I like to think that I am not one who chases after fame.  I was always taught that God created everyone so we are all equal.  Let me hug the ones that I love and that is enough.  I do not need to meet this person or that person just because they have more exposure.  Even while I kept living my quiet life, fancy people found ways to make cameo appearances.

I rang up Jenna Elfman when she came in for a coffee.  The same can be sold for local tv anchors, a governor, and Tom Skerritt.  When Elizabeth Mitchell came to see a movie with her family, I tried to tell her quickly how much I loved LOST and Frequency.  I wanted to share that I was a fan but I also did not want to interrupt her time with her kids.  I was in the same theatre department at UW as Joel McHale and I was in the same high school theatre group as Blake Lewis.  We all have our stories like this.

Yes, it is fun to say that my coworker was in the doughnut shop when Barack Obama came through and bought some apple fritters.  Two degrees of separation.  A cute anecdote.  And for a while, I was delighted that my friend’s aunt once dated Richard Dean Anderson.  MacGyver was a big deal to me.

That is my list.  All the names I could possibly drop.  Nobody signed anything for me, nobody agreed to take my calls, nobody called me up and asked for my advice on their policy with foreign nations.  I have never had any pull in any industry in any way.  Nada.

I am content to enjoy the media without meeting those that played key roles.  I can like The Dark Knight trilogy without meeting Christopher Nolan.  I have set up for comic conventions.  I was perfectly content to go back and run the store while my boss and coworkers rubbed elbows with the celebrities and creators.  We are all people trying to get by.  Some photograph better.  Some draw better.  They all draw crowds better than I.  Fine by me.

Those same conventions put great effort into connecting fans and celebrities.  I hav heard about the long lines.  I have seen the prices that fans are charged.  I have listened as fans lamented that they were rushed into, hurried into a photo area, a quick camera flash, and then they were chased out to make room for the next fan.  Yes, they received their photo.  They could prove that they once stood next to that guy who was in that show.  For some it was worth it.  Yet I got the impression that one should never expect to engage in any meaningful conversations.  (Con-versations?  En-Con-ters?  The Con-puns are endless.)   

I binged-watched before it was a thing.  I read dozens of comics a day.  I stayed put while others went in for the Long Con.  (I warned you:  Endless.)  I kept my head down and my nose clean.  Nobody got hurt.

But there was always MacGyver…

I was not a happy kid in junior high.  “Moody” would be describing it charitably.  I had some friends.  I went to church.  For the most part, I stuck to my little world.  I read Calvin & Hobbes, I laughed at Animaniacs, and somehow, I came across MacGyver reruns on the USA channel.  It clicked.  I had my escape.

My family is very engineer-heavy.  Lots of LEGOs, Lincoln Logs, computer programming; all of that.  A show where a guy had to make things up on the fly to get out of scrapes did well in our house.  I took it a little too far. 

It was not enough for me to record the episodes on VHS tapes.  (Which I did.  A lot.)  No, I hooked up my cassette player to the audio output.  I would listen to the episodes and let the pictures run through my mind at bedtime.  There were seven seasons of MacGyver and two movies.  I think I might have missed one episode.  Piles of cassette tapes, I assure you.

I watched the half-season of Legend.  It was a weird show, but it still had a sense of fun and it still touted engineering.  Years later, channel-flipping served me well.  I stumbled across a season four episode of Stargate: SG-1.  Two more episodes were enough to hook me.  I figured out why I had never had Star Wars or Star Trek loyalties like my friends had.  I had been waiting for Stargate all that time.  I bought all ten seasons and both movies and never regretted it.

Ten years ago my boss told me that Richard Dean Anderson was coming to our area.  I wanted to meet him.  The logistics were not in my favor.  The boss needed the shop open.  She offered to let the store lose a day of sales.  My loyalty to her and the store would not let me.  I stayed put.  In the back of my mind was the notion that I had almost met one of my heroes.

This year I heard of another opportunity.  The comic shop is no more.  (Stupid Covid.)  My current boss, who is also quite the MacGyver fan, showed me a convention schedule that our coworker had passed along to her.  Anderson was going to be less than an hour away.

I still work Saturdays.  This time, there were others to take up the slack.  I requested the day off months in advance.  I bought my ticket and I bought my photo op.  So did my boss.  On Saturday, we made the trek to say hi to our hero.

There was something I had missed that the convention reminded me of.  The comic shop was the only place where I could be myself.  Everywhere else, I feel like I have to make an effort with people.  At church I know I am a work in progress.  At work I do not know everything yet I still feel old.  The world can make me feel like I am not fit enough or successful enough or handsome enough.  At the comic shop, I felt none of that.  I could engage with anyone.  Customer and clerk, we were both there to geek out.  I wore the clothes that I wanted, read what I wanted, and recommended what I thought they would like.  I could just be me.

I felt that way again on Saturday.  I had returned to Nerdvana.  I recognized the effort it took for the vendors to set up their booths.  I heard people complain about things that could not be fixed and saw the staff try to deal with it.  I saw the long lines and watched volunteers try to manage them.  I listened to a lady talk about her departed husband and how she had taken her kids on a cross-country trip, trying to get them to interact with the world again.  I saw skimpy outfits and full suits of plastic armor.  I stood in line for hours and reminded myself that years later, I would not care that much about standing around.  Instead, I would delight in shaking hands with my hero.

 We arrived at 12:30 for our 1:45 photo op.  (Always be early to cons.  Always.  Then accept that you are going to wait.  And that everything is going to run late.  Always.)  We toured the booths and then we lined up early.  My boss was first in line.  I could have been first, but MacGyver would have let the lady go first.  So I settled in as number two.  We waited for things to get organized.  We waited for all the Sons of Anarchy photos to be taken.  We waited as I appreciated my thick wool socks, my new shoes, and lamented the concrete floor. 

