Just a Geek (2 page)

I hope you enjoy the ride.

—
Namaste
.

Wil Wheaton

Los Angeles, CA

April 14, 2004

Part II. Introduction

"If man is five, then the devil is six. If the devil is six, then god is seven. This monkey's gone to heaven."

--The Pixies

This Monkey'S Gone To Heaven

IN JULY OF 2003
, I was invited to Portland, Oregon, by my friend and fellow O'Reilly Author, Randal Schwartz, to attend the release party for his newest book,
Learning Perl Objects, References & Modules
.
^[
1
^]
While I was there, I also attended O'Reilly's Open Source Convention and did a signing of my own, at Powell's Technical Books in downtown Portland.

That's right. The artist formerly known as Wesley Crusher had written a book and published it himself. The book is called
Dancing Barefoot
, and it's five short-but-true essays about my life as a husband, stepfather, and former
Star Trek
actor.

I was about six steps through the door at Powell's when the store manager, Amber, approached me.

"We have completely sold out of your book!" She looked concerned.

I took a moment to digest this exceedingly good news. I'd just walked into my very first in-store book signing. I didn't know what would happen . . . but a sellout never entered my mind.

"That's the greatest thing I've ever heard," I said, as I took my iBook bag off my shoulder.

Pasadena, 30 hours earlier

I'm packing my bags for the trip to OSCon. My dog, Ferris, lays on the bed, looking at me with her "I see the suitcase, so I know you're going to be gone" look
.

I fold some pants and a few shirts. My wife, Anne, walks into our room
.

"Are you taking any extra books?" she asks
.

"No, I don't think so. Powell's already ordered a ton of them. I think I'll be okay." I put my folded shirts into my bag
.

"You should really take some extras, Wil," she says
.

Ferris sighs and rolls onto her side. The tip of her tail wags against my cat, Sketch
.

"I really don't think there are going to be that many people there. I don't want to schlep a bunch of books up there and back," I tell her. "Besides, my bag is full."

She looks into my suitcase. Sketch meows at Ferris and jumps off the bed
.

"You're taking two pair of shoes for a 36 hour trip?"

"Well . . . yeah."

"Why?"

I resist the urge to shout, "I learned it from you, okay?! I learned it by watching you!!" Instead, I say, "Dress shoes for my reading, and Converse for the rest of the time."

"If you take your dress shoes out, you can lose your dress pants, too. Just take your jeans and wear your Converse. You can put books in the extra space."

"But I think I should look nice for—"

"You're going to a computer convention, dork. You'd be better off wearing your Trogdor shirt."

I've already packed it, but I don't tell her. Ferris exhales loudly and stretches out on her back. Our other dog, Riley, walks into our room and sits at Anne's feet. She looks up, expectantly
.

Anne pets her and says to me, "You're going to regret it if you get there and you don't have books for everyone. You'll feel bad, and you'll lose sales. Just take a few."

I've learned something in the seven-and-a-half years I've known and loved her: she's always right about this stuff
.

"Okay," I say. Riley thinks I'm talking to her and jumps on the bed. Ferris flips over and snarls at her
.

I end up packing an additional 47 books
.

I put my bag on the counter. "It's a good thing I listened to my wife!" Amber was visibly relieved when I began pulling small stacks of books out of it.

"This is the biggest crowd we have ever had at this store," she said. "For anything."

"Really?!" I said.

"Yes! And we've never sold out of a book before. Usually, we'll sell about 10 or so."

"Oh my god. This is so cool!" I said.

"I'll take all the books you have in there, and we may even have to issue rain checks."

Rain checks?! Holy crap! This is so cool!!

I gave them to her, and she began putting stickers on them. There were two other authors there, too, so I snuck away to a back room to prepare while they talked about their books.

Even though I've read these stories countless times, and even though I lived them all, I feel a need to familiarize myself with them before I perform them. Even though my book was doing unbelievably well in terms of sales and audience response, I was nervous each time I took it before a crowd.

