Me!
I am a science fiction fan. A science fiction fan does more than read the stuff. Becoming a fan sometimes means wanting to meet the people who do the writing. When a fan meets an idolized author, things may not go as one might expect, given the reputation of the author.
If a person is young and naïve, this reality versus reputation dichotomy may come as quite a shock. It may well be that "naïve" is not the best word to describe the kind of fan I was as a young man. Given the amount of shock I experienced during an early meeting with a Big Name Author, perhaps a stronger term than "naïve" is in order.
I came to science fiction soon after I started reading. The second novel I ever read was science fiction: The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. I did not realize that I was a science fiction fan, however, until I was fourteen years old. That year I read many kinds of books. I read Black Like Me, a book about the life of blacks in the south. I read Incident at Exeter, a book about UFOs. I read From the Land of Lost Content, a book about the Chinese invasion of Tibet in 1959. I read the novel Lost Horizon. I read murder mysteries and books on astronomy and other things as well. This reading was in addition to all that I had to read as a freshman in high school.
In my fourteenth year I also read a book that contained a story that changed my life. The book was Mars, We Love You. It was a book of science fiction short stories about Mars. One of the stories captured me. It grabbed me by the imagination and holds me to this day. The story was "Omnilingual" by H. Beam Piper. While reading that story I realized that no other form of literature could engage my imagination like science fiction could. I like to have my imagination engaged. It's like an addiction.
That year, too, I read The Halloween Tree by Ray Bradbury. It taught me that prose could be poetic, and to love poetic prose. Ray Bradbury was the first "name" I came to know and seek out as a science fiction author. I soon came to know and seek out many others, but Ray Bradbury was the first. By the time I was seventeen, I had read A Medicine for Melancholy, The Illustrated Man, The Martian Chronicles and Fahrenheit 451.
Shortly after my sixteenth birthday I attended my first Science Fiction Convention at the Hotel Leamington in Oakland. I lived in San Mateo on the San Francisco peninsula. Having just turned sixteen, I had just gotten my drivers license. Other than a trip to the corner grocery, driving through San Francisco and across the bay to the 1975 "Westercon 28" in Oakland was the first time that I had driven my mother's car alone. I did not have a room at the Leamington. I drove to the convention (also called "OakLAcon") each morning, and home again each evening before dark. I did not know, at the time, who David Gerrold, the Guest of Honor, was. I did not know, at the time, who Charlie and Dena Brown, the fan Guests of Honor, were. I did not know there were any after dinner activities, such as parties, at the convention. But I bought a lot of books and I had a good time.
I did not find out until several years later that Westercon 28 in Oakland was, oddly enough, run by the Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society. I was eventually to become quite active in the Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society, serving two full terms as president of the club and two thirds of a term on the board of directors. There must have been many people at that convention that I would come to know.
I remember an auction at that convention in Oakland in which a hardcover book by Harlan Ellison was offered. Even then, Harlan Ellison was an author I liked quite a bit. I made a few bids on the book. As the price rose I decided I should check my wallet to see how high I could bid. In the time it took me to do that, the price rose well out of my reach. I expressed my disappointment. The auctioneer appeared to find this amusing. As I look back on it now, the auctioneer must have been Bruce Pelz, Big-Name-Science-Fiction-Fan and the in-house auctioneer for the Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society. Over the next twenty years, I would attend hundreds of his auctions. But Westercon 28/OakLAcon was my first.
When I was seventeen, a little over a year after Westercon 28/OakLAcon, I read in the San Francisco Chronicle that there was to be a day-long future technology exposition in San Francisco. It was going to be like a one day science fiction convention. It was organized, however, by non-fans. It seemed to be run by the kind of people who would say that they don't really read sci-fi but that they like the ideas in it. Their token science fiction writer in attendance was to be Ray Bradbury.
I could not resist. I greatly admired Ray Bradbury. I truly loved his writings. It would be a chance to meet or at least see in person this author who had given me so much pleasure over the preceding three years.
