September 2022
Space. I am floating on my back, staring into the void. Where have all the stars gone? In my head, I hear, “It will be a rocket.” I turn my head to look over my right shoulder. The Earth is underneath me. Its rotation almost imperceptible. A rocket emerges from the darkness. It pierces the pristine blue orb. It is the apocalypse. It is the end.
A shrill ringtone awakens me. I open my eyes to pre-dawn murk, ease myself out of bed, and reach for my phone. Alarm off. A notification announces that I received a text from my brother Grant sometime during the night. The text is simply a link to an article about an upcoming screening of The Wrath of Khan in Detroit. Special guest William Shatner will have a Q&A with the audience following the screening. I read through the article with an amused sigh. Nothing like starting the day with some synchronicity. The article states that Shatner has recently visited space. I rarely hear about such things, as I have never owned a television during my adult life, and I have not done social media for years.
My curiosity leads me to a CNN video on YouTube documenting Shatner’s return to Earth. He emerges from the capsule and descends the ladder on shaky legs. His face is contorted with emotion. Jeff Bezos stands by Shatner’s side, arms crossed. Face devoid of expression. A soulless entity in a blue astronaut uniform. He interrupts Shatner’s musings to pop a bottle of champagne.
After a polite pause, Shatner begins to speak again. “I hope I never recover from this. The vulnerability of everything! This is life! That’s death!” But he is drowned out by cheers and whoops and high fives and popping champagne corks. A tall brunette sidles up to bask in his famousness. Her face is frozen in plastic perfection. His words reach her ears. She grows rigid. A frantic glance around for a graceful exit. The camera zooms in closer on Shatner and Bezos, setting her free. My heart sinks into the abyss of existential loneliness. Shatner used the voyage to expand his consciousness. For them, this is just another Instagram moment. Behold the current state of our world.
I return Grant’s text. Do you want to go to this?
Maybe. I’m not sure I want to be around a lot of people.
It’s a small theater. This is not the kind of event that attracts douchebags.
Okay, let’s go.
March 10, 2023
Grant, Billy, and I gather at the cabin our Grandpa built to watch the Star Trek original series episode, “Space Seed”, in which the villain Khan is introduced. It is the eve of our outing. Billy accepted the invitation to go with us without hesitation. My brothers have seen The Wrath of Khan numerous times. I search my memory for recollections of the film and episode, but find nothing. As a very young child, I watched reruns of the original series at my grandparent’s house. Fragments of scenes: space monsters and eerie landscapes orbit through my mind, all in glorious Technicolor. The film came out when I was in high school, just after my father’s schizophrenia took hold. I must have seen it at some point, but much of those years are lost in shadow.
We watch as Khan, ancient warlord of Earth, is awakened. Intrigue unfolds, literature is quoted. The cast is enveloped in a gauzy glow. How beautiful they all were. No wonder I was so entranced as a child. Khan is condemned and exiled to a barren planet with his new lady, Enterprise Lieutenant McGivers. And so the story leaves off.
Grant suggests we watch all of the movies, in order, after we return from our adventure. He reveals that the much-ridiculed Star Trek V: The Final Frontier is one of his favorites. “Dad took me to see it,” he says. My father’s condition had been stabilized by then.
We agree to take off around noon tomorrow. I walk across the road to my cabin, wondering if my father enjoyed that film. Was contemplation even possible in the thick haze of medication? There’s so much I’d like to ask him. He’s been gone over thirty years now.
March 11, 2023
Billy, Grant and I embark on the long drive south on I-75. Three recluses on a journey far out of our comfort zone. We listen to Spaced Out: The Best of Leonard Nimoy and William Shatner and Shatner’s Blues album. We cringe and laugh. After a few tracks, I can’t take anymore. I switch Rush and Pink Floyd, two bands that we can all agree on. We value precision, imagination and depth when it comes to the arts. Dense forest becomes farmland which morphs into city. We pass Bay City, then Saginaw, then Flint. Into the Detroit suburbs. Four lanes become six then eight. Vehicles converge from East and West. My grip on the steering wheel tightens. I’ve only driven in a city once since my return to the US five years ago. There was once a time when I felt exhilaration on a freeway, all those years ago in southern California and Phoenix. I have no interest in reclaiming that feeling. We pull over for a fast food dinner, then Grant takes over the drive.
Into the vortex of downtown Detroit we go. We have some time to kill, so we cruise along Grand River Avenue. Block after block of decay unfurls. Tiny dwellings on the verge of condemnation, shrouded in March gloom. We do not slow down. The historic Redford Theater is sheltered in the middle of a lone gentrified block.
W e stand in the deepening twilight, shivering. The line grows behind us. We inch forward.
A young boy behind us shouts, “Hey, Dad! All these people are Grandpa Joe’s age!”
We file into the theater and take our seats. Trivia questions flash across the screen. Did Ricardo Montalban wear a prosthetic chest in the film? Nope.
I sweep my eyes around the theater. An elderly woman with a walker inches down the center aisle, guided by her husband. A group of middle-aged men wearing red Enterprise shirts march towards their seats. A man in a curly blonde wig and burlap pantsuit staggers into the seats in front of us, followed by a buxom redhead in a powder blue Enterprise minidress.
