Dancing Barefoot

by Wil Wheaton

  I hear a man clear his throat, and I look up to see a smiling middle-aged face. He has a dark beard, and is dressed as Commander Riker.

  He gives his autograph ticket to the staffer sitting next to me, and asks me to sign his model of the Enterprise D. He thanks me, and moves along.

  And so it is in the world of Star Trek conventions. One person will scream at me, and the next will want to give me a hug. A person will walk up dressed in an elaborate Borg costume, and the next person will be dressed in a T-shirt and Dickies, quietly laughing at “all the weirdos.”

  For the next three hours, I sign pictures of the young, geeky Wesley Crusher. I sign posters of the teen heartthrob that I’m told I once was. I sign posters that I’m not even on, in silver because everyone else did, accepting the apologies from the poster owners that I’m not on the poster. I always answer with the same joke: “That’s okay, you just can’t see me, because I’m on this planet here . . .” They laugh and feel good and so do I.

  A group of very attractive German girls comes over next, and two of them tell me, in broken English, how much they love me.

  I think, Oh yeah, tell me some more, baby. Tell daddy how you love him. Ich bin ein sexmachiner!

  What?

  I am so sorry. I have no idea where that came from. I apologize.

  There are also 20 Japanese kids who’ve all come over together from Tokyo. They are all smiles and laughter, excited, and having a great time. The girls ask me to write their names on their picture when I sign it, they giggle and bow and blush and thank me, over and over. For a second, I feel like a rock star.

  One of the Japanese kids is a boy, about my height.

  When he presents his Wesley Crusher action figure for my signature, he tells me, “My friend all say I am you twin!”

  He smiles proudly. “We look just the same!”

  Last time I checked, I wasn’t Japanese, but I’m not about to tell him that. I look at him for a moment and reply, “Dude. You are so right. It’s like I’m looking in a mirror!”

  He turns to his friends, says something in Japanese, and they all share an excited murmur. I pick up my pen, and write: “To Hiroyuki, my long lost twin brother: Don’t Panic! -Wil Wheaton.”

  He thanks me over and over. His smile is so huge, I fear that his face will turn inside out. As he walks away from my table, I feel happy – I’ve brought joy into this kid’s life, just by signing my name and being friendly. It’s one of the few perks (or responsibilities, if you will) that comes with celebrity that I truly enjoy.

  About 200 or so people into the day, I have one of those memorable “battlefield” experiences; the kind that we Star Trek actors share during a layover in Chicago, after a convention in Cleveland.

  I’ve just finished signing a poster for a 40-ish man who is wearing a spacesuit that is a little to tight across the waist. He’s painted his face blue, and donned a white wig topped with antennae, like the Andorians from the original Star Trek. The next person in line is a woman in her 30s, dressed conservatively.

  I say hello, and she smiles at me . . . until she sees my T-shirt. Then she becomes hysterical. She points at my shirt and screeches at me, “You are going to hay-ell! You are going to hay-ell!”

  “Why am I going to hell, ma’am?” I ask, trying to figure out if she is joking. I am wearing a black T-shirt with a picture of a hand making rock-and-roll devil horns that says, “Keep Music Evil.” I think it’s very funny, and it’s a nice counter-point to the squeaky-clean image of Wesley Crusher that is so indelibly burned into these people’s minds.

  “You’re wearing that shirt! And that shirt promotes SATAN!”

  Okay, she’s definitely not joking.

  “So I’m going to hell because I’m wearing a shirt? Is that right?” I ask her, patiently.

  “Yes! You! Are! Going! To! HAY-ELL!”

  “Well, as long as I’m not going where you are, ma’am.”

  And she leaves, but not without getting my signature, on her collectible plate, in gold ink, not silver, because John DeLancie signed his in silver, so now silver is the color reserved for “Q.” Nobody else can sign in silver. Not even a captain. Well, maybe Captain Picard, but not Captain Janeway.

  I am able to contain my giggles until she is out of earshot.

  “Is it always like this?” the staffer sitting at my table inquires.

  “Nope. Sometimes it’s really weird.”

  We laugh, and the signing goes on.

