud, but deep down I felt like it was all a sham. I was the same awkward kid I’d always been and they were treating me differently because of celebrity, which I had already realized was fleeting and bullshit.
Looking back on it now, I think the invitation to light fireworks may have had less to do with my age than it had to do with my growing fame . . . but I didn’t care. Fame is fleeting . . . but it can get a guy some cool stuff from time to time, you know? I allowed myself to believe that it was just a coincidence.
The day passed as it always did. There were sack races, basket ball games and water balloon tosses, all of which I participated in, but with a certain impatience. These yearly events were always fun, to be sure, but they were standing directly between me and the glorious excitement of pyrotechnic bliss.
Finally, the sun began to set. Lawn chairs were arranged around the patio, wet swimsuits were traded for warm, dry clothes, and I bid my brother and sister farewell as I joined my fellow firework lighters near the corner of the house. I walked casually, like someone who had done this hundreds of times before.
As the sun sank lower and lower, sparklers were passed out to everyone, even the younger children. I politely declined, my mind absolutely focused on the coming display. I wanted to make a big impression on the family. I was going to start out with something amazing, which would really grab their attention. I’d start with some groundflowers, then a Piccolo Pete and a sparkling cone. From then on, I’d just improvise with the older cousins, following their lead as we worked together to weave a spectacular tapestry of burning phosphor and gunpowder for five generations of family.
Dusk arrived, the family was seated, and the great display began. Some of the veteran fireworks lighters went first, setting off some cascading fountains and a pinwheel. The assembled audience cheered and gasped its collective approval, and it was my turn.
I steeled myself and walked to the center of the large patio, casually kicking aside the still-hot remains of just-fired fountains. Casually, like someone who had done this hundreds of times before.
My hands trembled slightly, as I picked up three ground flowers that I’d wound together. My thumb struck flint and released flaming butane. I lit the fuse and became a man. The sparkling fire raced toward the ignition point and rather than following the directions to “LIGHT FUSE, PUT ON GROUND AND GET AWAY,” I did something incredibly
stupid: I casually tossed the now-flaming bundle of pyrotechnics on the ground. Casually, like someone who’d done this hundreds of times before.
The bundle of flowers rolled quickly across the patio, toward my captive and appreciative audience.
Two of the flowers ignited and began their magical dance of colorful fire on the cement, while the third continued to roll, coming to rest in the grass beneath the chair of a particularly old and close-to-death great-great-great aunt.
The colored flame that was creating such a beautiful and harmless display on the patio was spraying directly at this particular matriarch, the jet of flame licking obscenely at the bottom of the chair.
The world was instantly reduced to a few sounds: my own heartbeat in my ears, the screams of the children seated near my great-great-great aunt, and the unmistakable zip of the now-dying flowers on the patio.
I don’t know what happened, but somehow my great-great-great aunt, who’d managed to survive every war of the 20th century, managed to also survive this great mistake of mine. She was helped to her feet and she laughed.
Unfortunately, she was the only one who was laughing. One of my dad’s cousins, who was well into his 20s and never attended family gatherings accompanied by the same date, sternly ripped the lighter from my hand and ordered me back to the lawn, to sit with the other children. Maybe I could try again next year, when I was “more responsible and not such a careless idiot.”
I was crushed. My moment in the family spotlight was over before it had even begun and not even the glow of pseudocelebrity could save me.
I carefully avoided eye contact, as I walked slowly, humiliated and embarrassed, back to the lawn, where I tried not to cry. I know the rest of the show unfolded before me, but I don’t remember it. All I could see was a mental replay of the bundle of ground flowers rolling across the patio. If that one rogue firework hadn’t split off from its brothers, I thought, I would still be up there for the finale, which always featured numerous pinwheels and a Chinese lantern.
When the show was over, I was too embarrassed to apologize and I raced away before the patio lights could come on. I spent the rest of the evening in the front yard, waiting to go home.
The following year I was firmly within the grip of sullen teenage angst and spent most of the festivities with my face planted firmly in a book—Foundation or something, most likely—and I watched the fireworks show with the calculated disinterest of a 15-year-old.
That teenage angst held me in its grasp for the next few years and I even skipped a year or two, opting to attend some parties where there were girls who I looked at, but never had the courage to talk to.
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.
* * *
[11] I know, I know. But it was 1986 and she had big boobs.
[12] It made sense when I was 12.
Part VI. 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.”
