Babylon Confidential: A Memoir of Love, Sex, and Addiction (20 page)

These were the halcyon days. I was developing a strong fan base (and boy, are sci-fi fans loyal—I’d never seen anything like it). I was in constant demand at conventions, so I hired an assistant named Holly Evans to help manage the bookings. Holly is ex-military, loyal to the bone, and has stuck with me through all of the highs and lows. She’s one of the best and brightest angels in my life.

When the
Los Angeles Times
ran an article asking people to choose the next host of the Oscars, Holly took up the challenge and contacted my fans, letting them know where to vote. From the
Los Angeles Times
, December 13, 2000:

The ’01 Oscar Host: You Voted, We Counted

And you thought the presidential election results were confusing? In the wake of Billy Crystal taking himself out of consideration to host the next Academy Awards, we asked readers to nominate their candidates to replace him—and the wide range of responses made the margin of victory in Florida, whatever it might be and for whomever, look like a landslide. . . . The biggest draw, thanks to an apparent write-in campaign by her fans, was Claudia Christian of
Babylon 5.

I got over 6,000 votes and left Jim Carrey and Steve Martin for dead. I’ve got my dress picked out in case the Academy decides to call. It doesn’t matter if they don’t—fifteen years after my last appearance on
Babylon 5
, I’m still in demand at conventions around the world, and Holly is still making the bookings. You can’t beat loyalty like that.

Unfortunately, there is a point at which loyalty crosses the line and becomes obsession.

I’d been receiving crazy-colored, hand-knitted items from a fan who claimed to be a postal worker. He would send me packages containing homemade tea cozies and doilies that he’d knitted himself, and I sent back thank-you notes. Then he wrote to say that he was finally going to meet me at a convention in upstate New York. He had a gift he wanted to give me.

I was sitting at my table signing things for folks and having a pleasant time when I saw something large and furry out of the corner of my eye. I looked up to see a giant tribble (a furry alien creature from
Star Trek
) waddling toward me. The tribble stopped at the table, identified itself as my postal worker fan, and held up an enormous black plastic garbage bag. From out of it, he drew a hot-pink, lime-green, and purple afghan large enough to cover a California-king-size bed. If it were the ’60s and I were on acid and living in a commune, I’d have appreciated it. But since I hadn’t eaten a trunkload of magic mushrooms that morning, I had to draw on decades of acting experience to conjure up convincing superlatives.

“It’s . . . um . . . beautiful. Colorful. Handmade.”

“I made it myself. For you.”

“And I appreciate that. It must have taken some finesse to create such a work of art. Thank you, thank you so much.”

I could tell the giant tribble was pleased. I could hear him purring inside the suit. He waddled off, but not before promising to deliver another gift later in the day.

I was expecting a Day-glo cloak the size of Rhode Island or a scarf long enough to span the English Channel, so was I in for a surprise when, about an hour later, another giant tribble came lumbering toward me. It was the same guy, but the costume had been modified. Wires stuck out of its head, and dozens of strong red lights flashed around its furry body. This was clearly a scary tribble, a tribble with unfinished business.

“I am a morphed tribble. Now you will be morphed, too.”

And then a gun emerged from the mass of fur and he shot me. I felt the bullet hit me in the ribs, and I fell back, clutching my side. My life didn’t flash before my eyes, but the next day’s headline did—“Death by Irony!
Babylon 5
Star Shot by Sci-fi Alien.” I was supposed to die a dignified death in bed in my Tuscan villa at ninety, clutching my Oscar in one hand and my Screen Actors Guild award in the other. Instead, I was lying on the ground clutching my ribs as my security guys wrestled a giant tribble to the ground.

I pulled up my shirt to reveal a reddening, nasty-looking bruise and a fat, rapidly rising welt. There was no blood. I wasn’t going to die. The gun was real but the bullets were blanks—the same caliber that killed Jon-Erik Hexum and was involved in Brandon Lee’s death. If the blank’s paper seal had hit flesh instead of bone it could have damaged an internal organ or, on an unlucky day, killed me. I was pissed off. I got up and scanned the room for the guy—I wanted a piece of him. But he was already being dragged away by security, and my friends were gathering around, shepherding me back toward the green room. Later on in the day I received yet another black garbage bag. This one had two hand-knitted pillows in it, in the same headache-inducing neon color scheme. I tried to piece together his thought process in my mind. This was actually meant to be the second gift, but somehow he’d been taken over by the morphed tribble, decided to shoot me instead, and then came around without any memory of what had happened, threw the pillows into the bag, and had them sent to me from jail. Maybe one of the pillows was meant to be from the relatively harmless tribble and another from the totally fucking crazy tribble? Who can say?

The same guy approached me at a convention ten years later, I kid you not, and opened with, “I bet you don’t remember me.”

I looked at him, completely amazed.

“Oh, I remember you alright. You shot me.”