On this particular night, I had some giddy excitement to go along with the nerves. I felt good. I was marking a significant waypoint on my journey from actor to author. I was taking my work to an audience that was NOT at a
Star Trek
convention. There were lots of non-Trekkies in this crowd. This was a big test for me.

The other authors talked for about 30 minutes, and then it was my turn.

I read two pieces from
Dancing Barefoot
: "Inferno," and a selection from "The Saga of SpongeBob Vegas Pants." When I was finished reading, I looked up to thank the crowd for coming and saw that it had grown substantially since I began. I was elated.

All these people came and shared in this experience with me for almost an hour! I earned their time and attention. I earned it with my writing! I passed the test! I passed the test!

I sat down at a little table they'd set up for me, which had a laminated "Meet Wil Wheaton, author of
Dancing Barefoot
" sign on it. The crowd transformed itself from a mass to a line (like Optimus Prime, but without the cool sound effects), and I began to sign books.

I signed for people from just about every demographic you can imagine. Many of them had their own copies of my book, which they'd bought online or earlier in the day from Powell's. They complimented me on my website, on my performance, even on my cool shirt.

I signed a girl's celebrity bible, right there next to Dr. Demento, and I met the project lead for Quanta Plus, a web development application that I love and use regularly. Eric S. Raymond, author of
Cathedral and the Bazaar
(O'Reilly) and major force in the open source movement, also came and listened to me read. He even sat right in the front, and had several kind words for me when I was done. It was awesome.

When I was down to my last three books, a guy walked over to me, and extended his hand.

"Hi, Wil," he said, "I'm Tim O'Reilly."

HOLY MO—WIL! IT'S TIM O'REILLY!! HE CAME OUT TO SEE YOU!

Before I could scream out, "I KNOW! I KNOW! I KNOW! GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY!" my brain said,
"Stay cool, Wil. Don't geek out."

I heeded my brain's advice and was grateful for all those times I didn't stab it with a key.

"It's really nice to meet you," I said. I was very proud of myself . . . and kept my geeking out to a minimum. "Your books have made my life much easier and much more interesting."

Check me out. I totally behaved myself.

"Nicely done,"
said my brain.
"Have some serotonin."

Oh . . . that feels good
.

He said something about how he'd heard good things about my book and thanked me for coming to OSCon.

He thanked me for coming!

"Would you like a copy of my book?" I asked him, "I have an extra one that you can have if you want it."

"Sure," he said, "but I'd rather buy it."

So that's what he did. Tim O'Reilly bought my little book, and shortly after that, I sold my final copy.

That's right. I sold out all my books, including the additional books I brought with me.

It's a good thing I listened to my wife, eh?

I packed up my bag, and said good bye to Randal. He pointed at the little laminated "Meet Wil Wheaton, author of
Dancing Barefoot
" sign.

"You should take that, Wil. It's from your first signing. You're going to want that someday," he said.

I picked it up off the table, and when I held it in my hands, I knew that he was right. I didn't ever want to forget this very significant moment in my life. Signing my first book, in a book store, and selling it out . . . it's better than the first time I got to sit at the helm of the
Enterprise
. . .

. . . because it was
real
.

^[
1
^]
This book is also called "The Alpaca," which is the animal on its cover. Randal also co-wrote "The Llama" (
Learning Perl
). I guess this book will be called "The Geek."

Part III. ACT I

"No one knows what it's like
To be hated, to be fated
To telling only lies
No one bites back as hard on their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through"

--The Who Behind Blue Eyes

"Tell me is something eluding you, sunshine?
Is this not what you expected to see?
If you wanna find out what's behind these cold eyes
You'll just have to claw your way through this disguise."

--Pink Floyd In The Flesh?

Chapter 1. Where's My Burrito?

ON A HOT JUNE AFTERNOON IN 2000
, I joined my best friend Darin for lunch at one of our teenage haunts, Old Town Pasadena. An afternoon in Old Town is a trip to a time when we were free of responsibility, and the world was filled with possibility and opportunity.