  And on.

  And on.

  The clock chimes 1p.m., and there are still about 150 people left in line. I begin to feel a little nervous, because I need to meet my sketch group at 1:30 p.m. for a rehearsal. I feel torn: I don’t want to piss off the remaining fans by rushing them, but I also don’t want my show to suck. So I make a tough choice: I decide to leave, and get those 150 people the next day. I am going to be there all weekend, and I figure that if I sign those people’s things the next day, they will get a refreshed, funny, cool me, rather than the top of my head. (Which I understand the gay community has wanted for years. Sorry guys. Mrs. Wheaton’s got dibs.)

  But this choice is not without risk. I am afraid that most of these people want to hate me. It’s probably an irrational fear, but I’ve spent the last 14 years dealing with people who have built me up to be this awful pseudoperson. They would love for me to validate that for them by being rude, or wearing a satanic T-shirt, or signing in gold when I was asked to sign in silver . . . they’d love it if I was WIL FUCKING WHEATON. I am nervous that leaving early would give them exactly what they are looking for.

  I stand up on my table, and make an announcement:

  “Guys! I was told I’d be done by 1 p.m.”

  The grumbling begins.

  “I’ve got to go! I’m supposed to be rehearsing with my sketch group in . . .” I check my watch. “. . . 25 minutes!”

  The grumbling gets louder. This jackass, in his satanic T-shirt, who is he to decide when he can leave?! He IS going to HAY-ELL!

  “But I’ll be here all weekend and I’ll sign whatever you want tomorrow. If I don’t go now, the show will suck.”

  I brace myself, certain that this is going to become an angry mob of Comic Book Guys.

  But they are kind, and understanding. The fans nearest to me, a young family wearing matching “Data” T-shirts, smile. The mother says, “That’s okay, Wil. We’ll get your autograph tomorrow.”

  “Really?” I ask, just to be sure.

  “Yeah, you go and prepare your show. We’re really looking forward to seeing it.”

  I can’t believe that she’s excited about my show. “You know that it’s not for kids, right?”

  She nods. “Yep! The kids will be staying with my parents. We live in Henderson.”

  I look down the line, and see over 100 smiling, supportive faces. I hop off the table, shake hands with her and her husband, and walk down the hallway, sharing high-fives and hellos with every single person in line. I marvel at how supportive and friendly everyone is. Things sure have changed in 14 years!

  It takes forever to get a cab, and it’s almost 2 p.m. by the time I get back to the hotel.

  Because I am so late, there isn’t time to rehearse anything. The rest of the group wants to gamble, and I want to take a nap, so we agree to meet up at the convention just before I’m supposed to go on stage, around 4:30.

  I ride the elevator up to our room, and take a 55 minute power-nap, the kind where you wake up with crusty eyes and a puddle of drool on your pillow.

  I feel rested, though, and I’m beginning to get excited for my talk and show later that night. I take a fast shower, pack my costumes and props, and head back to the convention.

  As I exit the taxi, I see this guy lurking near the hotel entrance who sets my Trekkiesense tingling immediately. This guy is clearly “out there,” which isn’t uncommon at a Star Trek convention . . . it’s just that this guy is . . . well, for those of you who know what this means, you’ll get the ima
ge perfectly: He was a Gamer.

  This guy corners me as I’m on my way into the hotel and starts his conversation by saying, “I’m not that big a Trekker, but . . .”

  Here’s the deal. “Trekker” is a term devised by “normal” fans who don’t like being associated with the “weird” fans, who they call “Trekkies.” So when a guy who looks like a Gamer tells me that he’s a “Trekker,” it sends off a few warning flags. Methinks the Trekkie doth protest too much, you see.

  He must have sensed my unease, because he clarified his position.

  “I mean, I really like the show, but I’ve never been to a convention. This is my first convention, man.

  “I own all the episodes on video and I can quote most of them, but I’ve never been to a convention. Conventions are for weirdos!

  “Sure, I have lots of the technical manuals and I’ve read them all, and I wrote Mike Okuda[2] about some inconsistencies between the movies and the series, but I’ve never been to a convention before.”

