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“Well no,” I say. “Those guys don’t come on Wednesdays for a date. That’s not what Share Group is all about.”

  Terry laughs and shakes his head. “So outside Share Group, would you get romantically involved with any of those men?”

  “It wouldn’t feel right.”

  “Are you attracted to any of them?”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  “You don’t find Jimmy sexy?”

  “Jimmy? He’s not sexy at all. He’s always got on dirty clothes, has a scraggly beard, and I don’t know…I just couldn’t date a man who mixes his own medicine.”

  Terry bursts out laughing.

  “But how about Jeanine? Sounds pretty cozy, what with her cooking teriyaki all the time and all that wine ya’ll are drinking.” I’m not going to tell Terry, but I drove by his house the other day, and his recycle bin was loaded with empty wine bottles. I imagine Terry arrives home from work carrying a load of chopped wood through the front door, while Jeanine, donning some cutsie apron, is busy cooking a gourmet meal. Then they lounge by the fire on a shag rug, feeding one another morsels of cheese, drinking themselves silly and reminiscing about the good ol’ days.

  Terry gives me a strange look.

  “Jeanine drives me nuts.”

  “How so?”

  “She graduates from sipping coffee in the morning to swilling merlot by noon. My neighbors tell me she spends the afternoon drunkenly yelling for the dog. By the time I get home from work, she’s passed out in my bed, and my closet has been rearranged, my shoes are shined, and my boxers have been ironed.”

  “Really?” I’m fascinated and disturbed. “Did she always iron your boxers and shine your shoes? And is she still reinventing Julia Child in your kitchen?”

  “Actually, this is all new. But she always cooked, and she still does. Even when she’s drunk, she’s a great cook.”

  “Just tell her not to do all that stuff.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “What if the dog never comes home? Will she eventually go back to Germany?”

  “She’s positive Champagne will come home,” he says. “I just have to put up with all the madness until then.”

  “By the way,” I say, changing the subject. “Why does that sign in front of the hotel say, ‘Welcome Voyeurs’?”

  “The marquee?” Terry asks. “You mean the sign that says, ‘Welcome Voyagers’?”

  Oh.

  How embarrassing. I was imagining a ballroom chock full of sweaty, half naked people teeming with V.D. I cannot express how grateful and relieved I am right now. Still, the fact I read it so wrong to begin with…I may never live this down.

  “I guess you’ve got some friends in that ballroom?”

  Terry nods and offers me his arm. “A bunch of voyeurs,” he says, shaking his head.

  We enter the grand ballroom. Deacon Coons and Belinda are both wearing Star Trek uniforms from the 1960s. Belinda looks surprised to see me, but they both give big waves. Terry waves back and says we missed Brent Spiner speak. He’s the guy that played the character Data on Star Trek: The Next Generation—the robot with the white face. I admit to watching a few of those shows. I’m not totally ignorant about what’s happening here. Terry points out Borg, Klingons, Romulans, and Cardassians but there are other alien people he doesn’t recognize. He tells me he will find out because he’s interested when they came into the picture. All these characters are wearing costumes that trick-or-treaters would envy: the makeup, the hairdo’s, the complex tailoring. There is a whole family walking around dressed in Enterprise command uniforms, including an older boy, twin toddlers, and an infant. I point them out to Terry, and he says he thinks the mom and dad are taking it a little too far. I breathe a sigh of relief. I mean, the family is obviously having a fun time, and the little kids are getting a lot of attention, but I guess Terry’s comment helps me to gauge his level of commitment to this stuff. Whether it’s a diversion or an obsession.

  What’s amazing to me is all the stuff for sale. It’s like a flea market on Mars.

  Star Trek memorabilia of every kind is stacked on tables. The t-shirt table is making a killing selling shirts with sayings like, You Will Be Assimilated, Daddy’s Little Klingon, and Beam Me the Hell Outta Here, Scotty! That last one fits my feelings perfectly right about now.

