Foreshadowing. A tried-and-true literary device (much like clichés) in which a seemingly inconsequential event at the beginning of a story will reappear or resonante more loudly toward the end. The problems with forshadowing are twofold: You can only recognize it in hindsight and when it happens in real life, you miss it.
My wife and I didn't get to the Hilton for the Star Trek convention until close to 3 p.m. Saturday. As we neared the ballroom, we were met by a wave of Trekkies in costumes spanning the history of Gene Roddenberry's empire. There was even a baby in a stroller, made up to look like that hot girl with the dots from Deep Space Nine. All were headed away from the convention.
"Oh no, oh no, did we miss it?" asked my wife, starting to panic. We hadn't missed it, but the issue was moot.
We were turned away from the door (no record of our media passes) by an abrupt woman who clearly was not displaying the sort of graciousness normally associated with the Federation. At least this is what was implied by Biana, a closet Trekkie, as she expressed her disappointment and anger.
Don't get me wrong; I'm a Star Trek fan, too. I grew up watching the old series in syndication. I watched most of Next Generation, some of Deep Space Nine, almost none of Voyager, and I try to always catch Enterprise, unless it's a really good Smallville episode that night. But Biana is a true devotee. She knows all the characters, she recognizes all the props at the gift store next to Quark's, and she was grinning like a Chesire cat on crack the time she got her photo taken with Richard Picardo.
Being barred from entry meant we'd have to make arrangements to return Sunday.
Ahh, foreshadowing.
Finally getting our passes Sunday, we headed into the lecture room where William Shatner and a passel of writers and editors were answering questions about an upcoming series of books about Kirk and Spock's adventures at Star Fleet Academy. It wasn't the most riveting topic for Biana, but Bill Shatner was right there on stage in the flesh, by God! We stuck it out long enough to hear one fan ask why a possible series about young Kirk would be coming out now instead of back in 1966, when, after all, it should have been first. I don't remember Shatner's exact response, but I do remember being impressed at how he side-stepped trying to explain that Star Trek is all made up and doesn't actually exist prerecorded someplace.
I also remember Biana's mix of puzzlement and displeasure at the large number of people so concerned with books about Star Trek rather than the shows, and more importantly, with the underlying ideals and philosophies of Roddenberry's vision of our possible future. That's what she was interested in. Why weren't people discussing the merits and pitfalls of the Prime Directive? Where were the questions about the secrets behind the special effects? And why was everyone so damn fat?
"It's like the fifth Rascal I've seen," she whispered as someone trundled past on a motorized wheelchair. None seemed disabled by anything other than poor diet.
We left the lecture hall for the convention proper, and that's when I realized what I was seeing in my wife was the loss of innocence.
Now, before I go any further, I need to describe Biana, for the continued good health of my marriage, but also to make clear a point. My wife does not wear costumes, except for Halloween. She has highly developed social skills. She is accomplished professionally. And she is one of the most cynical people I know—one of the many reasons I love her. So for her to be naive about what Star Trek conventions, and Star Trek fans, are like was surprising and sweet, unexpected and adorable. Yet, no matter how much I was amused at the scales falling from her eyes, part of me was saddened that here was another disappointment in life.
First was the presence of non-Star Trek-related paraphenalia. "This is not a Mickey Mouse convention," Biana huffed as we walked past tables laden with memorabilia of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Star Gate 1, Farscape and more.
But even the true-blue Trek merchandise was shocking. A signed photo of the cast from Next Generation was on sale for $800. A similar picture of the cast from the first series was priced at $1,500. Notes from a speech Rodenberry once gave were initially tagged at $7,000, but once someone expressed interest in it, the price rose another $500. "What happened to that altruistic, no-money-in-the-future shit?"
It didn't help that behind a curtain were Shatner and Leonard Nimoy, posing for photos at a couple hundred dollars a pop.
"Two hundred dollars, two hundred dollars," she fumed. "It's just not right. It's not supposed to be about hawking a bunch of crap. It should be talks and stuff."
We continued, past actors selling glossies of their single-episode appearances, past the guy who played Jaws in Moonraker, past all sorts of air-brushed renderings of outer space adventures, with and without dolphins. And that was about when we noticed something else. We seemed to be attracting a fair bit of attention ourselves. More than the Next Gen operations officer with dreadlocks down to his waist. More than even the 7-foot-tall Klingon woman. And not that either of us are going to have swimsuit calendars coming out soon, but the attention seemed decidedly of a sexual nature. We were the objects of nerd lust.
"I can see why William Shatner made fun of these people, because they're a little weird," Biana said. "They're frightening."
Looking back, perhaps the woman at the door hadn't been rude in denying us passes. Perhaps she had been warning us—warning us not to split that famous infinitive and instead to stay away from where many had gone before.