  “Really? This is your first convention?” I say, “are you having a nice time?”

  “Oh yeah! And I just want you to know that I always liked Next Generation the best. I mean, I watched all the episodes of DS9, but I only watched about half the episodes of ‘V’ger –’”

  Yes, he called Voyager “V’ger,” in reference to Star Trek: The Motion Picture. But he’s not a Trekkie. Because “Trekkies are weird.”

  He finishes up his disclaimers, and before I can politely excuse myself, challenges me to answer some very obscure Star Trek trivia questions. When I don’t know the answer, this man, who has loudly declared that he’s not a Trekkie, snorts. Snorts! And tells me what the answer is.

  But I take it like a man, because he’s bought his ticket, and I am here to entertain him. I am not going to say, “Dude. Welcome to freaksville, population: you!” or, “Dude. Get a life!” or just, “Dude . . .” and walk away, as much as I’d like to.

  I stand there smiling, trying to stay upwind of him, until Dana, a helpful convention staffer, catches my eye and rushes over to rescue me. She tells me that I’m needed on stage in 15 minutes, and she needs to spirit me away from this adoring fan. I am more than happy to oblige and Mister “I am not a Trekkie” gives me the Vulcan “Live Long and Prosper” salute as I walk away.

  Of course, I return the salute, and say, “Peace, and long life!”

  Dana says, “How do you deal with stuff like that?”

  I tell her the truth: “I don’t know. I just do. I don’t really have a choice. Some of these guys are a little out there, but I care about them. We owe an extreme debt of gratitude to these people.”

  “Really?” she says.

  “Yeah. Without them, Gene would never have been able to sell the idea of Next Generation to Paramount. It’s important to remember that, and treat them well. I guess that’s how I do it: I remember.”

  We arrive backstage.

  “Do you need anything?” she asks.

  “No, I’m good. I just need a few minutes to focus. Thanks.”

  “Have fun,” she says, and leaves me alone to prepare.

  I check my watch: 4:55 p.m. I’m supposed to go on at 5 p.m. and talk for about 50 minutes. I usually talk for 90 minutes, which gives me time to let the audience warm up to me, tell some involved stories, take lots of questions, and make some jokes. With just 50 minutes, I can’t waste any time: I have to go out there and nail ‘em with a good joke right away, so the audience is on my side.

  Well, I’ve got three things working against me before I even walk into the room:

  I’m the last speaker of the day. The fans are tired and a little burned out.

  I’m following Michael Dorn and Marina Sirtis. They do conventions together all the time, have a set routine that never fails, and the fans adore them.

  I was Wesley Crusher.

  Performing well at a convention is extremely important to me. I care about what the fans think. I don’t write them off or take them for granted. I know that they’ve spent a large portion of their disposable income on this show, and I want to make sure they get their money’s worth.

  I remember how I felt when WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER dismissed me on the set of Star Trek V. That feeling of humiliation and disenchantment is easy for me to recall, and I do everything I can to ensure that I don’t inflict it on another person.

  When I am on stage, the only real difference between me and the people I’m talking to is that I got paid to wear the spacesuit. I’m a huge science fiction geek. I’ve been attending conventions since I was in the fifth grade, and I know what it’s like when a guest is only there to take the fans’ money.

  I pace backstage, checking my watch every 40 seconds. Michael and Marina are really working this crowd, and the fans don’t want to let them get offstage. At 5:15, they finish.

  My mouth and throat get dry. My hands sweat and tremble. I’ve got the Mind Meld cast, my parents and my wife in the audience. The last thing I want is to have a whole room of Trekkies hate me in front of them.

  Michael and Marina come offstage, and smile at me. Marina gives me a warm hug, and kisses my cheek.

  “You look great, Teen Idol.” She turns to Michael. “Doesn’t he look great?”

  “If you say so,” Michael teases me.

  I love these two. I’m terrified about going on stage, but a smile that starts in my feet spreads across my face.

  “The fans loved you guys,” I say. “I have a lot to live up to.”

  “You’re going to be great, Wil.” It’s Dave Scott. “Are you ready?”

