replica of ours, with a few minor differences that are
probably imperceptible to anyone who didnât spend the better part of five years on it. The hum
of the engines, which had only existed in my imagination on Stage 8, is now real. I stare at
the view screen, where a beautiful starfield gives the appearance of motion. I remember how
much I hated doing blue screen shots on the bridge and how much I loved it when theyâd lower
the starfield. When I looked at those thousands of tiny mirrors, glued onto a screen of black
velvet, I could lose myself in the wonderful fantasy that this spaceship was as real as the
view.
I am consumed by hypernostalgia.
I am 14 years old, walking out of the turbolift during Encounter at
Farpoint . Corey Allen, the director, excitedly tells me, âPicard controls the
sky, man! He controls the sky! â
I am 15 years old, sitting in my ugly grey spacesuit at the CONN. My fake muscle suit
bunches up around my arms. I feel awkward and unsure, a child who desperately wants to be a
man.
I am 16 years old, working on an episode where I say little more than, âAye, sir.â I want
to be anywhere but here.
I am 17 years old, wearing a security uniform for Yesterdayâs
Enterprise . I am excited to stand in a different place on the bridge, wear a
different uniform, and push different imaginary buttons.
I hear the voices of our crew, recall the cool fog that hung around our trailers each
morning from Autumn until Spring.
I recall walking to the Paramount commissary with the cast, on our way to have lunch
meetings with Gene before he died.
I have an epiphany.
Until this moment, all I have been able to remember is the pain that came with Star Trek.
Iâd forgotten the joy.
Star Trek was about sitting next to Brent Spiner, who always made me
laugh. It wasnât about the people who made me cry when they booed me offstage at conventions.
It was about the awe I felt listening to Patrick Stewart debate the subtle nuances of The
Prime Directive with Gene Roddenberry between scenes. It wasnât about the writers who couldnât
figure out how to write a believable teenage character. It was about the wonder of walking
down those corridors, and pretending that I was on a real spaceship. It was about the pride I
felt when I got to wear my first real uniform, go on my first away mission, fire my first
phaser, play poker with the other officers in Rikerâs quarters.
Oh my god. Star Trek was wonderful, and Iâd forgotten. I have wasted ten years
trying to escape something that I love, for all the wrong reasons.
I am filled with regret. I miss it. I miss my surrogate family, and I will give anything
to have those ten years back. Like Scrooge, I want a second chance, will do anything for a
second chance. But Christmas day came and went 10 years ago.
The stars blink out, and Iâm looking into the smiling face of Jonathan Frakes on the view
screen. Iâm smiling back at him and I notice that everyone is staring at me. I become aware of
wetness on my cheeks. I am embarrassed and make a joke. I say to the actors walking around the
bridge, âIf you need any help flying this thing, Iâve totally got your back!â The group
laughs. Garrett says something about helping out the security guys if they get into trouble
and we laugh over that too.
Johnny tells us that we have to leave the ship now and board a shuttlecraft so that we may
safely return to Las Vegas.
I donât want to leave. Iâve just gotten here. I want to cry out âNo! Donât make me leave!
Itâs not fair! I want to stay! I need to stay! Please let me
stay!â
Instead, I am silent and I stare hard at the bridge, trying to catch a glimpse of a dolly
track, or a mark, or maybe my costumer waiting for me to come offstage so she can hand me my
fleece jacket.
The group Iâm with herds me into the