  Other tables are filled with Star Trek action figures, bobble heads, trading cards, Enterprise replicas, and all sorts of hardware and knick-knacks one might find aboard a real starship, like phasers, tricorders, and bottles of blue Romulan ale. There is a Limited Edition PEZ dispenser set of Captain Kirk, Dr. Spock, Mr. Sulu and the gang for only $16.65 and tables loaded with Star Trek motion picture VHS and DVD sets. The books are interesting. There’s the Autobiography of Gene Roddenberry, The Star Trek Cookbook, and, for those of us interested in learning Klingon as a second language, The Klingon Dictionary. Then there’s The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition, for those of us interested in hostile takeovers in outer space. Several mannequins are sporting Star Trek command uniforms, some of which were worn on the shows and movies. The prices on the original uniforms way exceed the price of the replicas by thousands of dollars. This guy just won the silent auction for one of the original Jean-Luc Picard uniforms. I hear him say into his cell phone, “Honey! It’s ours!” The Picard uniform is undoubtedly a new family asset. I can’t stand my curiosity. When the man gets off the phone, I feel I must know some things.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  The man has a proud glow, like a new father.

  “Congratulations on winning that auction,” I say. “How long have you been collecting Star Trek memorabilia?”

  “I’m not a regular collector, but my wife and I have been wanting to buy one of these for ages. I just can’t believe we got such a good price!” They paid ten thousand.

  I start wondering if Terry’s uniform is real or not. We got separated in the crowd, what with me looking at all the stuff. I weave through the jungle of aliens.

  “Hello, Commander! It’s good to see you.” I look over, and there is Terry being a commander, I guess. I walk over, giving his uniform the once-over. I doubt he paid ten thousand for it, but I have no way of deciphering whether it is the real thing or not. I stand next to Terry and face the man in a mustard and black uniform.

  “Is this your wife?” asks the man.

  “I wish,” says Terry. “Bill, this is my friend, Mary Beth. It’s her first conference.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mary Beth.”

  “Nan-noo, nan-noo,” I say, cheerfully holding out my hand.

  “What?” says Bill.

  “You know, that’s what Mork from Ork said.”

  “Oh, yeah. Good one! Well, see ya around, Commander.”

  “See ya, Bill.”

  “You wish?” I ask.

  “Nan-noo, nan-noo?”

  “Ya’ll take this Star Trek stuff way too seriously,” I say. “Anyway, how does one become a Commander? Do you pretend to drive a spaceship?”

  I suddenly have this creepy vision of Terry doing all kinds of role-playing in his Star Trek commander suit. Pretending to drive a ship. Giving commands to those around him. Putting the ship into warp drive and lowering the shields, while those around him pretend to act on his commands. Thinking about Terry doing these fake things makes me feel weird, like my head weighs ten more pounds.

  “No, it’s more like an honorary title. I’m the president of our local chapter. Voted in.”

  “What do ya’ll do at the meetings?”

  “Talk about Star Trek.”

  “Seems like that could get a little boring. Seeing it’s not real and all. The things that happened on the shows seem pretty limited,” I say. “Not to put you down or anything.”

  “Not true,” says Terry. “There are tons of scientific ideas and inspirational concepts Star Trek has introduce
d to the world. There’s a lot to talk about. It’s a fun way to socialize with a common interest, and we mix it up by getting involved in charitable causes. We visit children’s hospitals and sometimes get asked to birthday parties. The costumes keep it wacky.”

  It all sounds fairly normal and even wimpy, in a good way. The Star Trek club isn’t so different than Share Group. It’s not a bad thing to be with a group that makes you feel all right for being nerdy.

  “Have you seen Mavis anywhere?” I ask.

  “I just saw her by the D.J. table.”

  The D.J. is playing oldies music on the other side of the ballroom.

  “Why play oldies music at an outer space convention? I would think they’d play something more galactic, like Star Wars or something.” We make our way through the jumble of people and excitement.

  “We’ve got a Klingon who works at a local oldies station. He donates his time and music every year.”

  I check out the D.J. booth. Mavis is requesting a song.

  “Can ya’ll play, ‘Squeeze Box’?” she asks

  “‘Squeeze Box,’ by The Who. That’s a fun song. Not very outer space oriented but neither is CCR,” says the Klingon, who just finished playing “Proud Mary.” “Give me a minute, and I’ll get it going.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” says Mavis. “That’s my personal theme song.”

