Spock et alia

Did any of you grow up believing you accidentally showed up on the wrong planet? As a child, I was too young to grasp the idea of extraterrestrial life, but this world definitely seemed alien to me. That was true until I was older, when Star Trek showed up and transformed everything. It was 1966. At that time, my husband was dodging bullets in Vietnam and I was camped on my parents’ fold-out couch in the den, the room with the TV. Every evening my father would join me in my cubicle to watch his favorite shows. Whoever was in the room had to listen to two soundtracks: one was from the TV and the other was a running monologue of humorous insults from my father. In short, we owned an RCA and our own prototype Woody Allen. One magical evening, I happened to be alone in the den when a new series called Star Trek was airing. Staring in awe as Doctor McCoy picked up a triangular cocktail glass, I realized I was seeing life as it was always meant to be. I was so awe-struck, I started falling into the TV, only catching myself from getting a concussion at the last minute. If I could have crawled through the screen the way C. S. Lewis’s characters did in “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,” I would have shared a toast with McCoy and never returned. At last I’d found my people! They were lurking in a little box in outer space! Nothing was the same after those few first seconds. Thursday nights become my Holy Grail. The first thing I did once my father joined me was to turn on him sternly. “You are forbidden to make a single comment during this show. If you can’t be quiet you will have to leave.” Not only was I a guest in his house, I’d never issued a command to my father before. Yet for some reason, probably shock, he obeyed and we watched Star Trek together until the season ended and I moved out. (Did my mother join us? No. She had better things to do, such as playing solitaire. Don’t ask.) From that moment on, I lived in an alternate reality hole, and every once in a while it leached out into this domain, transforming me from a shy and silent being into a devious sleuth who figured out how to sneak onto the Paramount Lot just to get into Gene Roddenberry’s office. I’ll give you instructions but first you have to sit through the lead-up. Naturally, I fell in love with Spock, me and a zillion other people. When the show ended after three seasons, I worried about Leonard Nimoy. What if Spock was his one and only character? Apparently, he wasn’t daunted because he immediately joined another fictional series, narrated a documentary series, appeared in movies for television, published books of photography, held exhibits, released records, and starred in plays. I watched, purchased, and attended everything, including political rallies where he spoke. It was my solemn duty to make sure he survived. One memorable day I had this conversation with my teen-aged daughter and her best friend. I was driving them somewhere and announced with the greatest joy in the world, “Leonard Nimoy is playing Golda Meir’s husband in a TV movie! He’s actually starring with Ingrid Bergman! Imagine that! Ingrid Bergman! Isn’t that wonderful for him?” My daughter replied in Valley Girl Speak, “Oh, motherrr! NO ONE has ever heard of Ingrid Bergman. EVERYONE knows who Leonard Nimoy is.” That’s the day I relinquished my zealous drive to make sure Leonard Nimoy didn’t starve. “Everyone knows who Leonard Nimoy is.” My job here was done. Star Trek did more than teach me how to be a rabid fan. It introduced me to the world of Science Fiction conventions. This was before Star Wars altered our universe. I went to hear my favorite authors speak at panels, and maybe, if I was really lucky, have one of them walk up to me in the hallway, tweak both my nipples and mutter “Earth calling Mars; Earth calling Mars.” (Yes, that happened. No, I’m not telling you his name. Yes, you’ve read his books if you’re a SF reader.) Going to the conventions led to learning about Fanzines. These encouraged me to write a Star Trek novel. A girlfriend typed a copy from my hand-written notes. She said it was one of the worst things she’d ever read. Typing every page was an agony. “This is really bad. No, seriously, it is really, really bad.” No one else has ever read my Star Trek novel and no one ever will. I hid it in the garage when I purged the house but couldn’t bring myself to part with it. The one redeeming feature is the science in the plot. Forty years ago I wrote a story about using sound waves to destroy cancer cells. Last year a friend went to Germany for sound wave treatment to destroy his cancer cells. So at least I was on the right track as far as science went. Then I wrote a pretty good short story about space-traveling alien ants who crash landed on earth. An editor at Galaxy Magazine was interested in buying it. Two weeks after I received his acceptance letter, the magazine went out of business. That story is buried in the garage with the novel no one is allowed to read. I then became friends with the leading lights of the Star Trek fan community, participating in the write-in campaign to keep Star Trek on the air for the third season, and another campaign to name a space shuttle “Enterprise.” One more book proposal loomed large. The chief campaigner was writing a book about how Star Trek impacted women and gave them the courage to go where few women had gone before. My story was included. Star Trek had given me the courage to come out of the kitchen and go places I’d never been before. One of the places was a cruise ship. I was invited to cruise the Mexican Riviera with a friend whose husband had made her promise to go on the trip anyway just before he dropped dead. I’d never