by Wil Wheaton
He’s right. Most of the time these days, I have to be a grown up and I can’t play very much.
But for an hour or so tonight, I got to be a kid again, and while I appreciated the sentiment from Ryan’s friend, he didn’t quite have it right.
There was a lucky guy out there playing . . . but it wasn’t Ryan.
Chapter 3. Inferno
A violent brushfire burned out of control, just a few miles from my house. The air was thick with smoke, and the sun cast a blood-red pall over the earth. As I walked to my car, thick snow flurries of ash swirled around me in heavy clumps.
I brushed the gathered ashes off my windshield, and drove to Studio City, where I had an audition for “John Doe.”
The casting office, which was once a small one-bedroom apartment, is across the street from the CBS studio. It sits at the top of an impossibly small stairwell which is always cramped with too many actors. They sit on the steps, the air heavy with the scent of Altoids, as they silently mouth their lines, and hope that this audition will be “The One.”
I stepped carefully around several other actors on my way to the sign-in sheet. As I neared the first landing, I was passed by an AMAZINGLY BEAUTIFUL GIRL (probably reading for the part of the AMAZINGLY BEAUTIFUL GIRL.) She wore a red dress. She moved in slow motion.
As she passed me, I was engulfed in the intoxicating scent of her perfume, and hit full in the face with a hypernostalgic memory from when I was about 15:
I’m with my best friend Darin. We’ve just seen a movie in Burbank and we’re driving back to his house in La Crescenta. We could take the freeway and be there in about 15 minutes, but we choose to take a more circuitous surface street route, knowing that it will allow us to stay out longer, enjoying the perception of freedom that comes with the first few months of passing one’s first driving test.
We’re listening to “The Queen is Dead” as we pull through the curves of this particular street, talking about girls, comics, Nintendo and debating the merits of the Light and Dark sides of The Force. We stop at a light and a girl pulls up next to us. I look over, notice that she’s insanely hot, and begin to get nervous. At 15, I’m convinced that any girl I see is a potential trip to at least second base . . . though I haven’t even had a real at bat, yet.
Darin looks over and says, “Hey! That’s Misty!”
“What?”
“That’s Misty! I know her from school.”
Darin waves to her and we all get out of our cars, leaving them idling in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night.
Darin introduces us, and I am immediately drawn to her. She is about my height, with lots of thick blonde hair and bright green eyes that stand out from her face in the La Crescenta night. She is funny and engaging, and our conversation is easy and effortless. She is also wearing this amazing perfume, that gives me goosebumps . . . I realize with some embarrassment that I have been inhaling deeply through my nose while she talks, drinking her in.
We talk for a long time. Darin and I carefully avoid topics we’ve been discussing in the car. Though we are nerds, we know that Cthulhu is just not discussed in the presence of potential foolin’ around.
A few cars pull up behind us, and we wave them around. We stand there, in the middle of the street, and enjoy the freedom of being away from our parents’ ever-watchful eyes, while we talk to a beautiful girl. From within Darin’s car, Morrissey entreats an unknown driver to “take me out, tonight . . . take me anywhere I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care . . .”
Eventually, we begin the awkward process of saying goodbye . I try to find the courage to ask Misty for her phone number.
“So, do you, uh, drive this way a lot?” I ask.
“Not really. I usually take the freeway. I guess I was just meant to run into you guys tonight,” she says.
“Yeah, that’s cool.” I say.
We look at each other.
“So, uh . . .” I lose my nerve.
“Would you like to go out sometime?” She asks.
I try to act nonchalant, but my voice breaks as I reply, “Sure!”
She digs around in her purse.
“Do you have something to write on? I only have this pen,” she says.
I dig through my pockets, but can’t find anything.
“Darin, do you have anything to write on?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, sorry.”
I can’t believe this is happening to me. I’m going to lose this chance – wait!
