My flight to Dallas was pretty rough. There were massive thunderstorms all around Texas on Friday, and while the pilot did his best to dance around them, it was still a very bumpy ride.
Luckily for me, I have noise-canceling headphones and my iBook, so I did my best to ignore it — and the lady next to me who was white-knuckling the armrest.
When the plane finally touched down at DFW, we were only thirty minutes late, which was pretty surprising, all things considered. I walked through the airport to the baggage claim area, and realized that the last time I collected bags in this airport, I was 18, and I was in town for a charity hockey game. I was tending goal against several members of the 1980 US men’s hockey team in a game that was unwisely scheduled against a Cowboys / (some major rival — I’m not a football guy, sorry) game, so we had about 60 people show up for the game.
That was seriously funny: playing hockey in this huge arena, with some of the greatest guys to ever lace them up, in front of about 60 people, who were more interested in watching the football game on the jumbotron than us.
Anyway, isn’t it interesting how our brains can file something away into some sort of tarball that only gets zxvf’ed when we trigger it by some location, or sound, or smell or something? Brains are cool like that. I’m running WheatonIX version .9 in my brain, if you were wondering.
While I walked around the baggage carousel, the memory of that game consumed me: how badly I played (hey, you face Mike Eruzione when you’re eighteen and see how well you do, sparky) and how great it felt to be skating on a real NHL rink with real NHL players. I looked for my bags with about 20% of my perception, so I almost bumped into a young man who is in the Marines.
He couldn’t have been more than twenty, but I bet he was closer to eighteen. He had bright blue eyes, a babyface, and his hair would have been an unruly mop of curls if it wasn’t cut high and tight. His uniform was crisp, and he stood with two other young Marines, who were out of uniform.
I happened to catch his eye when I looked up, so I extended my hand.
“When I was your age,”I thought, “I was in this airport to play hockey, hoping I could hook up with some cheerleader or something. . . and you’re preparing to go to a war I believe is based on hubris, incompetence and lies.”
“Thank you for your service.” I said.
He looked surprised, and seemed to be at a loss for what to do. I wondered if people thank him often, and if not, why not. After a second, he took my hand, shook it with a firm grip and said, “Thank you, sir.”
“No,” I said, “Thank you. Be well.”
He nodded his head, and I continued to walk around the baggage carousel. When my bags came out a few minutes later, he was leaving with his companions.
He was a United States Marine, and I’m certain that he will serve our country proudly and with honor, but in that airport, he was someone’s son, maybe someone’s brother, and he was only five years older than my own stepson, at most. It was a sobering experience.
I made it to my hotel without incident, but shortly after I checked into the hotel (should that be ‘checked in to’ or ‘checked-in to’? Stupid grammar) I saw Chase Masterson in the lobby. She was having some problems with the computer in the hotel’s business center, and I offered to help her out.
“I’m going to go give her some Technical Support,” I told the bellman, hoping that it didn’t sound like a Penthouse Forum-esque euphemism. Luckily it turned out to be a .pdf issue that I knew how to handle (I don’t do Windows. Har.) and I was able to help her out quickly and easily.
I got myself up to my room, choked down ate some room service, and watched Bill Maher on HBO before I finally fell asleep around 1 am local time.
It was about 6 when the crashing started against the wall behind my head. At first, I thought it was just someone giving a little technical support early in the morning, but it was so violent, and so persistent, I figured it was something different. I made a few calls to the front desk, but nobody could give me a straight answer about the source of the noise, or their inability to stop it. It was incredibly frustrating. I just kept thinking, “How am I going to face this day on five hours of restless sleep?”
The answer, of course, was, “Coffee and a high-protein breakfast to get you started. Once you get to the con, adrenaline will take care of the rest.”
I got up and watched the local news, while the WHACK WHACK WHACK! continued on the wall beside me. I showered and checked out of my room at 7, even though I didn’t have to be picked up until 9:45.
I listened to Jon Stewart’s Fresh Air interview on my iPod (which is really fantastic, and for 5 bucks at audible, is well worth the investment) while I ate a breakfast which claimed to be ‘classic eggs benedict’. I wasn’t so sure, but I was too hungry and tired to argue.
I met up with a few people outside the hotel, and drove to the convention hall which was actually in Plano. I mention that it was in Plano because some of the other actors were dangerously close to complaining that the show was not actually in Dallas, but was in a suburb. I didn’t see what the BFD was, but apparently some of their fans went looking for something in Dallas last year, and couldn’t find it because it was in Plano. I asked, but nobody knew if those people who couldn’t find it have figured out how to bang the rocks together since then.
When I got to the convention center, it was still very early, so the room where we would be signing our stuff was empty, except for me, and Herb Jefferson. Herb is a really nice guy, and he does TONS of stuff for the Navy. He asked me if I’d be interested in doing some things with him for some soldiers, and I told him that I am, of course, so we’ll see what comes up in the next few months.
“I’m one of those people who doesn’t support the war, but I am proud of, grateful to, and completely supportive of our men and women who are fighting it,” I said. “Is that okay?”
“I think they’d be happy and honored to meet you,” he said. “They know that you don’t have to support the politics of the war to support the guys who are fighting it.”
It took me about twenty minutes to set my stuff up the way I wanted it. I stacked Just A Geek and Dancing Barefoot off to one side, then I set them up so they’d be flanking me when I sat down, then I put them all together on the other side . . . then I moved them back again. I knew that the only person in the world who cared about this was me, but I had some time to kill so I made sure things were just right. I ended up letting them flank me, because it made me feel sort of cool, like I was standing behind my work, or something like that.
