by George Takei
The following Friday night, an even longer caravan started off from Paramount Studios for Little Tokyo. Walter and his wife, Judy, a classmate of mine from UCLA, were a part of our sushi safari this time. He was curious about the experience that by now everyone on the set was raving about. But Walter was also a bit apprehensive. I told him, “Just imagine lox on rice.” That gave him some frame of reference but apparently not much comfort. Ultimately, though, his desire to know and be a part of the experience prevailed over his needling trepidation.
“Irashaimase! Irashaimase!” The greeting was as explosive as always. Now, Jimmy, the expert, was explaining to the startled new members of our sushi group, “That means ‘welcome’ in Japanese.” He seated himself at the far end of the bar from me so that he could order for some of the newcomers to our party. Jimmy was a keen student and now knew his sushi like a connoisseur. Majel and Nichelle were also becoming confident enough to start pointing at a glistening orange chunk and asking, “Salmon?” Walter and Judy stuck very close to me.
Of all the sushi, tuna is my favorite, and I think it is also the most palatable for first-timers. Like a cut of the best rare beef, it is mild and very digestible. For Walter’s first sushi, I decided tuna would be the best introduction. I thought he should experience the toothsome cool of the raw meat combined with the soft, fluffy neutrality of the rice.
“Maguro wo kono kata ni onegai shimasu,” I ordered, showing off. Walter eyed me skeptically.
“What did you say to him?”
“You’ll love what I ordered for you and Judy. But I want you to discover the flavor sensation for yourself. I’m not going to tell you what you’re eating. Just keep an open mind and receptive taste buds,” I suggested to him.
“I’m not eating it until you tell me what I’m eating.” He crossed his arms stubbornly and glared at the two delicate but alien-looking morsels that were set down in front of him. A pair of similar creations, thick, red cuts of meat artfully placed on bite-sized balls of rice, was put in front of me. I picked one of mine up with my chopsticks and savored the aroma. Then I dipped it lightly in the tiny dish of soy sauce and gently bit into it. I closed my eyes in exaggerated sensual bliss. Walter was studying me from the corner of his eye through every step of my delectation. Then I took a sip from my tiny cup of hot sake and let out a euphoric sigh.
Even Walter’s headstrong intransigence couldn’t resist that final sigh. He took his chopsticks and started to fumble around with his sushi. I suggested that, as a first-timer, it wouldn’t be improper for him to use his fingers. With wary apprehension glistening in his eyes, he picked up his sushi with his fingers and bit in. His mouth closed and remained unmoving. His eyes took on a distant searching look. His face remained frozen in that questioning close-up for a long time. Then he started to chew, gingerly, suspiciously, very cautiously. Suddenly, he stopped. His eyes began to widen in shock, his nostrils flared; abruptly, with panicked urgency, he wrapped his mouth with the napkin from his lap. In wild-eyed frenzy, he reached for his glass of water and started pouring it down his throat.
Immediately, I knew what had happened. I had forgotten to tell him about the fiery, hot green Japanese mustard, wasabi, tucked inconspicuously under the slice of tuna. He hacked and he coughed. His eyes watered, and his nose ran. He looked dazed and disoriented. Poor Walter trembled uncontrollably for the rest of the evening. And he never again joined us in what became our regular Friday night sushi caravans down the Hollywood Freeway to Little Tokyo. To this day, the burden of guilt for Walter’s sushi phobia weighs heavily on my conscience.
* * *
De Kelley never joined us on our after-hours outings. He always went straight home from the studio to his charming wife and best friend, Carolyn. They were homebodies who enjoyed life with their dog and hundred-year-old tortoise. Somehow, an unhurried, steady, conscientious tortoise seemed the perfect metaphorical pet for De. He was the senior veteran of all of us and the old hand at Paramount.
De had been a Paramount contract player in the heydays when studios kept a “stable” of them. Thus, he knew the lore and the history of the lot. I loved wandering around the studio with him during some of the long breaks between scenes, having him point out the old landmarks like the chorus dressing room buildings, and the star “dressing rooms,” which really were sumptuous town-house suites. All of them had now been converted into office space.