been out of the country before. Ten days at sea and I decided never to return. That’s because I realized that a ship on the sea is exactly like a ship in outer space: self contained, just enough food to last from one landing to the next, and every crew member has to earn his weight in food and fuel. No matter how hard I begged, the radio officer refused to allow me to go into the engine room. He said it was hot and greasy. “What do I care about that? It’s the closest I’m ever going to get to the engine room of the Enterprise!” I pleaded in vain. In order to shut me up, he snuck me into the ship’s control room as we re-entered the Port of Los Angeles, telling me to watch silently, and disappearing before the Captain could spot him. I was transfixed. At last, a real control room with a real Captain in a real uniform. Without knowing what I was doing, I crept closer and closer to his chair, watching him watch whatever he was supposed to be watching. I guess I breathed in his ear, because he jumped out of his seat when he realized a body was looming over his. “Agh! You startled me!” Perhaps it was the glazed look of reverential joy in my eyes that convinced him to let me remain and observe. Backing a cruise ship into a berth is not as easy as they make it look. Sadly, the Captain refused to let me take the helm; however, he did explain the process. My nerd brain thought that was the best part of the entire trip, almost as good as but not quite reaching the thrill of liftoff to Mars and beyond. So, we’ve covered how Star Trek prompted shy me into talking to major authors, timid me going on promotional campaigns, insecure me submitting things for publication, and cautious me scaring a ship’s captain out of his chair. It only remains to tell you about sneaking onto the Paramount Lot. During one of the conventions, I spoke briefly to Susan Sackett who was Gene Roddenberry’s Personal Executive Assistant. She told me to give her a resume when I asked how to get a job working on Gene’s next project. She meant mail it but I took her literally. While my husband was at work and my daughter at school, I drove to Paramount dressed in my finest, carrying a cover letter and resume. Keep in mind I had no appropriate training or skills for any kind of work at Paramount, but I boldly walked into the main guard office with documents in hand, saying, “I’m here to deliver the paperwork Susan Sackett requested.” The guard called Ms. Sackett, and I guess I piqued her curiosity enough to grant permission for me to enter. It was a quiet Friday afternoon and most of the people had left for the day. En route to Gene Roddenberry’s office I was flagged down by an older woman who wanted to say hello and how are you doing? I obliged by saying fine. I guess I was supposed to say more because she asked, “Aren’t you Alfred Hitchcock’s secretary?” No, no I’m not. “Hmm, you look just like her. I thought you were going into his office,” she replied as she pointed to a plaque near a door and then toddled off. So that’s point one for me. I looked old enough to be mistaken for Alfred Hitchcock’s secretary. Point two was when I handed my paperwork to Ms. Sackett and she said she liked my moxie. It takes a sort of brazen talent to pretend to be expected in Mr. Roddenberry’s office. (He had left for the day. Rats!) She suggested that I get in touch with her in a few weeks regarding a pilot show that was in pre-production. They could use assistants with my nerve. (That’s funny. You’re laughing now, right?) And as long as I’m on the lot, why don’t I take a look around? William Shatner was filming a new series, Barbary Coast. I could see the set. The Paramount Lot was a pretty big place. I wandered, looking lost, into a cavern of a building where some electricians were working. One of them took pity, or used the excuse to take a break, and gave me a private tour in an electric cart, driving inside sets and out, including the set for Barbary Coast. It was awesome! The kind electrician dropped me near the guard gate and I made my way home, wondering if I really did have what it took to work on a live set, running errands for who knew what, acting ballsy, slaving long hours six days a week. Then I remembered I was pregnant. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that to anyone. I could have the baby before the series started and let someone else raise him and my daughter…or I could stay at home and be a hands-on mom. Motherhood won out. I don’t regret my decision. I remained a loyal Star Trek fan throughout all its incarnations. I eventually forgave Rick Berman for killing off Trip Tucker in Star Trek Enterprise. (That was a hard blow to the heart.) I even forgave Zachary Quinto for being such a wonderful Spock II. Then CBS announced Discovery after years of shamelessly neglecting the franchise. You’d think I’d be excited, right? I was, until I learned I’d have to sign up for their streaming service. After all the years of conventions and fanzines, the purchased video and DVD sets, the hundreds of Star Trek books, what’s another ten dollars a month, right? Wrong. CBS crossed the final frontier in the wrong direction. Star Trek was not its Holy Grail, as it had been mine; it was merely another cash cow. That’s when I finally put my foot down. My apologies to Patrick Stewart, as magnificent a Picard as ever walked under alien skies, but my money is now on Seth MacFarlane and The Orville. It’s Star Trek but it’s funnier. Update: I caved. I paid. I watched two seasons of Star Trek Discovery. It’s brilliant. I can’t even tell you how good it is. Next month we’ll get Picard, and in maybe two years we’ll see Section 31. I take back what I wrote about CBS. Star Trek is alive and thriving. Life is good.