(Previous chapter: Stag Night)
One of the things I was looking forward to the most when I first started working at Lucasfilm, stupidly enough, was to get my employee card. I wanted to hold in my hand a piece of laminated cardboard with my name on it, along with my picture and the Lucasfilm logo. To me that would be “proof,” somehow, that I hadn’t just dreamed up my new life. (Let’s set aside for a moment the fact that I was driving into Skywalker Ranch on a daily basis—I told you it was stupid.)
I wanted to be asked for my employee card at the gate, and then produce the little thing like a magic key that would throw open the doors to the kingdom for me. (This isn’t how any of this works: when you show up, either you’re on The List or you’re not. They know if you’re meant to be there.)
So
I waited anxiously for that morning when my boss or HR or anyone, frankly,
would tell me where to go to get my employee card minted, forged, hammered into
shape, handed down by divinities—whatever it was that LFL launched into motion
for that precious document to come into existence.
And
I waited.
And
waited some more
When
it became clear the wheels wouldn’t start turning unless I gave them a push
myself, I asked a colleague about his
employee card.
“What
employee card? They stopped making them almost a year ago.”
“Oh,”
I said, trying to camouflage my disappointment. And then, after a beat: “Where were
they done?”
“Over
at the Fire House.”
Located at 5858 Lucas Valley Road (no relation, if you can believe that), Skywalker Ranch sits in the middle of nowhere. The closest fire engine would arrive too late should a fire break out in one of the many buildings on the Ranch grounds—which, considering what’s housed in many of them (we’ll get around to that eventually) would be a catastrophe. So the decision was made early on to build a fire station as part of the Ranch itself, and to staff it with men and women who are not only trained firefighters, but also certified paramedics. In short, George decided he’d have a bunch of superheroes on the premises, and built them a house to live in—complete with sexy fire engines.
 |
| The one and only picture I took of those beasts. I love that shade of red. |
The
Fire House stands off to the side, assuming a low profile while keeping a
watchful eye on everything around it. It’s big, but at the same time so
discreet that it took me a while to notice it was even there—which is all the
more bizarre, since the Fire House is rather close to the front gate, and
enjoys a direct access to it. You see, Skywalker Ranch is not the only property
to exist in the middle of that particular nowhere, and George didn’t want to
keep his posse of superheroes to himself: he intended for them to be his neighbors’ superheroes as well.
Which is why it’s not uncommon to spot one of the Skywalker Ranch fire engines
somewhere down Lucas Valley Road, putting out a blaze or, less dramatically,
helping a driver and their vehicle out of a ditch. And if you’re ever struck by
a malaise strolling along Lake Ewok,
the fire brigade’s got your back—or any other part of your body that requires
medical attention.
The
morning after I was told employee cards weren’t a thing on the Ranch anymore, I
hopped onto one of the purple bicycles employees could borrow to ride around
the Ranch, and pedaled my way to the Fire House. I resisted the impulse to
knock on what looked like the door to a private residence; instead I turned the
handle and walked into something like a living room where half a dozen people straight
out of a gym commercial were handling equipment or having a snack. One handsome,
mustachioed gentleman looked up and gave me that trademarked California smile.
“Hi!
What can I do for you?”
“I—
I’m here for my employee card.”
The
man raised an eyebrow. “Your what?”
Someone
laughed in the background.
“My
employee card,” I repeated, as if that clarified anything at all.
I
wondered whether my plan was just about to explode in my face. If it did, I was
certainly in the right place to have the deflagration taken care of by experts.
“We
closed up shop last year, son. We’re not issuing them anymore.”
I
kept up the charade. “Oh—I had no idea. I was just told to come here and get
mine done. Today.”
The
same voice laughed once more from the back, and Mustache Man looked at me the
way I imagined a gunslinger would at high noon, his shooting hand hovering near
the butt of his revolver.
There was a tumbleweed-crossing-the-thoroughfare kind of a pause.
“Alright
then!”
The
man turned toward the hallway to his right, calling out to a space I couldn’t
see. “JOHN! Could you bring up the photo equipment from the basement?”
“Say
that again?”
“You
heard me!”
He
looked at me with a grin that lit up his face, and winked.
The
duel was off.
(To
this day I still don’t know if I they believed me or not. For a while I thought
they did… and then grew to feel like it would be even cooler if they didn’t, and decided to play along because
they were just awesome people. Don’t tell me: I’ll hold on to the mystery,
thank you very much.)
I
heard heavy, steady footsteps traveling a staircase in both directions, and
then the man called John walked into the living room holding a large cardboard
box and a black tripod. He dropped his cargo and gave me a quick once over
before stepping back into the netherworld he had been happy to inhabit until I
showed up.
A
tough-looking lady was already setting up the equipment, and Mustache Man
pointed to a blank wall behind me.
“Stand
right over there.”
His
voice was strong, his tone commanding; my legs walked the rest of my body to
the indicated position on their own initiative. “Smile if you feel like it.”
Oh,
I felt like it.
The
shutter worked its magic (we’re talking 1998, remember), and then another
device—the laminating machine—whirred to life. A scant two minutes later, I had
my employee card with me. It technically did not exist, nobody would ever ask
to see it, and the little plastic rectangle would not gain me admittance
anywhere I wasn’t supposed to be. But it didn’t matter: I had my Lucasfilm
employee card. What was more, nobody else would ever have one.
(Not
on the Ranch, at any rate. I’m sure that when the bulk of Lucasfilm relocated
to the Presidio in 2005, some sort of ID worked its way back into the daily routine
of the ex-Ranchers. But I can’t imagine any plausible scenario where my employee
card wasn’t the last one ever made within Skywalker Ranch.)
I thanked whoever happened to be in the living room when my evil plan had reached its dénouement and made my exit before a curious witness (the laughing man, perhaps) started asking questions—any one of which would have poked lethal holes into my flimsy story.
Outside,
the air was crisp and electric, but the bike I’d ridden on the way in was gone.
Win
some, lose some.
Gripping
my newly minted card, I started walking back towards the Brooke House, smiling
like a kid who’s just met Santa Claus and got the best present of all.
 |
| This was taken six years later when I went back to the Ranch for a visit. Still looked like a nerd. |
(Next chapter: Hero Worship – coming soon!)
(Full series here)
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