“This was a real lively place back in those days,” he would drawl nostalgically. “We really used to churn them out then.”
“Well, we’re doing that today with STAR TREK, aren’t we? One show every six days.” I reminded.
“Yeah, but it was different then,” he insisted. “We said words that we understood. None of this high-tech gobbledygook. It was different. As different as oranges and kiwifruits.” What an interesting comparison, I thought. Kiwifruits were the trendy new exotica of the avant-garde. My farmer cousins in Sacramento grew them and were campaigning to popularize them.
“For a guy wistfully strolling down memory lane, you sure seem hip to the newest in fruit,” I observed.
“What? Kiwifruits? Carolyn and I love them,” he revealed.
“Really?” I answered, making a mental note. “So we are kiwifruits, and your old movies are oranges, huh? Well, infinite diversity in infinite . . .” I didn’t have to finish the phrase. De chuckled merrily as he continued his narration.
When my cousin sent down a box of newly picked kiwifruits shortly after a harvest, I took a bag of them to the studio for De and his wife. I included a note that read, “Infinite thanx for the orange tour.”
The orange tours continued. And the kiwi thank-yous went to De whenever I got a box from Sacramento.
* * *
The soundstage next door to ours was the home of the hit international espionage series Mission: Impossible. Martin Landau, Barbara Bain, and Greg Morris—stars of the series—dropped in occasionally on our set, and we visited them. On a film-studio soundstage the mixing of futuristic Starfleet uniforms with other actors in contemporary suits and dresses didn’t seem incongruous or at all peculiar. We were just being good neighbors. These visits one day turned into an invitation for me to do a guest role in one of their episodes, titled “The Plague.” It was the role of a bacteriologist who joins the M:I team to foil a horrifying germ warfare plot by international terrorists.
For me this meant the comfort of the same familiar studio lot and the same parking place, but the bracing difference of a new character, a different rhythm, another time frame, and easy contemporary clothes. If I got a little homesick for the future, I just strolled next door. I had the best of tomorrow and today.
But “today,” for our STAR TREK company, had the nerve-straining tension of a mission: impossible. The ratings continued to be low, and the network compounded our difficulties by slicing down our already reduced budget. Even a visit to the set by my brother, Henry, and his wife, June, who had returned to Los Angeles from Milwaukee with baby Scotty, contributed to my distress during our time of adversity.
I had taken them to lunch at the commissary, and then we strolled back to the soundstage so I could show them the set of the U.S.S. Enterprise. We entered a soundstage that was empty because everyone was still off at lunch. I walked them through the corridor set, pointing out the many details. Henry had never been on a movie set before and seemed rather perplexed by the tangled clutter of cables snaking all over the floor, the forest of supports holding up the backsides of the flats, and the general absence of the sleek and gleaming futuristic world that he had expected to see. He rapped on the corridor walls with his knuckles. There was the dry, hollow sound of painted plywood.
“Hunh! Plywood. Is this all it is?” he sniffed.
I demonstrated the way the doors that whooshed open automatically on approach really operated. They were actually opened by stagehands hidden behind the walls, drawing back the door panels manually when a little red cue light lit up. Henry pushed the painted wooden door
s back and forth, and they rumbled noisily on their rollers.
“Hunh! Is this all it is?” He sneered in disappointment.
I led them to the bridge set of the Enterprise, thinking that this surely should impress my skeptical brother.
“Henry, we had consultants from that think tank, the Rand Corporation, advise us on the design of this set,” I told him, thinking that this kind of technical background for the set would score with his science-disciplined mind. He poked at the buttons on my console suspiciously. They just lay there soundless, unlit and inert.
“Hunh! Is that all they are? They look like plastic gum balls.”
“Henry,” I exclaimed, more than a bit peeved. “If you’re going to keep saying that, I won’t introduce you to any of my colleagues. I don’t want you to look them up and down when you meet them and then say, ‘Hunh! Is that all you are?’ I won’t let you do that!”
