Still Just a Geek, page 22
We talk about fees and agree on a very fair fee, which is right on par with the rest of the actors.
I will do a question-and-answer session at the convention and I will bring selections of my writing and read them for the audience during an evening program.
I ask him for one more thing. I tell him that I have more in common with the fans now than I do with the actors and I keep hearing how the fans are getting the in-person-autograph shaft these days.
I want him to put my autograph table in an area where I can sit for a few hours, so all the fans can get their stuff signed, so I can talk with people who are so inclined.
He tells me that he’d really like that. Many actors just won’t do that and he thinks it would be great.
I feel very good about this conversation and I feel very excited to be part of this celebration.
Resolution? It’s a long ways off. That’s why they call it “angst.” But there is something wonderful buried in all of this:
I doubt I would have gotten this phone call if there hadn’t been such a loud and immediate response from the fans.
You spoke up on my—you spoke up on our behalf and your voice was heard. Think about that for a moment.
Your voice was heard. You made a difference. Creation is the 800-pound gorilla of conventions. They don’t have to listen to anyone.
But they listened to you. They listened to us.
That, my friends, is huge. Everyone who is reading this gets to own part of that.
I strongly suggest that you take a moment and phone, write, fax, or e-mail Adam or Gary or whoever at Creation and thank them for hearing your voices.
And if you come to the 15th show, please, please, please seek me out and introduce yourself. I’d like to know you.
I went to the convention, and it was wonderful. I spent three fun days, talking with Trekkies and WWdN fans alike. I met people who had never been to a Star Trek convention before and had specifically come out to meet me after reading my website.
When I took the stage for my talk, I said, “I was almost not here today. Because of you, I am. Thank you.” There was thunderous applause. I have always had more in common with the fans than the franchise, and I felt like getting me on that stage was a victory for us all.
I had long and joyous conversations with every cast member who was there. Backstage, Patrick Stewart embraced me, as he always does, and lamented that we don’t see each other very often.* I told John Logan (the writer of Nemesis) that I was focusing on being a writer. He congratulated me and said, “Writing is a noble and respectable profession. It’s a very adult job. I’m proud of you!”*
Brent Spiner took me aside and told me how sorry he was that I’d been cut from the movie. He told me that he’d fought it as best as he could. I believed him. I told him what I wrote in my weblog, and he was surprised and happy that Rick called me himself. He told me how upset all the cast members were that I was cut, and he asked me if I’d be at the screening. I told him that I would.* He said, “You know, Wil, you should still be involved in all the press events.”
He got this impish glint in his eye—the same glint that I lived for when I was sitting next to him on the bridge, even though I knew it was going to end up getting me in trouble when he made me crack up—and said, “I think you should sit there, answer as many questions as you can, even if you don’t know the answers. I’ll see you in Europe. It’ll be fun.”
Before I could play the “yes, and . . .” improv game with him, he was whisked away to go onstage, but not before he said, “Hey, you’ve got my number, right?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Use it when you need it, man. It’s great to see you.”
When Brent left I sat next to Gates McFadden, who played my mother on TNG. We laughed about how we were spending more time backstage at this convention than we spent on camera together in five years. She told me that I had become quite a handsome man.*
I was an adult, among peers. I would never be The Kid again.*
I had long talks with Gary Berman and Adam Malin, who own Creation. I learned about their history as sci-fi and horror fans. I got the distinct impression from Gary, who is often described (perhaps unfairly)* as the “bad cop” of the two, that he was saddened by the impression across fandom that Creation Entertainment is only doing these shows to get rich.* He pointed out several times, in many different ways, that he and Adam had been doing conventions since they were teenagers, and that they will always be fans in their hearts.
They both made me feel welcome and embraced me as part of the family. I thanked them for having me, and told them that it is because of guys like them, the convention promoters, that I can maintain a connection to some of the happiest days of my life. On the last day of the convention, Adam took the stage and asked the assembled fans to indicate, by their applause, who they thought was the highlight of the convention. When he said my name, they went nuts. They screamed, they whistled, they stood on their chairs and pounded their feet. I was stunned and humbled. When Adam asked me if I’d witnessed that, I told him I had, and that it surprised me. He smiled and told me that it had surprised him, too.*
The convention was celebrating fifteen years of Star Trek: The Next Generation, but what I was really celebrating was my return to the family—as an adult, no longer burdened by the stupid and arrogant things I’d done as a child.
I read selections from Dancing Barefoot and this book to a very appreciative audience who gave me a standing ovation when I finished. When I got home, I wrote, “I am really excited, guys. For the first time in ages I look forward to each day and I feel like I’m finally doing something, which really makes me happy.”
I finally was.
Epilogue
Hooters 2: Electric Boogaloo
A few weeks before this book went to press, I met my best friend Darin for lunch in Old Town. He wanted to celebrate the impending arrival of his daughter, and I wanted to celebrate finishing this book and Dancing Barefoot’s success.