  I take a deep breath. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

  Michael and Marina wish me luck, and leave. I wonder if any of us have ever stayed around to watch each other on stage. I’ve watched Patrick a few times, hoping that he’ll break into some spontaneous Shakespeare, but nobody’s ever watched me, as far as I know.

  Dave pats my shoulder, and takes the stage.

  “Oh, ladies and gentlemen! Our next speaker is going to really surprise you!” The crowd begins to applaud.

  That was nice. Surprising people is cool.

  “He did a show for me in Waterbury, Connecticut, and he was the funniest, most entertaining, and charming guest I’ve ever had!” The applause is joined by some whistling.

  Woah, Dave! Let’s not build me up too much.

  “You are going to have the time of your life in the next 50 minutes!”

  I can hear some screams of “WESLEY!” join the cacophony.

  Oh Christ. “The time of your life?!” Stop now, please.

  “Please welcome to the stage, all the way from Los Angeles, the man, the myth, the legend, Wesley Crusher himself, WIL WHEATON!”

  The crowd explodes. They cheer. They stomp their feet. They whistle. The stage is littered with panties.

  Well, maybe not the panties part, but everything else is true. I swear. I take a deep breath, and walk through the curtain.

  I burst out onto the stage, and they jump to their feet. In this moment, I understand the appeal of living a rock and roll lifestyle.

  I walk around the stage, waving, throwing the goat, and enjoying the positive response.

  When the crowd settles down, I hit them with my funny.

  It’s hot in Vegas. Tenth Circle of Hell hot. Fortunately, TNN has shown up and, in a humanitarian and self-promotional effort, have handed out bottles of “Altair Water.” It’s plain old bottled water, but it’s in a nifty green bottle with some Star Trek graphics on it, and a friendly reminder to “Watch TNG on The New TNN!” They are handing them out by the hundreds, because those spacesuits really make you sweat, if I remember correctly.

  So I hold up the bottle of water and I say, “I’ve been drinking this ‘Altair Water’ all morning . . . and you know what I’m thinking? This isn’t actually from the planet Altair. It’s just regular water! So if you paid for it, I think you got ripped off.”

  Oh yeah, baby. It’s comedy gold.

  The applau
se and cheering of moments before is replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights, as the first surly heckler shouts, (with the appropriate mix of condescension and contempt), “It’s free, Wil!”

  Self-preservation speaks up. “Get off the stage, Wil. You had your chance and you blew it.”

  He’s right. I’ve been on stage for 15 seconds, and they already hate me.

  I try to shake it off, and move right into the Q&A. “Okay . . . uh, I only have 50 minutes here and I want to maximize our time together today, so here’s the deal: I have some stories that I like to tell, but I also like to take questions from the audience, so you can direct the discussion. Since we only have a short time today, I’ll answer the most frequently asked questions first: No, yes, umbrellas, I can’t remember and they were real.”

  Bingo, baby! “they were real!” How can they not love that?!

  Silence. I see a teenager in a “Sexy women of Star Trek” T-shirt roll his eyes, as four Klingons sigh heavily and walk out.

  Oh shit. They are walking out. I’m dead.

  I panic. “What’s wrong?” I ask Self-preservation. “Hey, I told you to get off the stage. You’re on your own, jackass,” he says.

  An experienced performer has a few jokes or stories that always get a good response. We call them “back pocket” material, and they are held in our minds for occasions like this. I decide to bring one of them out . . . but my mind draws a complete blank.

  I have nothing, so I say, “Uh. Does anyone have any questions?”

  I honestly expect someone to shout out, “How come you suck?” But nobody says anything.

  I look at the crowd for a second, and I say with a smile, “Well then, I guess we’re done here! Thanks a lot for coming, and have a great rest of the weekend!” I start to walk off stage, with every intention of continuing down the hall, and into the bar.

  After a couple of steps, though, they all laugh. Hard.

  What? That was funny? Well, I guess after the water crack, pretty much anything is funny. Okay, I’ll take what I can get at this point. I relax a bit and we get going. I begin to share my Star Trek memories, and the crowd gets involved.