I reach into the backseat, and pull out my Car Wars Deluxe Edition Box Set. I lift off the lid, and take out a 3x5 card with a vehicle description on one side.
I hand it to Misty.
“It’s, uh, for a game,” I say, embarrassed.
She smiles, and writes her number on the card.
When she puts her pen back into her purse, she takes a bottle of perfume out and sprays the card.
“So you won’t forget me,” she says.
Yeah, like there is any chance of that happening.
We all get back into our cars, and I put the card where there is no chance of it getting lost: right back into my game box.
Darin and I drive back to his house in an electrified, excited, stunned silence. I have gotten a phone number from a beautiful blonde, without even asking.
I never got the courage to call her, though I kept the card in that box for years. I don’t know why, really . . . I know I was super geeky, and afraid that she’d want to make out or something, and I wouldn’t know what to do (I should be so lucky) . . . maybe I was content to sit in the safety of my garage, listening to Oingo Boingo, happily considering what could have been . . . maybe I was just a lame ass who didn’t know what to do when the golden prize landed in his lap.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s the last one.
After my audition, I drove home toward this great ominous cloud of thick grey smoke, and thought about that night and the months that surrounded it. I looked to my right, at the bright blue September sky over downtown, and off to my left at the growing cloud of smoke swirling around the mountains. I felt caught between the two worlds, and wondered whatever happened to Misty, who signed her name with a heart over the i. I thought about the way her perfume still permeates my Car Wars Deluxe Edition Box Set. I wondered if she remembers standing in the middle of that road, in the middle of the night, 15 years ago.
Chapter 4. We Close Our Eyes
Though it is Saturday night, this normally crowded street is nearly deserted, because it is pouring rain. A cold, relentless rain that seeps into my shoes and clings to my body. The cold cuts straight through me, numbing my hands and feet.
The few people who have chosen to brave the storm are huddled in doorways and under awnings. Anne and I share a too-small umbrella in a futile attempt to stay dry.
It is November, and we are in Santa Barbara for our anniversary, walking back to our hotel after the first romantic dinner we’ve enjoyed in months.
It has been a wonderful evening, ending a wonderful day. We haven’t had much time to simply be together, to just enjoy each other’s company, for several weeks.
I cherish every rain-soaked moment.
The storm intensifies as we hurry back to our hotel, turning downspouts to waterfalls, and the street into a small stream. Normally, the urge to stomp in puddles is irresistible to me, but the numbness creeps up my legs, and I need little encouragement to leave the puddles alone.
After a few blocks, the cold and rain is too much for me. I suggest that we stop, and hail a cab.
Anne stops, and looks at me, her blue eyes gleaming. She says they’re green, but they’re blue . . . I see them whenever my mind wanders, so I know.
She steps out of the feeble shelter our umbrella provides, and stands unprotected in the rain.
“I want to walk in the rain!” She declares.
“But it’s 40 degrees!” I remind her. A few passersby look at us as if we’re having a fight, and I chuckle to myself. T
hey couldn’t be more wrong.
“I don’t care,” she says. Her hair falls down and clings to the sides of her face, her jacket darkens as it absorbs the storm. “Someday, I’m going to want to walk in the cold rain, and feel it on my face, and I’m not going to be able to. So I’m going to do it now.”
She reaches out and touches my cheek, and pulls my face to hers. She kisses my nose, and walks away, her face and palms turned up to catch the rain.
She stomps through a puddle, and turns around.
“C’mon, you weenie! Walk with me!”
She is so beautiful, so joyous. The storm threatens to draw a curtain of rain around her, obscuring her from my view. Though she is twenty feet from me, I can see her beaming and feel her joy. She positively loves this.
I watch her stand happily in the rain. In this moment I know why I married her. I know why she is the other half of my heartbeat.
But it’s 40 degrees. There’s no way I’m giving up this umbrella.
I lean against the rain, and close the distance between us. When I near her, she reaches out and knocks the umbrella from my hand.