  Lord, when the song starts, Mavis starts dancing alone. She dances like she’s in some kind of cowboy bar, stomping her feet with her elbows bent and fists curled into balls near her chest, and she’s kind of galloping in a circle. She’s also smiling big, and her eyes crinkle all over. Her hair is all teased up big and newly highlighted, and she’s wearing a boatload of instant tanning cream. Mavis is very tan in a way only an old carrot can be. But she sure is charming, motioning to random Star Trek gentlemen to join her. She’s now attracted the attentions of a Borg. Mavis is there, in the middle of the Trekkie convention, wearing her bikini-bod t-shirt, dancing with a Borg, to the words Mama’s got a squeeze box, Daddy never sleeps at night. Mavis certainly is not out of place; in fact, she fits right in and is having the time of her life. She motions to Terry and me to join her. I don’t budge and shake my head, but Terry grabs my arm anyway and drags me out to the dance floor with Mavis and her Borg. He’s got more spunk than I thought. I stiffly give in to the music and notice that Terry is actually a pretty decent dancer—I mean, as far as dancing on a dance floor to The Who at a Trekkie convention is concerned. He doesn’t act robotic, the way some men do when music starts playing and they’re required to dance. He’s having a good effect on me, and I begin to loosen up. Or maybe it’s the music or the whole atmosphere. My migraine is completely gone.

  Mavis

  Dr. D brought a new t-shirt over to the house today, and you’d better believe I’m wearin it. It’s purple and says, Trailer Trekkie. But that ain’t nothin; Dr. D brought Mary Beth her own red stretchy Star Trek outfit. She won’t try it on, though.

  26

  Do Not Read

  July 21, 1990

  Dear Diary,

  Grandmother has her bridge club over and I have ZERO to do. I put on that record I got at the flea market, the Osmonds’ Crazy Horses, and it could have been funny if I had a friend to laugh at it with me, the way Margaret and I did with the Perry Como Christmas Special last year. But now I would never laugh at Perry Como since becoming his devoted fan. I am serious. I would completely die before I’d tell a soul. That’s what being bored does to people. Turns MTV watchers into diehard Perry Como groupies. Also being bored makes people who have nothing else to do write to a diary. So now I will finish writing my confession, otherwise known as The Huey Incident. Where was I? I have to go back and check. OK. I had the thing (rat head) in my backpack. I did not want to carry the thing in my backpack overnight. So I had to act fast. After school, I borrowed some tape from the librarian and took it to the girls’ bathroom. I used the handicap stall, so I’d have as much space as I needed and would not accidentally drop the thing in the toilet, and taped the notebook paper around it, like wrapping a present. The thing suddenly turned into a gift. Then I pulled from my purse the tube of tan frosted lipstick, rubbed it all over my mouth…and I did it: I kissed the notebook paper with the gift inside. Then I scrubbed my mouth really good with toilet paper and washed my lips with actual soap. Red lipstick would have been an improvement, but nobody wears red except hookers. Then while I was running towards Huey’s locker, I thought it might be a good idea to give the gift a name, like Otis or Curtis or Tony. I decided Tony was good. Not everybody locks their lockers because there is not a big problem with stealing at my school. Some kids put their locks on and make them look locked because they are too lazy to do the combination every time. I checked Huey’s. It was locked. My head was starting to hurt, and I started to imagine that Tony was gnawing a hole through my backpack or threatening to rot on the spot. And then OUT OF THE BLUE Huey and two of his dorky friends, his fellow Indiana Jones fanatics, walk up to his locker and Huey opens it. I wish I had a periscope like in the movies so I could sneakily read his combination from around the corner. Then one of the dorky friends steals Huey’s Indy hat off his head. The friends started running around, throwing the hat back and forth, keeping it out of Huey’s reach like boys do. So I very quickly walked past Huey’s locker and chucked Tony in there, praying to God he would see it, instead of overlooking it for several days. I walked away as fast as I could. I’m going to need to take another break in telling this story. I’ll come back to it in a few days or months….X

  27

  Doyle Reveals Another Mystery

  Mary Beth

  “It looks like ya’ll two done kissed and made up,” says Mavis to Terry and Doyle. “If I didn’t know no better, I’d say ya’ll was a hot item.”