Over the next 45 minutes or so, the room slowly filled up with the actors who would be signing autographs for the day. I didn’t pay attention though, until Michael Dorn and Brent Spiner came in. I wondered if I’d feel awkward or weird or uncomfortable . . . but I just felt happy.
For at least a decade, I’ve felt embarrassed and ashamed when I’ve seen anyone from TNG at a convention. I felt like they were there to promote whatever they were working on at the time, while I was there to hopefully earn enough money to carry my family through for a couple of months. There was also a lot of regret and remorse related to my sullen teenager years when I was on TNG (and I’ve written about that angst extensively before so I won’t go into it here,) but over the last few years, I’ve mostly gotten over that. When I wrote Just A Geek, I really examined my life. I discovered what really matters to me in my life, I recognized what I needed to change so I could enjoy those things, and I recognized the things that I couldn’t change and needed to accept (or just let go) so I could stop living in the past. When Michael and Brent walked in, I wondered how I would feel. Would I be embarrassed? Would I feel ashamed? Would I feel awkward or unsure?
I watched them walk across the room: They both looked happy and healthy. Michael was chatting up an incredibly beautiful girl who is in one of the new Star Wars movies. I searched my feelings, in that “use the Force” sort of way, and was happy to discover that I felt . . . happy. That was it! Just happy to see them, and anxious to show them my books.
I caught Michael’s eye when he walked past, and I waved.
He smiled and gave me a hug.
“How are you, man?” he said.
I told him how happy I was. I told him how I’m writing like crazy, and even though I haven’t done any on-camera work in ages, I’m not bothered by that. I’ve said those things before, but this time I actually meant it, and I actually believed it.
We had a great conversation about the doors that Star Trek opens, and the doors that Star Trek slams shut. As we talked, it dawned on me that we have a lot more in common, post-Trek, than I thought, and that was somehow comforting to me.
We could have talked all morning, but Michael was taken away by some convention folks, and I went back to obsessing about the proper placement of my books, until Brent came over to my table.
He picked up a copy of Just A Geek and said, “This is your book, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I loved this one,” he said, pointing to Dancing Barefoot, and I suppressed the urge to break into a little dance.
“If I don’t sell all of these today,” I said, pointing to Just A Geek, “I’d love for you to have one, if you have time to read it.”
“I’d like that,” he said.
“You’re in it, you know.” I said.
He smiled and said, “Did you make me look good?”
“Yeah, I tried. It was pretty tough . . . but I’m a good writer, so you come out okay.”
We both laughed.
“Nah, I’m just kidding,” I said. “I’m not that good a writer.”
We laughed again, harder this time.
“Good job, Wil,” he said.
I beamed. “Thank you, Brent.”
We talked for a few more minutes, and then we sat at our respective tables as the doors to the room opened.
For the next few hours, I signed books and pictures and action figures and stuff, for a ton of people. It was really a good scene: everyone was happy to be there (fans and actors, I mean) and there were a LOT of people who told me they only came out to the show so they could meet me. A bunch of people even had copies of Just A Geek and Dancing Barefoot already, that they’d bought online or in local bookstores, and everyone told me how much they’d enjoyed reading my stories. Several former Soapboxers (who are now teh soapboxers) came out to the show, also. There’s a massive WWdN Posse in Texas, and it was awesome to see so many of you representin’, yo.
I was scheduled to read from my books at 3, so around 2:50 I picked myself up, and prepared myself to go onstage. I had to race to catch a plane when I was done, and I knew that people would want to get books signed after I read, so I cut the reading short. I usually read for about 60 minutes, but this time I only read for about 25 minutes. I cut out the Hooters stories that I usually use to bookend the stories, and just read “The Trade” from Just A Geek, and Star Trek: The Experience from Dancing Barefoot.
I think I’ve talked about this before: there are three states that an audience can be in when I perform: With me, indifferent, or against me. I felt like I had the audience with me the entire time I performed. It was like Linucon, where I could just relax, take some risks, and trust that the audience was along for the ride. It was a fantastic reading, and I wish I’d recorded it so I could share it with people who weren’t there. I actually think I’m going to start recording all my performances, and maybe one day I’ll make some sort of “best of” CD or something. That would be cool.
When I finished my reading, I ran as fast as I could back to my little table in the autograph room, and discovered that a line had somehow formed before I could get there. It was like some sort of ripple in the space/time continuum had allowed them to get there before me. Cool.
So I sat down, and I signed as many books and pictures as I could with what little time I had left. I really didn’t like rushing everyone through the line, but I wanted to make sure that everyone who had lined up and waited got what they wanted, and I didn’t want to miss my plane . . . so if I had to rush you through the line, I’m sorry about that. I hope you understand that it was nothing personal.
When I was done signing and all packed up, I did a quick interview for a local TV station, and said goodbye to my friends.
I ended up selling all my Just A Geeks, and left with about ten Dancing Barefoots. Sadly, I didn’t get to give Just A Geek to Michael or Brent, but I think it will make for a good story the next time I see them. 🙂
The drive to the airport was quick and painless, and so was the flight home. I watched Band of Brothers on my iBook while the woman next to me kicked my leg in her sleep, and when I touched down in Burbank, I was happy to be home. Anne picked me up, and we stopped by my friend’s birthday party on our way home. When we finally fell into bed shortly after midnight, I could feel, in my bones, the exhaustion of the last 48 hours. Thankfully, nothing whacked against the side of my house, and I woke up after 10, with just enough time to prepare for my reading at Borders later that day.