As it falls to the ground, she takes me in her arms. She pulls me to her, and kisses me.
“I love you,” she says, rain dripping off her nose onto my face.
She does love me. It’s one thing to say it, and one thing to hear it, but it’s another thing to feel it.
“I love you too,” I reply.
We stand there in the rain for a moment, looking at each other. We are soaking wet, freezing cold, and desperately in love.
Chapter 5. The Saga Of SpongeBob Vegas Pants or “How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Star Trek”
The phone emits a soft, electronic chirp, designed to sound friendly and helpful.
At 8 a.m., after five hours of sleep, and a night spent moving from one smoke-filled casino to another, nothing sounds friendly and helpful, especially this phone.
I launch mind bullets at it, and visualize a spectacular explosion followed by silence. It continues to ring, so I try the more conventional route and pick it up.
“Good morning, Wil. It’s Jackie Scott,” she says.
My mind fumbles for recognition. Jackie Scott? Jackie Scott. Who the hell is Jackie Scott? I wonder if she’s related to Jack Daniels, my good friend from last night. Jackie Scott . . . Oh! I know, she’s one of the organizers of the Star Trek convention that has brought me to Las Vegas.
“We need you here at 10 for an autograph signing. Do you want to be picked up at 9:30, or do you want to take a cab?”
Did she say 10? They don’t need me until five. I’m sure of it. I am so sure of it, I stayed out until just past three, drinking and gambling. She must be mistaken.
“Wil? Hello?”
When asked where he got his ideas, the great writer Ray Bradbury said, “I listen to the voices in my head, and write what they tell me.” Because I’m a wanna-be writer, I listen to the voices in my head whenever I can. The loudest of those voices is someone I call Stay-in-bed, who speaks up whenever an alarm, (or in this case a phone) rings.
Stay-in-bed says, “Dude, mumble again and go back to sleep. It’ll be okay.” Stay-in-bed is calm, and reassuring. Sounds good to me.
I prepare to hang up the phone when another voice speaks up. It’s someone I call Do-you-really-want-to-do-this. His is the voice that saves me from stupid things, like combining shrimp and chocolate cake at the all-you-can-eat buffet. When I wanted to climb a stack of speakers at Lollapalooza in 1992, it was Do-you-really-want-to-do-this who successfully shouted down You-know-what-would-be-cool.
Before I can take the phone away from my ear, Do-you-really-want-to-do-this says, “What?! Stay in bed?! You have a commitment to these people! Get up, fucker!” He sounds an awful lot like my mom, if she said things like “fucker.”
Before I can move, though, Stay-in-bed presents his thoughtful and considered rebuttal. “Gettin’ up is for pussies!”
I sit back, and let them have at it.
“If you don’t get up, everyone will hate you!”
“They hate you already! Stay in bed! Hey! Youurreee wiiffee’ssss innnn bedddd . . .”
A new voice, one that I don’t hear very often, interrupts them. “If you even try to touch her, you’re going to get The Wrath, Wil. She’s only been asleep for five hours too, you know.”
“Who the hell are you?!” ask Do-you-really-want-to-do-this and Stay-in-bed, in unison.
“It’s Self-preservation, and he’s right.” I say, and sit up.
I tell Jackie Scott that I’ll take a cab, and see them about 9:45.
I get in the shower, and when I get out, Anne sits on the edge of the bed.
“What are you doing up?” I ask her.
“I couldn’t sleep with your goddamn inner voices talking, so I ordered you some breakfast. It should be here any second.”
She is too cool.
It is September of 2001, and Star Trek is 35 years old. I am in Las Vegas with thousands of Trekkies from all over the world for an enormous Star Trek convention that is celebrating this milestone.
I have attended Star Trek conventions – gatherings of Star Trek fans, where actors from the various Star Trek shows give talks and sign autographs – since I was 14. I have always done the same thing: a short talk, followed by a question and answer period, followed by an autograph signing session. Because this convention is so unique, though, I am doing something very memorable and different for the fans, something original and unexpected, that will show them a side of me they have never seen.