Just then, Nichelle entered the soundstage returning from her lunch. Seeing me with visitors, she approached us smiling. With great apprehension, I introduced Nichelle to my cynical brother and his wife.
“Oh, so you’re George’s brother.” Nichelle exuded genuine delight at meeting him. “I’ve met your mother already, and now I meet another handsome member of the family. What a wonderful pleasure this is.”
I looked at Henry and felt my tension ease. He was smiling sheepishly. Nichelle was working her own patented enchantment on him. Just then, through the corner of my eyes, I saw Bill enter the soundstage. Nichelle did also. With gracious nonchalance, she took Henry and June by their elbows and turned them away from Bill.
“May I show you my console and how I operate it?” She eased them away and focused their attention on her work station as Bill strode across the stage to his dressing room. Nichelle guided them all around the bridge and even explained the workings of the captain’s chair to Henry and June. Henry was glowing. De walked in, and I introduced them to him. His easy affability charmed them. Then they met Jimmy and Walter. Henry and June were beaming with no assistance from Scotty’s transporter. Leonard walked in and courteously greeted them. As I escorted Henry and June out of the soundstage, he said to me in a confidential tone, “The set was kind of fake. But you work with some pretty nice people.” I heartily agreed with him on that. And I didn’t hear any more “Hunhs” from Henry after that.
* * *
Bjo Tremble was working on her “Save STAR TREK” campaign like a woman possessed. She had made it happen once, and she was determined to get us renewed again after the third season. Her goal was to see us through to the finish of our announced “five-year mission.” For that, we needed a fourth season. Bjo wrote, she telephoned, she organized, and she schemed. Her campaign to generate support for STAR TREK’s renewal was heroic.
On the set, life for us was like walking on needles of cold anxiety. We had been plucked from the jaws of cancellation once, so there was always that hope, that almost taunting expectancy of something coming out of the dark soundstage air to save us—a deus-ex-renewal descending from the catwalks. But we were also aware of the clear reality evident all around us. The ratings numbers week after week continued to be bad. Gene was no longer with us. His periodic visits became fewer, then almost nil. Even Bob Justman, the coproducer who had been with us all three seasons, couldn’t take the strain anymore. He left the show as well.
One afternoon, I happened to be near the soundstage telephone when a call came through for Greg Peters, the assistant. I had an unexplainable premonition about that call. I watched Greg’s face listening, stoic and silent. Then he said softly, “I understand,” and he slowly put the receiver down. He looked at me, and I could feel the chill in his eyes. Very quietly he said, “Well, it’s final. We’re off.” Greg didn’t tell anybody else on the set. I understood why—there was work still to be done. He waited until the end of the day, and he made the announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for a good day’s work, but I have sad news. We are canceled.” It was not unexpected, but there was still a gasp.
“Turnabout Intruder” was the last episode filmed. After “That’s a wrap!” was called announcing the finish of the final scene of the very final STAR TREK episode, we partied.
We ate too much. We drank too much. And we kissed and hugged a lot. Over the last three years, we had shared the joys and the stresses, the highs and the lows of working together on an extraordinary project. From early morning makeup calls to late night shoots, we had shared a unique adventure. We may have been canceled prematurely, but we had everything to be proud of in what we had achieved.
Our years spent together had made us more than just professional colleagues. We had struggled together against great odds and innumerable adversaries. At times, we even struggled amongst ourselves. Yet, through thick and thin, our lives had become deeply and intimately intertwined. Through adversity and good fortune, we grew to admire the talent we each possessed. We came to enjoy each other as friends—to love each other, each with our own individuality, with our very own peculiarities.
As I stood there at our final party listening to the laughter and the tears through the tinkle of ice in glasses, watching my friends share the last hours we would be spending together, I noticed Bill, in the center of everything as usual, laughing, joking, and slapping backs. Of everyone there, Bill was the merriest, the most strenuously ebullient. And I couldn’t help feel a wisp of sadness for him. In his boisterous gaiety, I wondered if he really felt any genuine sense of loss.
