NOTE: Set just before the events of "Eye of the Storm."
SETUP: The day Austin's ex-wife dropped off Trapper, Austin was preparing another "Life As a Geek" column for the "Star City Herald." During the events following Trapper's arrival, the column was eventually forgotten, and remains languishing on Austin's hard drive. Here is the column in its unedited entirety.
As Star City prepares itself for another summer of "Star Wars," as geeks of every walk of life converge on our town like some demented Rebel army, as storeowners jack prices through the roof and homeowners lock their doors and hide their children and pets for their own safety, I would like to bring up an interesting question that will probably never cross the minds of any attendees of Stellar-Con or Nova-Con:
What price do we pay for the privilege of being known as Star Wars fans?
Sure, there's the social sacrifice – obsession with science fiction has always hovered on the fringes of social acceptability. Sure, there's the stereotype of us being "geeks," pasty-skinned creatures with thick glasses, wardrobes straight from the 80s, and permanent homes in our mother's basements where we eschew sex and contact with society and spend all day on e-Bay buying obscure action figures for outrageous prices. Sure, there's the financial burden – nothing sucker-punches your checkbook quite like a life-sized solid-bronze statue of Yoda does (no, I do not know this from personal experience).
But do we forego other pleasures to pursue our beloved films?
I suppose some of us will never know, of course. Who knows, for example, if those who create fan fiction, fan art, and fan films will ever become best-selling authors or acclaimed artists or Oscar-winning directors if they abandoned their Star-Wars-oriented projects, or at least put them on the back burner? Who knows if a young man will become a beloved father and husband if he stops obsessing over Natalie Portman and realizes there are women out there who just might be attracted to him?
I'm not saying that fandom is a bad thing. Not at all. What I'm saying is that there is a price to pay for every interest, every obsession, every dedication.
And sadly, I know exactly what price I paid.
Her name was Melissa Greenwood. She sat squarely in front of me in my English 125 class my freshman year of college at Colorado State. Looking at our high school lives, we were obviously complete opposites – her the cheerleader, the honor student, the student body president, the valedictorian, and me the slacker, the weirdo, the after-school D&D master, the kid who got kicked off the broom hockey team for refusing to take off the stormtrooper mask at our first game. So it was only natural that we saw each other as quirky and fun, thinking our idiosyncrasies were cute, keeping in contact after I dropped out to pursue a writing career… and after she received her Bachelor's Degree, we married.
We were young and in love, and in that state of mind you quite willingly make concessions. She agreed to move from her big-city life in Chicago to Star City, where I worked for the Herald. And I agreed to move into a nice house her parents purchased for us rather than the dumpy apartment I called home. We were happy for a few years.
I don't think I fell out of love with her. I just think I grew complacent. I thought our love was a constant, that nothing could shake or alter it. I thought she would understand that there were other things that were a part of my life just as much as she was.
She didn't understand. She never would. And I guess it's something anyone outside fandom will never totally comprehend.
And I admit that I could have done better. I could have made an effort to put aside my obsession to be a husband, a father. But instead I slipped away at every opportunity, starting my own fan club, making new friends at the conventions that she felt she couldn't relate to, cutting her out of my life. It grew to the point that she laid down an ultimatum – Star Wars or the marriage. The movies, the collection, everything got put into storage, and we went through a round of counseling, and for a while, it helped.
But not for long.
Some guys cheat on their wives, some drink on the sly, and some have other, darker secret indulgences. I lied about writer's conferences and late meetings to watch "Return of the Jedi" and play video games with the fan club, who still met in secret. It seems silly admitting it, but it's the truth. I was having an affair with Star Wars.
I mentioned I had a son, didn't I? Beautiful baby, gray eyes like his mom, black hair like his dad. It's sad, isn't it, that I don't know what his first spoken word was? Melissa says he uttered it while I was at one of my "meetings," and she still won't tell me what it is. That hurts.
She would accuse me years later of not even knowing I had a son. Not true. I just thought time with my son could wait. Like the old song goes, "When you comin' home, Dad/ Don't know when/ but we'll get together then/ we're gonna have a good time then…"
DragonCon was the last straw. I wanted to go. She said no way. It was our anniversary, for crying out loud, and we would be spending it far, far away from Atlanta. The fight was long and ugly, ending explosively when she threw a bronze paperweight at me. Charges were never filed, but I still have screws in my jaw. After the operation, I went to live at my friend Sparky's for a while, hoping things would cool down.
No such luck.
I wonder if she knew the guy was a Sons of the Sith member. It would have been her vindictive nature to put them up to it. I thought I would wet myself when I opened the door to see the self-styled Darth Quinzain staring me down, smiling smugly and handing me the envelope.
You've Been Served. Three words I never wanted to hear. My marriage was over.
My attorney says I got off lucky. Melissa was a CEO by this time, making almost quadruple my pay, making the matter of child support moot. And I got the house as well. In his opinion, I had no business contesting the divorce.
But I fought it all the way to the end. I even got down on my knees and begged. I'm sorry, Melissa. I was a jerk, I was a bastard, I was unfeeling and selfish. Please give me another chance. No, don't take my son. Don't take him away from me. Summer vacation and holidays? That's crumbs to a starving man! Dear Father in Heaven, give me another chance! I'll burn my collection, I'll never watch another Star Wars film again, just don't take my boy away!
Damn, I'm emotionally drained just typing this. I've worked myself into a frenzy and I know there's no way in hell I can submit this to my editor now. Maybe I'll save it as a journal entry, or maybe I'll just trash it. Doesn't matter. I can't go back and change the past. What's done is done. As ROTJ says, "It is too late for me."
There's the sound of a car driving up. Trapper's here for the summer. I have a few minutes – Melissa's probably going to give the you-can-always-call-me-if-you-want-to-come-home speech again, something that drives the boy nuts.
Ironic, don't you think, that my son loves Star Wars? Melissa makes him keep his collection at my place, of course. But he's as obsessed as I once was, and it's a little painful sometimes. But it's a link between us, no matter how unusual it seems.
Star Wars ruined my marriage. But perhaps it can help me salvage my relationship with my son.
Just glanced out the window. Strange. Something seemed to be drifting into the forest… aircraft, but the strangest aircraft I've ever seen… it's gone. Maybe a trick of the light.
Knock on the door. Trapper's here.
Why do I get the feeling that this summer is going to be far from ordinary?