I am a member of the prestigious ACME Comedy Theatre in Hollywood. From this exceptional company, I selected some of the best writer/performers I know, and put together a special sketch comedy show. After months of rehearsal, we have come to Las Vegas to perform “Mind Meld Presents: Assimilate This!” My head is throbbing because, after our rehearsal last night, I assured the cast that I didn’t need to be at the convention until 5 p.m., and we spent our evening accordingly.
Breakfast comes, and I spend the next 45 minutes trying to wake up and shake off the last free cocktail that I probably should have refused at Barbary Coast. All I have left are impressions:
Coffee.
Eat.
Coffee.
Kiss.
Grope.
Pause.
Look at clock.
Sigh.
Walk through casino.
Walk through more casino.
Pause at slot machine, lose ten dollars in less than one minute.
Curse.
Kick slot machine.
Hurt Foot.
Ouch.
Limp through lobby.
Cab.
Convention – 9:55 am.
I’m supposed to start at 10, but I can’t find anyone from the convention staff, so I wander all over the hotel, giving all of the appropriate Vulcan and Klingon salutes. I finally find someone from the con who tells me where to go. Then she shows me where I’m supposed to sit and sign autographs.
We walk together, past several hundred fans, toward a long service hallway, where several tables have been set up. I’ve done this countless times before, but I politely listen to her, as she tells me how I will be spending the next few hours.
“The fans will come into this hallway in groups of 25, and stop at each table for an autograph. We’ve asked them to move quickly, because there are hundreds of people in this line. If you need water or pens or anything, there will be several volunteers to help you out.” She points to my table, which is about fifty feet down the hallway, near a fire exit.
“Well, at least you can make a quick escape if this turns into Altamont,” says Self-preservation. I’m glad he came along.
As I walk toward my table, I pass some of my longtime friends: Michael Dorn, Marina Sirtis, Armin Shimerman. We share handshakes and hugs. It’s always great to see them. I also pass some people I know only through these events: Rene Auberjonois, some cast members from DS9 and V
oyager who I know by face, but not by name. I share smiles and waves with them. We’re part of the same fraternity.
As I get closer to my table, I see Kate Mulgrew talking with William Shatner. They share a laugh.
My stomach tightens a bit, and I get a little nervous. William Shatner, the one and only Captain James T. Kirk, has treated me like crap as long as I’ve known him.
I first met William Shatner on the set of Star Trek V back in 1988. I was 16, and had been working on TNG for two years at the time. We were enjoying some success with our show, and I was very proud of the work I was doing. When I found out that the original series cast would be working next door to us for two months, I was beside myself.
Gene Roddenberry was still heavily involved with the production of TNG back then, and he and I were good friends. When I’d pass by his door, it was not uncommon for him to throw an executive out of his office and ask me in for a visit. He knew that I was a fan of the original series, and he knew that I was more than a little intimidated by these actors. He offered several times to make introductions, but I always declined. If I was going to meet these legends of Science Fiction, I was going to do it on my own.
For weeks, I tried to get up the nerve to introduce myself. When I would walk from the stage to my dressing room or school room, I would do it slowly, looking at their stage door, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mister Spock, or Doctor McCoy, or even the legendary Captain Kirk. The few times they did appear, though, I could never find the courage to approach them.
This went on for about six weeks.
Word got around our set that I was too chicken to introduce myself to the original series actors. It became something of a joke, and the crew began to give me some good-natured ribbing about my reluctance. Next Generation was immensely popular at the time, and I was still riding high on the success of Stand by Me. They couldn’t understand why I was so intimidated by these actors – my face was splashed across the cover of every teen magazine in print.
Why was I so intimidated? I was a 16 year-old geek, with a chance to meet The Big Three from Star Trek. You do the math.