The changes in Old Town reflect the changes within ourselves. Thanks to the efforts of the Pasadena preservationists, the historical building façades haven't changed, but they are the only thing that remain the same. The empty doorway where a punk rocker once sneered at passing businessmen is now a Pottery Barn, occupied by a San Marino yuppie who screams into her cell phone. The eclectic record store where we'd buy imported Smiths singles is now a Sam Goody, its windows plastered with posters announcing the latest release from Justin Timberlake. Tourists stand uncomfortably at crosswalks, trying to ignore the homeless who have come to enjoy the trickle down economics of a prospering shopping thoroughfare.

All of this progress is not without its benefits, though. Old Town is safe, if sanitized, and several good restaurants have moved into the area.

On this particular afternoon, Darin and I walked down Colorado Boulevard, following the same route as Pasadena's claim to annual fame, the Tournament of Roses Parade. We passed The Cheesecake Factory, several trendy Japanese noodle houses, and walked straight into Hooters.

Hey, Darin was engaged, and I'm married. Sometimes a guy's gotta know if he still has it.

We walked in ahead of the lunchtime rush, so we could sit wherever we liked. Through a speaker above us, Bob Seger rhetorically asked, "ain't it funny how the night moves?" We looked around the mostly empty restaurant and chose the section with the hottest waitress in the joint.

As we took our seats, our waitress came over to our table: a cute-but-not-beautiful girl in her early 20s. Bleached-blonde, fake tan, long legs. Hooters. Her name tag said "Destiny."

She flirted with us as she took our order, all smiles and giggles. We ordered wings. Super Fire Hot, baby.

She stood up and left to put in our order. Darin and I stared at each other, grinned, and exchanged a mental high five. We still had it, and it felt
good
.

She'd only walked a few steps, when she stopped suddenly, turned around, and came back to our table.

She looked at me, lustily. "Can I ask you something?"

"Oh, hell, yeah, Willie,"
I thought to myself,
"The ladies still want your sweet action!"

My face flushed and my pulse quickened.

"Sure," I said.

She screwed up her courage and leaned close to me, her full, pouting lips just inches from mine. Her perfume embraced me. Her ample cleavage seductively longed to bust out from beneath her thin cotton T-shirt. She drew a nervous breath, bit down on the corner of her mouth, and asked, breathlessly, "Didn't you used to be an actor?"

"WHAT?! USED TO BE?! I STILL AM!" I hollered, as mental images of a hot Hooters threesome were replaced with the cold reality of appearing on
Celebrity Boxing
.

She immediately knew that she had made a mistake. She thought quickly, licked her lips, self-consciously fussed with her over-processed hair and tried again: "Oh, I mean, weren't you an actor when you were a kid?"

All I could do was numbly answer, "Yeah, when I was a kid," as I hung my head and ordered the first of many pints of Guinness.

Funny story, right? Yeah, funny like when you watch another guy get kicked in the nuts. In the days that followed, I tried to write it off. Tried to bolster my wounded self-esteem by telling myself that she was just a Hooters waitress, so she didn't matter. But the truth was, that simple, scantily clad waitress had driven home with painful acuity my deepest fear: I was a has-been. I "used to be" an actor, when I was a kid.

If I "used to be" an actor, it wasn't for lack of trying, but it
was
the result of a series of choices I'd made, starting all the way back in 1989, when I was just 16 years old, and in Florida for a
Star Trek
cruise . . .

Even though it was early in the morning, it was already hot and humid in Miami. My brother and I stood together in front of the hotel and waited to get on a bus that would take us to the port. There were hundreds of Trekkies swarming around us, and a ripple of excitement went through the crowd when the hotel doors opened and the entire cast of the original
Star Trek
, minus Shatner and Nimoy, walked out. Most of them looked a little drunk, and some of them looked a lot unhappy.