I’m proud to admit a minor obsession with the Star Wars character Boba Fett. I’m a fan, a follower, and a man who will drag his wife and children out for the midnight showing of his Star Wars anthology film being released in 2020. Of course, I’m worried that the movie might be pure garbage. At that point, so many Star Wars movies will have been released, the effort level might’ve waned to Wolverine: Origins, or even the sadly mediocre Avengers 2: Age of Ultron.
There are few things I’m obsessed with in my life besides my family and writing. Final Fantasy, poetry, Nintendo, Shakespeare, and football make up some of my interests, but I don’t actually spend my money on pieces of memorabilia to remind me of their existence. Currently, I own a Boba Fett wallet, blanket, watch, mug, and Moleskin notebook. Only the best thoughts get put down in that though, one cannot sully the Fett with unwashed knowledge.
Each piece of Bobo Fett merchandise reminds me not of Star Wars itself, or the character in the films, but the rawness and ability of my own imagination. Boba Fett reminds me that behind the reanimation of Star Wars, there is this trigger for my most powerful and human attribute. When I look at Boba Fett, I don’t look to the new movie in 2020, his role in the literature of the expanded universe, or even his father in the prequels. I look at how I want the character to be, what kind of worlds he would be in my imagination. He’s a character I can develop myself without further explanation.
To say that he only functions as a trigger for my imagination would also be unfair. Of course, I like the simplistic symmetry of the Mandalorian Battle Armor, like Boba Fett was the last Knight Templar crusading the fields of stardust. I love the decay on his armor in the original films, like he’s survived a thousand battles he would never talk about. Those metallic scars speak dark and violent verses. I love his minimalistic usage. Single gestures, one line of dialogue, and a fearsome presence are all that emanate from his character in this grand space opera.
My ideal playdate with Boba Fett would be a visit to a Chucky Cheese, Grand Slam, or Dave and Busters. Probably Dave and Busters since they serve booze, and Boba Fett probably drinks to drown the sorrows of lost trophies, loves, and battle wounds. We’d play every arcade game we could, but specifically the ones with mounted guns that you have to aim and rapidly fire. He’d be an expert on the classic shooters Area 51 and House of the Dead. We’d win mountains of tickets so I could finally buy that goddamn Gumball Machine on the top shelf at the prize bar. Before we finally cashed in all our tokens, we’d hit up some of those DDR machines (Dance, Dance, Revolution) to see if that Madalorian armor was as lightweight as it seemed. After the arcade we’d hit up a coffee shop for some acidic espresso, and a conversation about theology and the nature of humanity. Then, we might go to some abandoned farmland and destroy some withered wooden structures with disintegration grenades.
The list is endless. This is the beauty of Boba Fett for me. No matter what role he has in the expanded universe, or in this new movie, this lone and intimidating character in Star Wars captured the rawness of my imagination, like a beam of cosmic energy molded to the hilt of a haunted sword. I took his meager role and expanded it myself. It gave me confidence in my own imagination. It made me invent worlds, which led me to writing and narration as form of expression. He gave me life like a cursed ventriloquist dummy. Fuel for my interstellar engine bursting between black holes and asteroid fields. If I could ever actually meet this fictional character I would say one thing to him before cowering in fear from his blaster. It would be quick. It would be a simple:
“Thank you, Boba Fett.”