On the previous occasion, after the security guards had ripped the head off his costume, I’d gotten a good look at him. That face was burned into my brain. He had unkempt hair and wore a pair of bedroom slippers. He looked stunned, scratched his head as if trying to recall what I was talking about, and then finally brightened up.

“Oh yeah! I shot you!”

Join me for a moment in trying to imagine a life so rich and varied that you cannot remember shooting an actress at a sci-fi convention while wearing a tribble costume and then being wrestled to the ground by a security team.

Then there was the guy at a Las Vegas convention in ’97. He’d been sending flowers and love letters to my Hollywood P.O. box. He’d written of his plan to sell his house, quit his job, and move to L.A. so that we could be together. In the world he’d created in his mind we were already married. His sister wrote to me shortly after, stating that she was concerned about his mental health. Apparently he had indeed quit his job and sold his house, and his sister and family had no idea where he was. That worried me. I didn’t even go to pick up my mail, because I was frightened that he’d be there, waiting. Then another letter arrived notifying me that he was coming to pick me up from my next convention in Las Vegas. In his fantasy world I’d left my wedding ring on the sink of our kitchen prior to flying to Vegas, and he was simply being a good husband in returning it to me.

All of this led to my sitting at the police station while a bunch of cops circulated the photo the stalker had conveniently sent me for my bedside table. I went to the convention accompanied by my friend Damon and a team of policemen who looked as if they’d just come out of the armory in
The Matrix
. They wore fancy-looking headgear, walkie-talkies, and guns. They set up checkpoints and started patrolling while I signed things and talked with the fans. A few hours passed, and then this nice Aussie girl who had been staying at Damon’s came up and pointed to a guy who was circling the table.

“Hey mate, isn’t that your stalker?”

She’d seen the photo two days ago at Damon’s apartment and somehow memorized the face.

“Yes, it is the stalker, mate, and thank you so much.”

Apparently he’d been circling the table for about an hour, and she had thought that the armed escorts had been hanging back with some grand plan in mind when in fact they just hadn’t spotted him at all.

I urgently gesticulated in the direction of the stalker and finally my S.W.A.T. team rolled into action. Walkie-talkies screeched, bodies tumbled, and the cops ran in and handcuffed the guy before dragging him away. After Gary I’ve never married again, but whenever I contemplate the prospect, the image that instantly springs to mind is that stalker with a stack of policemen piling on top of him, desperately trying to fish a wedding band out of his pocket and yelling at me as if we were long lost lovers.

“Claudia! You left your ring back at the house! Quick, take it. People will think you’re available!”

That always helps bring me to my senses.

But this definitely wasn’t the last crazy person I would run into at a convention.

People have tattooed my signature on their bodies and legally changed their names to Susan Ivanova. I can list at least a dozen other stalkers through the years—both male and female—and I have the restraining orders to prove it. I wish I was making this stuff up.

I’m generally open and sharing with my fans, but there is a line, and if you stay on the right side of that—and don’t stalk me or try to kill me—then we’re all good.

I had a break from
Babylon 5
at the end of the third season and headed off to spend time with Dodi again. I began to remember why I’d broken things off with him back when I was a teenager. Dodi was a good companion, well-versed in navigating his upper-class domain, but he had a jealous streak a mile wide.

Whenever I was visiting his world, Dodi liked to know where I was at all times. He gave me keys to his apartments in London and Paris but still insisted I sign in and out with security using a codename. Sometimes I was Black Swan, other times I was Red Hawk. It’s very cool at first—you feel like you’re in a James Bond movie. But the luster quickly wears off, and then it becomes just plain irritating.

“I’m Black Hawk.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have a Black Hawk on the list.”

“Um . . . Red Hawk?”

“Sorry. That was yesterday’s code name.”

“What about Black Eye and Bloody Nose if you don’t let me into the building?”

I went to use his flat in Paris while he went away for business, inviting my cousin Kati to join me. She’s ten years my junior and has always been like a little sister to me. We were excited at the prospect of hitting Les Bains Douches and some of the other hot nightclubs in town.

Always exceptionally generous, Dodi had a meal sent over from the Ritz and then called to tell me that we had a curfew. If we weren’t home by 11 p.m. every night, the guard had orders not to let us back in. The whole situation was all the more ridiculous because I knew the guard. He was this gorgeous guy I used to work out with at a gym in West Hollywood. He’d worked as an actor and bodyguard, and now he was dressed in a butler suit telling me when I had to be home for bed. He was really embarrassed but explained that there were people watching him and that he’d be fired if he didn’t toe the line.

My cousin rolled her eyes. That little disappointment was the beginning of the end for me. I enjoyed the luxurious lifestyle but never had much patience for the drama and control that went with it. The rich man’s entourage—the housemen, security guards, and attendants at every turn—was starting to get on my nerves. I liked my privacy and the freedom to come and go as I pleased.