We met at the usual place, ahead of the lunchtime rush, so we could sit wherever we liked. We stood in the doorway, and Steve Miller blared above our heads that not only was he a joker, but he was a smoker and a midnight toker. He’s a busy guy, that Steve Miller.* We looked around, and chose the section with the hottest waitress in the joint.*
As we took our seats, she came over to our table: a classically beautiful girl in her early twenties. Long, jet-black hair, flawless skin, long legs. Hooters. Her name tag said “Jessica.”
She sat on my lap and flirted with us as she took our order, all smiles and giggles. We ordered chili fries and anticipated a spirited game of “pull my finger” later on.
She stood up and left to put in our order. After a few steps, she stopped and turned around. She looked right at me and said, “You’re Wil Wheaton, aren’t you?”
Oh for fuck’s sake, I thought to myself. This cannot be happening to me again.
My throat went dry. My face flushed and my pulse quickened. “Yeah,” I croaked, bracing myself.
She screwed up her courage and slowly walked back to our table. She leaned close to me and rested her hand on my thigh, her full, pouting lips just inches from mine. A simple silver chain encircled her neck, her hazel eyes were ringed with gold, and she smelled like springtime. Her ample cleavage seductively longed to bust out from beneath her thin cotton T-shirt as she said, breathlessly, “I love your website. You’re a great writer.”*
So that’s Just a Geek. Let’s take a moment and breathe, shall we? We’ve been through a lot together, and I’m glad you’re still here.
Just a Geek didn’t change my life the way I hoped it would. It sold a few thousand copies, which was pretty cool, but it never got noticed by a wide audience. I was supremely disappointed, and my confidence as a writer was shaken. Just a Geek was supposed to be my introduction as a writer and storyteller. It was supposed to be the foundation upon which I built a writing career . . . or it was supposed to get some attention from someone inside Hollywood who would realize what a fantastic actor I was, cast me, and breathe new life into my acting career. But most important of all, it was supposed to make my father love me.
It didn’t, and that was a giant bummer for me.
I kept writing. Every year, for the rest of the decade, I self-published one or two short collections and sold them online and at conventions. I self-published audiobook versions of Just a Geek, Dancing Barefoot, and the spiritual successor to them both, The Happiest Days of Our Lives. I didn’t make a ton, but I was able to pay some bills, which was great. And so I kept at it, because I enjoyed it, and enough other people seemed to think I had something worth saying.
The rest of this book, then, like the majority of Just a Geek, comes from essays and posts I originally wrote on my blog. They’re taken from a wide range of years, and I’ve annotated them the same way I annotated Just a Geek to keep them in context and hold myself accountable for . . . poor language choices.
To be clear: my editor is still a jerk in this section.
FAMILY
I was trying to figure out what to call these new sections—and how to shape them in the first place. In Just a Geek it was easy: I just went in chronological order and picked stories I (or my editor at the time) thought were interesting.
With these passages, though, I want to show not just how I’ve evolved, but how my writing has. And I found some themes that are important to me. And, well, there really isn’t anything more important to me than my family.
I’ll note, too, that a lot of the other stories in the later sections also deal with my family, because they are integral to pretty much everything I do.
Also, I battle a bog monster (really—just keep reading).
Thirty-Six Hours
Watson, our cat, is walking around the house, making his morning announcements. I pry my eyes open and see that there is the faintest hint of soft, gray light pushing itself against the edges of our bedroom shades.
I don’t feel too tired, surprisingly, and I lie in bed while I decide if I’m going to just go ahead and get up. I have a commitment in the evening, and I’ll probably be really wiped out by the time it’s over, but on the other hand, I won’t be struggling to fall asleep before midnight . . . unless my brain pulls the same bullshit it’s been pulling for weeks.
The next thing I know, the sun is blazing through the windows and I can hear Anne. She doesn’t sound good. She’s breathing heavily and making sounds like she’s in pain. So I get out of bed, and I’m in the other room before I’m fully awake. She’s clutching her side and writhing in pain.
“Something’s wrong,” she says. “I need you to take me to the emergency room.”*
That’s all it takes for my brain to throw off any lingering sleepiness. Before I realize it, I’m dressed and ready to leave. We drive to the emergency room, and she’s in so much pain now that she can’t stand up. She tells me that her hands are getting numb and she feels like she’s going to pass out. The ER receptionist doesn’t seem to think any of this is serious and barks at me to sit down and wait.
I know that everyone who comes into the ER is certain that they have the worst thing that’s ever happened, and I know that it gets tiring for the receptionist. I also believe that if you can’t be compassionate and patient, maybe it’s not the best job for you to have. I also know that there’s no point in having an argument right now, and my energy is better spent trying to help my increasingly panicking wife.
So another hospital guy comes over and asks what’s going on. I tell him, and he calmly listens. He tells Anne that she’s going to be okay, and he’ll get her into triage as quickly as possible.
There, I think, that wasn’t so hard.
