If you were a boy growing up in the United States between 1977 and
1984, there was only one question that mattered: were you Luke Skywalker
or Han Solo?
I never had a choice. Since my best friend and next-door-neighbor
was named Hans, I became Luke Skywalker by default. Not that I minded:
I liked Luke's serious, earnest (some would say naive) way of doing things.
I liked the idea of being a "mystic warrior," in tune with some power beyond
what normal men understood or experienced. I bought Obi-Wan Kenobi's line
about a lightsaber being "not as clumsy or random as a blaster -- an
elegant weapon, of a more civilized age," even if it meant that I had to
carry around an old flashlight and make my own noises while Hans had a
battery-powered laser gun by his side.
Hans was the perfect Han Solo -- tough but smart, with a cocky smile,
a dark cowlick, and a quick wit. He rode his bike faster, threw a punch
harder, and found his way in and out of trouble quicker than anyone else
in our neighborhood, and his imagination -- like mine -- never grew tired.
Sometimes other neighborhood kids would take on the roles of Chewbacca or
Lando or even Wedge Antilles, and once or twice we even pressed one of the
local girls into service as Leia. But most of the time it was just Hans and
I, sitting in the elastic arms of a tree we called the Millennium Falcon,
flying and shooting and brawling our way through the universe in search of
adventure. We slaughtered legions of stormtroopers, rescued Leia from a
thousand imaginary perils, dueled Darth Vader, Boba Fett and Jabba the Hutt
time and time again; and though we got into our share of fights, when
push came to shove -- as it often did in our neighborhood -- there was no
one in the galaxy I'd rather have had at my side.
I still remember how excited I was to see "Return of the Jedi" for
the first time. Hans and I and everyone else who packed the Hanover Mall
cinema had what were, at the time, high expectations for the movie --
we wanted lots of explosions, epic space battles, swashbuckling duels,
cliffhangers and shocking revelations: the very things we'd been
incorporating into our afterschool repertoire for the last six years. The
film provided us with everything we'd wanted, but it gave us something else,
something we hadn't expected: our characters grew up. Han Solo wised up,
gave his spaceship to his friend, joined the rebellion, and settled down
with his best girl. Luke Skywalker became a leader, confronted his inner
demons, and dedicated himself to passing on the wisdom he had learned.
Neither Hans or I realized it at the time, but the fate of our alter-egos
would eventually become a revelation more startling than the sight of
Carrie Fisher in a gold bikini -- it was a sign of things to come.
Later that year, my family moved away from the old neighborhood,
and Hans sold me his Star Wars action figures -- including an intact
Millennium Falcon -- for what was then the astronomical sum of eighteen
dollars. The tree in front of his house that had carried us through
black holes and made the Kessel run in under 19 parsecs fell victim to
landscaping, but Hans and I continued to have our share of adventures
through high school, college, and as roommates for a few years afterward.
Eventually, Hans met the girl of his dreams, graduated from business school,
and settled down in suburban New Jersey ("beautiful New Jersey," as he's
always telling his wife -- after all these years, he can still almost sell
you on an idea with just his smile). And me? I'm still finding my way
in the universe, trying to help where I can, to teach others what little
I've learned, to live without anger, fear, or aggression, and to listen
to the voices of those who have gone before me.
Once, after a couple of beers, Hans and I wandered the streets of
the old neighborhood, the circle where we'd learned to ride our Big Wheels,
rang doorbells on Halloween, and fought in preteen turf battles. We both
confessed that at one time or another each of us had wanted to play the
other's role -- we'd admired the way the other did things, dealt with things
-- had even wanted to be the other, at times, more than we'd wanted to be
Luke Skywalker or Han Solo. I still do, and I think he does, too. We keep
track of each other's promotions and achievements -- his moves, my
relationships -- and I'm looking forward to a time in the near future when
I have the opportunity to address a little Anakin or Obi-Wan or Amidala and
tell them stories about how their old man once thought he was Han Solo.
I wonder, as I prepare to watch the latest chapter of my childhood
drama unfold this Thursday, whether there are kids today who will come back
from "Attack of the Clones" as excited, as inspired, as I was when Hans and
I returned from seeing "The Empire Strikes Back." I wonder how many of
those kids will have someone like Hans to share their imaginations. I
haven't seen Hans for a few months, now, but I know we'll talk about the
movie the next time we see each other, and I know he'll have that same
cocky smile, and he'll still think I take things a little too seriously,
and he'll still beat me at pool, despite my Jedi senses, and I won't mind,
because it will be that good to see him again. The Force will be with him
-- and me -- always.
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