The last three years had given me a wonderful gift of shared experiences and rich relationships. Colleagues had become synonymous with friends. But Bill in his single-minded drive for personal success had made himself oblivious to the human riches surrounding him. With his shining armor of charm and wit, he had only taken and not experienced. His unrelenting determination to protect what he had gotten had only isolated him and made him the poorer.
An actor not without inconsiderable talent, he probably would go on to the next series or the next film. He would probably continue to “succeed.” And yet, I couldn’t help hearing a faint sound of melancholy in his raucous merriment and loud hilarity.
LIFE AFTER CANCELLATION
18
Political Animal
I DROVE DOWN TO THE beach at Santa Monica. It was a cool spring weekday, and the beach was nearly deserted. Only the most devout sun worshippers lay on the sand in isolated prostration. It was a perfect morning for a run on the beach. I started running as fast as I could across the ocean-saturated sand as the waves receded. The cool give of the wet underfoot felt good. I ran hard and fast along the beach all the way up to the palisades and gradually slowed down to a jog. Finally, I stopped and turned around on the desolate beach. I had left behind me a long trail of footprints on the wet sand. A gentle wave came tumbling in over them, then slowly pulled back, leaving only a row of tiny swirling pools where my imprints had been only seconds ago. Another wave came churning in, then receded, and my prints were almost gone; only barely noticeable dents remained on the smooth, wet sand.
The last three years had seemed like dreamy halcyon times. They were my most memorable professional years. From them had come colleagues who became treasured friends. STAR TREK had been an uncommon contribution to television, and I was proud of my role in it. Now, in reminiscence, those years were all taking on a golden glow.
But as personally memorable as they were, those three years would probably be only transient little blips in the short memory span of television. The next season would come rolling in as inevitably and as relentlessly as the waves erasing my fast-fading footprints on the sands of Santa Monica.
But in 1969, there were other, unerasable footprints being imprinted in the annals of time. Neil Armstrong, U.S. astronaut, had left his print on the lunar surface, the first human footprints off our small planet. But on the other side of earth, in a tiny Asian nation, America was leaving the muddy prints of an ugly war all over a tortured landscape. That war in a far-off land was a
t the same time tearing up our own country, leaving bloody footprints all across our land from college campuses to the arenas of politics. Wrenching battles were being waged, doves against hawks, Americans against Americans, in Vietnam and right here at home.
STAR TREK had been a part of that struggle. One episode, “A Taste of Armageddon,” was a clear metaphor for the Vietnam War, although, as with so many of our scripts, references to controversial contemporary issues apparently sailed right over the heads of the myopic NBC “program practices” executives.
In “A Taste of Armageddon,” two neighboring civilizations had been at war with each other for centuries. Yet, both still had great cities untouched by the destruction of war. This war was a “clean” conflict, fought with computers, and “casualties” were surrogates sent off to be destroyed in disintegration chambers. The physical structures of the two warring civilizations remain untouched; only the people were ravaged. The story presented a science fiction parallel to the Vietnam conflict. Two great civilizations, the Communists and the West, were locked in a cold war; yet with great cities intact, they sent their surrogates to the “destruct machine” of a tiny country in far-off southeast Asia.
With the character of Sulu, however, STAR TREK was reversing a pattern in America’s images of Asians. Throughout our theatrical history, Asians had been visible on American stages and screens from the time immigrants first began arriving from Asia over a hundred and fifty years ago. In times of prosperity, the depiction of Asians had been benign—usually as quaintly charming or romantically exotic. In times of stress—of economic hard times and social tensions—Asians and other minorities became scapegoats. The images became darker, depraved, dangerous. Chinatowns were transformed from quarters of captivating exotica to ominous places of white slavery and opium dens. Quiet, servile Japanese became inscrutable and shifty. At times of war, with Japan, in Korea, or in China, Asians were transformed into deadly, omnipotent foes—the personifications of evil. The images of Asians were reduced to politically incited, media-manipulated stereotypes.