Deep sinister chords penetrate the chatter. An organ rises from the theater floor. A collective cheer moves through the crowd. The theme from The Phantom of the Opera then “Bohemian Rhapsody” and, finally, the theme from Star Trek. The crowd roars. Fists are pumped in the air. I shake my head and laugh. Detroit.
The organ descends into the bowels of the theater. Lights down. The movie screen flickers. Each cast member’s appearance is greeted with applause and cheers. Shatner’s real-life arch rival George Takei incites extra enthusiasm. Feuds hold no power over true fans. A luminous Kirstie Alley commands the opening scene. She recently departed from the Earth plane, joining most of the souls on the screen. A reverent hush falls over the audience. I, too, fall under the spell. Ricardo Montalban appears. The audience erupts. Blonde wig bellows, “Yeah! He was hot! Wooh!” Years of exile on a hostile planet have metamorphosed Khan from slick, swarthy and slim into a blonde beefcake. He looks like a guitar player for some 80’s spandex rock band.
Kirk is trapped in the middle of a dead planet. Khan steals world-destroying/building technology. Kirk outwits Khan and escapes. A battle takes place in the middle of a nebula. Spock dies saving everyone else.
It is said that the future of the entire Star Trek franchise depended upon the success of The Wrath of Khan. Audiences wanted the slick special effects of Star Wars. A new version of The Wrath of Khan was released in recent years, for new audiences. The trailer gave me the creeps. Overblown special effects disguise the absence of depth and character. I’ll take toy models and cotton candy nebulae any day.
The lights come up. Two chairs are brought to the stage. A montage of Shatner’s career flashes across the screen. He is one of the few cast members who managed to transcend typecasting and gain respect beyond Star Trek. I glance at my phone. 9:30 p.m. He’s ninety-one years old. It’s surely past his bedtime. He’ll most likely be ornery. His responses will be canned.
But he strolls out on stage. A smile and a wave. He takes a seat. The moderator shuffles the question cards. “First question: you’re ninety-one. Why do you still work?”
“Work?” Shatner booms. “This isn’t work! This is having coffee with friends!” He jumps out of his chair and paces from one end of the stage to the next. It soon becomes obvious the questions were chosen in advance. But it doesn’t matter. The answers are well-worn, but beloved. Voiced with first-time exuberance and impeccable timing. He works the crowd like a stand up comedian. Triumphs and foibles are shared with the delight that comes from hard-won self-acceptance. The greatest gift of aging is the ability to not take it all so seriously. With each question, he drifts further into the outer galaxies of digression. The audience squirms. The trip to space becomes his Nascar driving experience, then an account of getting pulled over for speeding while wearing his Captain Kirk uniform, and, finally, an in-depth description of the use of Depends undergarments by astronauts. He found his way back to the original question! He takes a breath and beams and basks in the love.
Cards are shuffled again. The moderator rolls his eyes. “Here’s one you’ve never heard. What’s your favorite Star Trek episode?”
Shatner launches into his experience of hanging out with the physicist Stephen Hawking. “I expected Hawking to be interested in my profound thoughts on the cosmos! But he asks, ‘What’s your favorite episode?’”
I glance at my brothers. Billy, who’s usually so quiet, shakes with laughter. Grant, who’s usually so talkative, sits perfectly still, with shiny eyes and a stoic smile. He bought the VIP upgrade to have his photo taken with Shatner after the show. I smile to myself, my heart overflowing. I look at my phone. 11:00 p.m. Shatner’s been going full blast for an hour and a half. I shake my head in admiration.
“One final question,” the moderator informs the audience. “How do you feel about the death scene in Star Trek: Generations?”
“Ah, yes. Death.” He references a recent article in some British rag. He had been quoted out of context yet again. He had been discussing the documentary he was making for his grandchildren as a way for them to remember him after he’s gone. “So, the headline says, ‘Shatner says he doesn’t have much time left!’ None of us have much time left! All of us are going to die! Mine is just more predictable.” A pause. Stillness settles over the audience. “I think about death a lot. Who’s that guy who said tune in, turn on, drop out…?”
Several voices reply, “Timothy Leary!”
“Wow, a lot of you knew that.” He lifts his eyebrows in amusement. He recounts a story he’d heard of Leary’s last moments. “Leary’s last words were ‘of course’.” A dramatic pause. “Of course, what?” he shrieks and throws his hands up in exasperation. “What did he see? I want to know!”
I nod to myself. The more time you have to contemplate death, the more mysterious and intimidating it becomes. Death has always guided my life choices, as it does for all individuals who truly live. But what happens when you do everything that you set out to do? Is that why so many procrastinate on going after their big goals? Once they’re accomplished there’s nothing left to do. No more fuel for daydreams.
I’ve done so much in my life, but I, too, have been holding back on major goals: getting the hard copy of the memoir published, visiting the last of my dream places. After that is done, it will be time to explore strange new worlds. Perhaps music or cooking or deep friendships? It is not the pursuit, but the curiosity behind it that creates the spark of life. An alien thought arises: I’ve been living my life as though I’ll die tomorrow. I never thought I’d live past fifty. I could live another fifty years. This possibility can also impact the choices I make today.
Will Shatner’s words inspire some to do that which haunts their souls? Go to space, record a bad blues album, make a documentary for their grandchildren. Reclaim and embrace their true selves, unapologetically. Or will his words dissipate into the black hole of denial?
We all must journey into the final frontier alone. May we boldly go.