  “I’m still holding out for you, Mavis,” says Terry. He is wearing a pale blue starched shirt with jeans. The starch was probably fresh at 7 a.m., but now at 7 p.m., it’s got a series of horizontal creases along the midsection.

  Doyle says, “I would say the good doctor and myself have come to an understanding as to why I hesitated at his grocery reading a few weeks ago. I felt that I might be handling privileged information, so to speak.”

  The Star Trek thing was Terry’s big secret.

  Everyone is sitting around holding paper plates sagging with casseroles, Hungry Jacks and salad. We’re all stuffing ourselves senseless before Share Group. Jimmy and Winslow are sitting side-by-side debating politics (Winslow is a liberal democrat, and Jimmy is libertarian), while Mavis and Vanessa chat about Vanessa’s cousin, who is an actress in one of those prescription drug ads. Vanessa says, “You know the commercial with the smiling black lady riding her bike through a field of pink flowers, while that voice in the background tells you about all the terrible side effects? That your liver could die and you could get hives, and gout and all your teeth fall out? That’s her.” Eleanor is whirring about, collecting dirty paper plates, continually tidying, and wiping up stray drips and crumbs. She’s my favorite boarder at times like this.

  Terry and Doyle go back for second helpings. They stand near a folding table loaded with casseroles. “I still don’t get it, Doyle,” says Terry. “What kind of groceries did you see on my receipt that would tell you I’m a Star Trek commander?”

  “I was alerted by the peculiar combination of pita bread, hot wasabi, and Fierce Grape Gatorade.”

  “You gotta tell me how you do that, Doyle. Nobody could guess that.”

  “The gift of grocery reading is inherent to the Stubb family.”

  “Inherited?” asks Terry.

  “Inherent,” says Doyle as he lifts a spoonful of broccoli casserole to his tiny lips. He pauses before saying, “Built into our genetic make-up.”

  I’d like to ask Doyle if he also comes from a long line of lazy eyes, but I’m trying to stay as quiet as possible. Listening
and stirring the casseroles, pretending I’ve got something better to do than eavesdrop, and hoping no one will interrupt before Doyle reveals Stubb Family Mysteries.

  “Wow,” says Terry. He and Doyle both reach for the last biscuit, but Terry pulls his hand back and gestures to Doyle to take it. A little bit of déjà vu plays in my head. Like I’ve seen this before, only backwards. There goes one of my things against people from New Jersey down the toilet.

  Doyle looks around while he takes a solemn bite of his Hungry Jack. His good eye looks thoughtful, while the lazy eye seems to scan the room vigilantly. He finishes chewing and speaks:

  “Wasabi is Japanese; the pita, Mediterranean; and the purple Gatorade somewhat galactic. Combine foreign plus foreign plus somewhat galactic and you’ve got Star Trek. If per chance the purple Gatorade had been a strawberry Yoo-hoo, I would have said Star Wars. Although I’ve made no mention of the barbeque pork rinds and vast amounts of chipped beef on your receipt, I’ve learned quite a bit about you, Dr. Dorrie.”

  For a few seconds Terry appears concerned about the implications of pork rinds and vast amounts of chipped beef, but he changes the subject.

  “What about animals?” asks Terry, motioning to Floyd. “I guess there’d be no way you could read a domestic animal, seeing it only eats what its owners feed it.”

  “Animals have a preference,” says Doyle. “The dog makes choices concerning the dropped fragments he eats.”

  Doyle drops a piece of broccoli on the floor in front of Floyd. The poodle sniffs it and looks up at Doyle like he’s waiting for some real meat. Next, Doyle drops a piece of lettuce. Floyd eats it.

  “I’ve seen it all,” says Terry picking up the broccoli with his napkin. “Whattaya make of that?”

  Doyle says, “This tells us two things.”

  I’m all ears now, stirring the broccoli casserole till it falls apart and begins to resemble greenish orange soup.

  “This dog has suffered exceedingly from indigestion sometime in his life, and wishes not to repeat the incident, explaining the overlooked broccoli. But…the choice of lettuce reveals something more diabolical.” He pauses. “This poodle has been stolen from its original owners.”