Time takes on the strange malleability that comes with intense stress. It slows down and speeds up and doesn’t seem to move at the fixed rate I’ve come to expect from a lifetime of existence.* After some amount of time that isn’t as long as I think it is, but not fast enough for me, we are in triage. The nurse is gentle and compassionate. She asks Anne lots of questions while I sit quietly and try to stay out of the way. They take her vitals. She has no fever, but her pulse is as high as you’d expect.*
We are moved into a room, and they put her in a bed. She’s crying harder than I’ve seen in over twenty years together. I remember the last time we were in this ER, our roles reversed. I vaguely recall that Anne remained calm, and it helped me, so I do my best to do the same.*
A nurse puts a needle into her arm and draws blood. Another nurse comes in and puts some morphine into her. It doesn’t help, so they give her more. That helps a little bit, but it’s still not enough. They can’t do anything else until a doctor gives the okay, and someone has just come into the ER who is in a more life-threatening situation, so we wait.*
More time passes, and a doctor comes in. He gives her all the same tests she’s already been given. She continues to endure the worst pain I’ve ever witnessed in all our years together. “This is worse than both times I gave birth,” she says, trying to make a joke to the doctor, but the clear agony in her voice claws at my heart. She’s suffering and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Finally, the doctor orders some more morphine, and now time becomes very clear because I count each of the twenty-seven minutes she waits until someone brings it in for her. I know that she isn’t in life-threatening danger, and we both know that the ER is very busy, but our emotional brains and our rational brains are experiencing that knowledge in very different ways.
She gets another push of morphine. The nurse tells us that once the morphine starts to work, they’re going to get a urine sample and then do a CT scan. Another twenty minutes goes by, because everything happens in twenty-minute increments when you’re in pain but not in danger. They take her to get a CT scan, and I walk out to find something to eat.
It’s a beautiful day. It’s one of the most beautiful days we’ve had in a long time, sunny but not too hot.* We had planned to spend it working in the patio garden and building a window box for our front porch that will get filled with sunflowers. Instead, I’m walking up the street and into a café, where I get a coffee and a sandwich. A lady behind me is impatient. She has the voice and body language of someone whose experience at the hospital is not as routine as ours is. I pay as fast as I can so I can get out of her way, and I silently wish her well. I get my sandwich and my coffee. Neither is as good as what I’d make at home, but I don’t complain. I remember the lady behind me, the people in the ER who have sick babies, the woman the ambulance brought in who had a stroke, and doesn’t know her name or where she is. Her adult daughter, who is more tired and sad than worried.*
I finish my sandwich on my way back to Anne’s room. She isn’t there when I sit down. I open my phone and start reading a book I’ve been wanting to read. Another twenty minutes goes by and they bring her back in. The meds are working, and she has her humor back. She isn’t as pale. She looks like my wife again. We wait for an hour (three blocks of twenty minutes) for the test results. Patients fill up the hallway, and we’re grateful we have a room with just one bed in it. A woman in the room next to us can’t stop throwing up. Someone at the nurses’ station has an alert on their phone that sounds like the Hanna-Barbera running-in-place effect when they get an alert, and they seem to be getting one about every thirty seconds or so. A nursery rhyme tune plays in all the overhead speakers, because someone has just given birth. I e-mail the people I’m supposed to be working with in three hours and tell them I have to cancel because I’m spending the entire day in the emergency room.
Anne drifts in and out of sleep, and I read until my battery dies. The doctor comes in and tells her that there isn’t anything on the CT scan, or the MRI, and that her blood and urine are all clear and normal. She’s presenting all the symptoms of someone who has a kidney stone, but they can’t find anything in her tests to confirm it. Apparently, this happens in 30 percent of cases. That seems like a lot of percent, I say. The doctor is not amused. I shut up and try to disappear again.*
They give her more pain meds because we’ve been there so long that the first two doses are wearing off. We have to wait another hour, and then we can go home. I get my notebook out and take a stab at a story that I’ve been thinking about for a while. I get up and walk around a little bit. I begin to worry about my wife,* because she’s clearly having a problem, clearly in distress, clearly in all kinds of pain, and the doctors and nurses can’t tell us, definitively, why. I decide that she’s suffering because a small dwarf, or spirit, is living in her stomach. I am not amused. I get a brain zap,* and realize that I forgot to take my antidepressants before we left, and I have just about ninety minutes (twenty times four plus half of twenty minutes) before the dizziness, nausea, and other fun withdrawal starts. I don’t tell this to Anne, because she doesn’t need another thing to worry about.*
An hour later, we get ourselves together so we can leave. A lady I haven’t seen before wheels in a computer and tells us we have a copayment. She’s friendly, but all business, very different from the rest of the staff. I pay her. She gives me a receipt, and I tuck it into a folder that we’re to take to our doctor within three days if Anne doesn’t improve. Neither of us knows that we’ll be at the doctor in less than twenty-four hours, because she won’t be better.
Anne leans on me as we walk out of the room. I’m ready to get home, eat some real food, and take my brain pills. Sounds are starting to feel louder than they are, like they’re echoing down long metal tubes. I’m going to have a headache soon. In the next room over, the vomiting lady is asleep, the stroke lady is holding her daughter’s hand. Down the hall, a little boy who broke his arm is looking at his cast over tear-stained cheeks. A guy about my age who looks beaten up is in a gurney near the end of the hallway. There are two cops standing next to his bed.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Anne says. I try to find her a barf bag, give up, and ask a nurse for help.