There was no question that we were in the correct line.  A MacGyver sweatshirt.  A “What would macgyver do?” t-shirt six people away from a “What would MacGyver do?” t-shirt.  Various forms of Stargate uniforms and shirts.  A crowd that skewed older than most groups around.  I enjoyed being among my people.  Not having to try to be the right kind of fan or person.  Embracing the nerdiness.  All the while, knowing that I had another embrace planned.

My boss was ushered through the black curtains and I followed.  There he was.  Older, less trim, but with that same friendly demeanor.  I was afraid that he might have aged into a grumpy fellow.  Yet I saw no sign of that.  Which made up my mind to request a favor.

They called me up, I walked up to Anderson, and I asked, “Is it okay if I give you a hug?”

“Sure!”

Then I hugged MacGyver. 

We exchanged pleasantries.  (Those I will not share.  I get to keep one or two memories just for me.)  He made me chuckle on the inside.  And we took our photo. 

I watched as a frazzled gal in Hogwarts attire tried to keep up with two tables filled with five printers.  She looked overwhelmed as she attempted to catch each photo, study it, and scour the constantly-shifting crowds around her.  Most folks recognized themselves on the photos and walked right up to her.  We knew that if the printers broke, she was going to run to the nearest corner and go fetal. 

You could get the picture e-mailed to yourself if you typed your address into their computer system.  There were six such stations.  One of which was working.  Because conventions.  The main space had five ATMs.  One of which was working.  Because conventions.  (You would think that I would have remembered to tell my boss that she needed cash.  That conventions were still a cash world.  She needed to learn some things on her own, darn it.)

The boss’s husband wanted a signature.  We stood in that line as we waited for Richard Dean Anderson to finish his photo session.  It had dawned on me that there was still something I wanted.  I did not need any merchandise.  I did not need a signature.  What I wanted was a moment.

My boss wanted a signature.  His signature.  Under the guise of supporting her, we went and waited in another line.  For.  Four.  Hours.

I would like to state for the record that I am against V.I.P. lines.  I do not think that money should entitle you to easier access.  If you pay for admission, that should be it.  Cons should be the great equalizer.  We should all be one under fandom.  Simple.  There should not be one line that normal nerds are detained in while a small subset gets to walk right up in their own special line.  (I also think first class in airlines is a racket.  Though, I take cons much more personally.)  Ah, life.

One actor had cancelled so the back half of Anderson’s line was placed over there while the first half snaked back and forth in front of his table.  If you have seen Galaxy Quest then you know that there are two ways for celebrities to act at cons.  They can sign the photo, hand it off, and try to get through the process without pleasantries.  Or they can engage, converse, and respect the fact that folks took the day off to visit them. 

(While we are at it, thanks to all the folks that travel just to be present at cons.  The nerds know you had to leave home to get to our convention.  We appreciate you making the trip and all the effort to be present for a hectic day.  Honestly, thank you.)

Richard Dean Anderson was behaving as I had hoped he would.  He was talking.  He was listening.  He paid attention as a short black man in a Star Trek uniform told him about his son watching the show and how he was now a teacher.  Anderson listened to him, understood how important the show was to the man’s son, and wrote a little personal joke on the photo.  He was interacting with folks in the manner that I have come to love.  Did it make the line whiz by?  Nope.  Was it the type of experience fans were waiting for?  Yup.

The concrete floors.  The being shepherded from place to place.  The pressure to be friendly and smiling.  I suspect that it is a lot.  (I particularly worry about the female guests.  I wonder how much pressure they feel to still look young, even if their fame came years ago.  Do they get complexes about fans not finding them as attractive as in their “glory days?”  I hope they do not have to care about any of that.  If nothing else, I see them in high heels and cannot believe they are standing on those things all day.  Oy.) 

After two hours in this line, my boss contemplated leaving.  She was asking just how badly she wanted his signature.  I reminded her that she only had to go through this once.  That she had already come this far.  That it was a one-time ordeal.

We waited.  We gave each other breaks.  We talked about the line with those around us.  None of us outright complaining; though our joints were giving us feedback.  All through it, no one appeared to regret the choices that got them there.

Our turn approached.  We saw the photo choices, which my boss agonized over.  A selection was made, payment was handed over, and we made our way to Anderson himself.  She got Anderson’s signature.  She got to have her conversation.  And then it was my turn to do what I had hoped to do.

I shook his hand and said, “Thanks for getting me through junior high.  Thanks for coming out here.  And thanks for sticking around for all of us.”

It was at least ten after seven.  The con officially closed at seven.  He still had at least a half an hour of people to meet.  And he still had a smile on his face.

Sitting that long could not have been comfortable for him.  You could see him adjust his stance.  That hint of raspiness had found its way into his voice.  It was not cruel, it was not angry, it was simply the effect that age was having on him.  Anyone could tell that the weekend was using up his energy.

Yet he persevered.  His eyes kept that twinkle.  He barely contained that part of him that wanted to play.  He thanked us for waiting in the long line, saying that he was not sure it was all worth it.  I assured him that it was.  That we were the ones getting the better part of the bargain.

MacGyver remains a favorite character of mine.  The credit for that goes in large part to Richard Dean Anderson.  He is funny.  He is kind.  He takes time to connect with those that have followed his career over the decades.  If I can add a little bit to his retirement fund, after all the entertainment his characters have given me?  Then I am happy to do it.  I got to thank him in person.  That is worth plenty.

And in case you were wondering, Richard Dean Anderson is a solid hugger.  I promise.  I do not need an autograph if I can go home knowing that delightful tidbit.