remind myself that the last fans through the line
have paid as much as the first fans, and theyâve also waited much longer, so they are the ones
that I need to give the most attention to when I am the most drained. I know that as I get
toward the end of the line, my humor slows down, and my voice fades. I know that Iâve let down
my fair share of people over the years, but I always do my best.
I see the first fan walking down the hallway, trading tickets and getting signatures from
actors. I watch her as she goes table to table. Sheâs not wearing a spacesuit . . . thatâs a
good sign. She has a witty sci-fi T-shirt on. Also a good sign. About 20 feet away, I still
canât smell her. A VERY good sign.
She arrives at my table, and I cheerfully say, âHi! How are you doing today?!â
âAWFUL! THIS IS THE WORST CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO! I HATE DAVE SCOTT! I HATE LAS
VEGAS! I HATE THIS CONVENTION!â
Oh boy. This is not the way Iâd hoped to start out.
I try to soothe her. âUhh . . . I think . . . that . . . this convention . . . just
started . . . and . . . uhh . . . Iâm sure that if you talk to Dave Scott, everytââ
âDAVE SCOTT IS AN ARROGANT ASSHOLE!â
âUh . . . yeah . . . well, you see, the thing is, Iâm sort of not exactly involved in the
planning of this convention, you know? Iâm just, like, a guest . . . maybe you could try
talkââ
âTHIS IS THE MOST FAN-UNFRIENDLY CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO!â
And she storms away, without an autograph, without another word.
I look at Marina, whoâs one table down from me. Angry Fan has stormed past her, too.
Marina shrugs, and I make the international sign for âcrazy personâ by twirling my finger near
my temple.
I hear a man clear his throat, and I look up to see a smiling middle-aged face. He has a
dark beard, and is dressed as Commander Riker.
He gives his autograph ticket to the staffer sitting next to me, and asks me to sign his
model of the Enterprise D . He thanks me, and moves along.
And so it is in the world of Star Trek conventions. One person will scream at me, and the
next will want to give me a hug. A person will walk up dressed in an elaborate Borg costume,
and the next person will be dressed in a T-shirt and Dickies, quietly laughing at âall the
weirdos.â
For the next three hours, I sign pictures of the young, geeky Wesley Crusher. I sign
posters of the teen heartthrob that Iâm told I once was. I sign posters that Iâm not even on,
in silver because everyone else did, accepting the apologies from the poster owners that Iâm
not on the poster. I always answer with the same joke: âThatâs okay, you just canât see me,
because Iâm on this planet here . . .â They laugh and feel good and so do I.
A group of very attractive German girls comes over next, and two of them tell me, in
broken English, how much they love me.
I think, Oh yeah, tell me some more, baby. Tell daddy how you love him. Ich bin
ein sexmachiner!
What?
I am so sorry. I have no idea where that came from. I apologize.
There are also 20 Japanese kids whoâve all come over together from Tokyo. They are all
smiles and laughter, excited, and having a great time. The girls ask me to write their names
on their picture when I sign it, they giggle and bow and blush and thank me, over and over.
For a second, I feel like a rock star.
One of the Japanese kids is a boy, about my height.
When he presents his Wesley Crusher action figure for my signature, he tells me, âMy
friend all say I am you twin!â
He smiles proudly. âWe look just the same!â
Last time I checked, I wasnât Japanese, but Iâm not about to tell him that. I look at him
for a moment and reply, âDude. You are so right. Itâs like Iâm looking in a mirror!â
He turns to