I took the bus into San Francisco. It was a Saturday. The exposition was held in a warehouse district in the shadow of an elevated freeway. The building itself was a spacious and modern brick office building. Inside, there was a skylight over a central open space surrounded by wide terraces on each floor. The exhibits and hucksters were arrayed on the first floor and up on the terraces. Except for a few small meeting rooms and the movie room, all the action was on the first floor and the terraces above.
In the late afternoon, Ray Bradbury was to sign his books on one of the wide upper terraces. I had not brought any of his books with me so I bought a copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes from a huckster.
When I got in the autograph line there were already several hundred people in front of me. The line of people stretched maybe a third of the way around the terrace. A hundred or so people got in line behind me.
It took well over an hour to get up to the table at which Mr. Bradbury was giving autographs. When I got to the table, Mr. Bradbury was engaged in a conversation with someone to his left. He was signing his name without taking his attention away from his conversation. I felt no need to interrupt his conversation. I felt I had nothing important to say and that it would be rude to bother him for nothing.
He signed my copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes without looking at me. I said "Thank you" and stepped aside. The next person could then get his book autographed. I did not leave, however, because I wanted to hear some of what Mr. Bradbury had to say.
The clown in line after me had no qualms about interrupting Mr. Bradbury's Conversation. The question he had for Mr. Bradbury was about me. He asked Mr. Bradbury why I had not gotten the program book signed. If the clown had addressed the question to me, I would have told him that I did not believe that Ray Bradbury had written the program book, but that I was reasonably sure he had written Something Wicked This Way Comes.
I have never gotten autographs for autographs' sake. I have authors sign their books. I do not own (and have never owned) one of those "autograph books" with the blank pages to be filled with collected autographs. I do not seek the autographs of movie stars because I have not discovered a good way for the star to sign his or her work.
But the clown did not put the question to me. Instead, he asked it of Mr. Bradbury about me. And he interrupted Mr. Bradbury's conversation to do it.
Mr. Bradbury turned from his conversation to his inquisitor. Then he looked at me, seeing me for the first time. He turned back to the clown and said, "He can't help it if he's stupid."
I took an involuntary step back as if I had been hit. I had been hit! I had been called stupid by a literary giant, by someone I greatly admired, by someone who had never heard me utter a word beyond the "thank you" I said when he signed my book. I had to get out of there fast. I had to get out of sight. At seventeen, I could not deal with this kind of thing. I don't know that I could deal with it even now.
I turned and walked away. I could feel the bemused stair of two hundred eyes burning into my back. I had to get out of sight.
I found a temporary hiding place behind a pillar by the railing overlooking the central open space. But I was trapped. If I left the shelter the pillar offered, the two hundred eyes would be on me again. I spent several minutes gathering my wits and planning the shortest route to the stairs. The stairwell was, in fact, just a few feet beyond the pillar I was hiding behind. But it was a long walk.
From that day to this, I have never read another Bradbury story. I know that the work and the man are different things. Nonetheless, I can not help thinking of the man whenever I encounter the work.
I never read Something Wicked This Way Comes. I never will, though I still have the book, including its autograph. For what it's worth, I did see the movie made from that book in the early 1980's. I did not think much of it. Perhaps I am prejudiced.
I remain a fan of imaginative literature. I find I can't paint all authors with the same broad brush.
Over the years I have become quite a fan of Harlan Ellison. I collect his books. I have met him many times. I have even been to his house on two occasions. He has never been anything other than polite to me.
Harlan Ellison has a reputation for eating young fans alive. I have seen signs of how this reputation was built. It seems to happen like this: An arrogant, rude and foolish young fan attempts to match wits with Mr. Ellison by insulting him in some crude and unsocial way. Mr. Ellison responds with his rapier wit, demolishing utterly the arrogant fan. The arrogant fan then tells all who will listen, and writes in fanzines, how mean and cruel Harlan Ellison is. His reputation notwithstanding, I have never seen him be cruel to someone who didn't first ask for it.
Ray Bradbury has a reputation as a nice guy. I have no information on that. I only met the guy the once. The casual cruelty I was subjected to, however, does not seem indicative of "niceness".
But who knows, maybe I'm just stupid.
Aug-97
GAT
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Me!