Friday night I did something I haven't done in 15 years.
Photo Credit: Matt RicksWhen I was in high school, I worked at a place that did spaceship missions for 5th and 6th grade field trips. The students would be assigned to starship simulators that looked like the bridge of the Enterprise from Star Trek, be assigned positions like Captain, Pilot, Tactical, Engineer, etc. And they'd be given a mission, like "Go study that supernova" or "Go decide whether to give political asylum to that escaped slave" or "Go study this ancient civilization and decide whether their 'gods' are real or fake" or "Go rescue the people on that planet from a rogue black hole."
Lots of drama and excitement, lots of memorable moments — the kinds of moments that stick with people. I can't tell you how many times I've told someone that I used to work there and they'd say "Oh, I was the tactical officer on the Magellan. We were under attack by pirates but I protected us and saved the day!"
I stopped working there when I went to university, but I continued to be involved by writing the software that they continue to use for their simulations. I never thought I'd run the flights or play those acting parts ever again, and I was okay with that. It was a chapter of my life that had closed.
Until I found out that some friends that still work there were doing a fun flight for staff, running an old mission from my era that none of the new-timers knew. I asked if I could join as an actor and they said yes.
And so, I donned the dark cloak and ragged hood of Sneed, a weird little character I helped invent almost 20 years ago. Rubbish with a pulse, a genetically engineered servant that was mostly there for comic relief, but also to demonstrate the depravity of the mad scientist who created it.
We set up one of the rooms to serve as the mad scientist laboratory, complete with colored lights, unnerving music, and sci-fi sound effects. The room looked like a conference room with colored lights in it, but willful suspension of disbelief is a heck of a drug.
When the time came, I used my most deranged voice to greet the crew as they exited their ship and escorted them up to the lab, all the while doing antics. Hopping around, making strange sounds, nibbling their shoes, stealing their papers and eating them. At one point I found a lighter and just lit it and held it. The crew lost it.
Later, in the middle of their meeting with the scientist, I found a good moment to jump on the table and show off my bare feet. At another, I gave one crew member the gift of a small wet ball of paper.
I was met with a combination of disgust and sympathy. Some of the crew wanted to be as far from me as possible. Some of them thought I needed help.
When the flight was over, the Sneed was one of the most memorable parts of their experience. It's the kind of role that isn't strictly necessary — it doesn't add anything to the story, per se. But it flavors the world they enter. It makes the experience more memorable.
Playing this silly acting part did not fulfill some hidden need or desire. It was fun. It felt great. Setting up the set and doing the acting role came back naturally, like riding a bike.
It was exhilarating. The flight was in the evening, well past my normal dad-of-a-7-month-old bedtime. And yet, with no caffeine, I felt like I could keep going all night. The energy was palpable. (Important aside, I couldn't have done this without my endlessly supportive wife who agreed to take the night shift on short notice. She's awesome)
Do I need to do this again? Not really — and that's surprising to me too. It was incredibly refreshing and delightful, and if I never do it again, that's okay. It was a gift. Me writing about it is one way to show how I cherish the gift.
But it does make me more open to finding other outlets like it — activities that energize me, let me be around people, and best of all let me pretend to be a weird little guy.
Maybe that "tiny wizard who wanders into mall stores" guy had it right all along...
Though I should probably just stick to speaking at meetups.