In Montreal for Space Cases

Originally published December 8, 1995, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1151

Assorted bits of weirdness in my life:

Space Cases, the TV series I created with Bill Mumy for Nickelodeon, has been picked up for 13 episodes and gone into production. It’s scheduled to begin airing in March 1996, although that’s subject to change.

Since Space Cases is a co-production with a Canadian outfit called Cinar, we are filming the series in beautiful Montreal.

So I’ve been relocated there, the production putting me up in a rented condo in downtown Montreal. My timing in arriving couldn’t have been more bizarre:

It was the day that they were voting on whether Quebec should be its own country. When the voting went against it by something like half a percent, there was a huge demonstration not two blocks away.

I’m brushing up on my French, but I’m in good shape. To paraphrase Bill Cosby, when I was in high school, I took three years of French One.

On the day I was about to embark on the first of several multi-week Canadian stints, 4-year-old Ariel wrapped herself around my leg and wailed, “Don’t go, Daddy! Don’t go, Daddy! Daddy, don’t go!”

Guilt-stricken (of course), I said, “Is there anything I can bring you back from Canada that will make you happy?”

She looked up at me with cunning that left me sore afraid, and she said, “Baby Tumbles Surprise?”

Baby Tumbles Surprise is a doll she’s been coveting for a couple of months now. It has a weighted head so that it can do somersaults. And I mean weighted. I hear that, in bad neighborhoods, roaming gangs of tough toddlers use Baby Tumbles Surprise as blackjacks.

In any event, I looked down at Ariel and said, “Ooookay—I’ll get you Baby Tumbles Surprise.”

Upon hearing that, Ariel immediately released her hold of my leg, said cheerfully, “Bye-bye, Daddy,” and walked away.

Day after day, I’d call and speak to Ariel and she’d say, “Did you find Baby Tumbles Surprise yet?”

Finally, I was able to say, “Yes, Ariel, I did.”

“Yessss!”

Beginning, middle, end of conversation.

It’s nice to know she can hide her separation grief so well.

*  *  *

I was walking around a nearby mall in the company of Paul Boretski, who plays the heroic Commander Goddard on the series. We happened by a comics shop and went in. The guys there were chatting about Walt and Louise Simonson for some reason. I joined in the conversation, not identifying myself, but coming across as knowledgeable. And Paul, unable to resist, said to them, “Do you know who this is? This is Peter David.”

So they looked me up and down appraisingly. “Well,” one of them said slowly, “he could pass for Peter David—”

Paul and I looked at each other. I mouthed, He could pass?

The appraiser said challengingly, “If you are Peter David—what issue of Dreadstar was your first?”

You have to understand, I have trouble remembering my sister’s birthday or which issue of Incredible Hulk is on the stands. The only thing I’m worse with than names is dates, issue numbers, that kind of thing. “I don’t remember,” I said.

“How could you not remember?” he demanded derisively.

“It was a long time ago! It was with Angel Medina, maybe it was #38, I’m not sure.”

Too late. The guy gave me a contemptuous wave, dismissing me. Terrific. I flunked the Peter David quiz—and on the first question. If only I’d known, I’d have studied.

Of course, I could have simply pulled out my American Express card or something, but this was more challenging. The guy turned to me and said, “What’s Peter David’s internet address?”

“On which service?” I asked quickly. I haven’t looked at my early stuff on Dreadstar in ages, but, by gosh, I’m current on my computer address.

“CompuServe,” he said.

I rattled it off. I couldn’t believe that he knew it offhand, but it’s the speed and confidence with which I delivered it that put his doubts to rest.

He shook my hand, pleased to meet me. (Or maybe not. Maybe he just thought I was delusional and he simply decided to take pity on me. Can you imagine such a thing? Having a sickness or being a liar, and my identity is the one aspired to? With all the people throughout history you could believe yourself to be? Talk about pathetic.)

Paul is later indignant on my behalf. Me, I think it’s funny. Then again, what do I know? Certainly not my first issue of Dreadstar.

*   *   *

Shana and Gwen came up to visit for a couple of days. Gwen is also known as Jenny. Her given name is Guinevere, and for years her nickname’s been Jenny (King Arthur’s nickname for Guinevere in Camelot). But lately she’s wanted to be known as Gwen. So it’s Gwen.

They hung out at the set and also spent time with various cast members (particularly Jewel Staite and Paige Heuser, who play Catalina of Saturn and Rosie or Mercury, respectively). The girls flew up on their own (well, the pilot helped) and I was going to bring them back and then spend a couple of days at home.

Now, understand: I have been flying regularly for some years. I’ve been all over the country, out of the country, been a passenger in planes big and small.

And in all that time, the Air Canada flight I took back home with my girls was the single worst flight I have ever been on. Ever.

It was nothing that the fine folks on Air Canada did. It was the weather, pure and simple.

The first 45 minutes were fine, but then we hit turbulence. Or, rather, it hit us.

And hit us. And hit us. And hit us.

For a solid 15 minutes we were tossed around. Up, down, up, and down again and then further down and then back up. It was like riding in a washing machine in spin cycle, with rocks in it.

And then the pilot came on and informed us that winds on the LaGuardia runway were so fierce that we weren’t being allowed to land.

We were kept in a holding pattern, thrown and battered for another 15 minutes. A solid half hour of turbulence.

Gwen, seated next to me, was clutching my arm so tightly that I lost circulation to my hand. Shana, in the seat in front of us, was, unbeknownst to me, desperately searching her seat fronts for an airsick bag. Nothing. Shana gritted her teeth and held it in.

Other passengers did not possess the iron will of my teenage daughter. As the plane hurled, so did the passengers. The worst was the Hasidic Jew in the seat right across the aisle. First he vomited profusely. Then he hauled out a Bible or prayer book or something bound in black leather and started reading out loud, glancing skyward consistently.

As we continued to be a plaything of the winds, I couldn’t help but think, “Now, the God he’s praying to—that would be the vengeful Old Testament God who considered an entire planet populated by living, breathing individuals to be nothing but a bad first draft. And he flooded the joint. That’s the God you’re hoping is going to bail you out?”

As it happened, God saved us, or perhaps it was the indomitable Baby Tumbles Surprise, stashed in my briefcase and determined to arrive in Ariel’s waiting arms. When the plane finally touched down, that was when Gwen burst into tears. Shana, for her part, burst into the bathroom and tossed.

In all my years, I have never been on a plane where the cabin crew came down the aisle at flight’s end and collected used barf bags in a large plastic bag—and the plastic bag was pretty darned full.

And, no, I didn’t happen to vomit myself. Nor did I break down, sob, curse a blue streak, or start sucking my thumb—all of which did occur to me. But those simply aren’t options when a petrified 10-year-old is looking to you for strength.

But don’t think I didn’t consider them.

*   *   *

When I prepared for my next departure, Ariel started rattling off dolls she wanted as she cradled Baby Tumbles in her arms.

“Look, let’s get this straight,” I admonished her. “I’m not going to keep bringing you dolls. However, you know what they have in Canada that’s really good?”

“What?” she asked, curiosity piqued.

“Potato chips,” I told her. “Really good potato chips. Would you like me to bring you back your own bag?”

She considered this a moment, and then said, “Two bags? Baby Tumbles wants one.”

Well, fine. I probably owed her for keeping the plane in the air.

Bribery. The American way.

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He recommends Miss Vickie’s Original Recipe potato chips.