Dancing Barefoot (3 page)

Though it is Saturday night, this normally crowded street is nearly deserted, because it
is pouring rain. A cold, relentless rain that seeps into my shoes and clings to my body. The
cold cuts straight through me, numbing my hands and feet.

The few people who have chosen to brave the storm are huddled in doorways and under
awnings. Anne and I share a too-small umbrella in a futile attempt to stay dry.

It is November, and we are in Santa Barbara for our anniversary, walking back to our hotel
after the first romantic dinner we've enjoyed in months.

It has been a wonderful evening, ending a wonderful day. We haven't had much time to
simply be together, to just enjoy each other's company, for several weeks.

I cherish every rain-soaked moment.

The storm intensifies as we hurry back to our hotel, turning downspouts to waterfalls, and
the street into a small stream. Normally, the urge to stomp in puddles is irresistible to me,
but the numbness creeps up my legs, and I need little encouragement to leave the puddles
alone.

After a few blocks, the cold and rain is too much for me. I suggest that we stop, and hail
a cab.

Anne stops, and looks at me, her blue eyes gleaming. She says they're green, but they're
blue . . . I see them whenever my mind wanders, so I know.

She steps out of the feeble shelter our umbrella provides, and stands unprotected in the
rain.

“I want to walk in the rain!” She declares.

“But it's 40 degrees!” I remind her. A few passersby look at us as if we're having a
fight, and I chuckle to myself. They couldn't be more wrong.

“I don't care,” she says. Her hair falls down and clings to the sides of her face, her
jacket darkens as it absorbs the storm. “Someday, I'm going to want to walk in the cold rain,
and feel it on my face, and I'm not going to be able to. So I'm going to do it now.”

She reaches out and touches my cheek, and pulls my face to hers. She kisses my nose, and
walks away, her face and palms turned up to catch the rain.

She stomps through a puddle, and turns around.

“C'mon, you weenie! Walk with me!”

She is so beautiful, so joyous. The storm threatens to draw a curtain of rain around her,
obscuring her from my view. Though she is twenty feet from me, I can see her beaming and feel
her joy. She positively loves this.

I watch her stand happily in the rain. In this moment I know why I married her. I know why
she is the other half of my heartbeat.

But it's 40 degrees. There's no way I'm giving up this umbrella.

I lean against the rain, and close the distance between us. When I near her, she reaches
out and knocks the umbrella from my hand.

As it falls to the ground, she takes me in her arms. She pulls me to her, and kisses
me.

“I love you,” she says, rain dripping off her nose onto my face.

She does love me. It's one thing to say it, and one thing to hear it, but it's another
thing to feel it.

“I love you too,” I reply.

We stand there in the rain for a moment, looking at each other. We are soaking wet,
freezing cold, and desperately in love.

The phone emits a soft, electronic chirp, designed to sound friendly and helpful.

At 8 a.m., after five hours of sleep, and a night spent moving from one smoke-filled
casino to another, nothing sounds friendly and helpful, especially this phone.

I launch mind bullets at it, and visualize a spectacular explosion followed by silence. It
continues to ring, so I try the more conventional route and pick it up.

“Good morning, Wil. It's Jackie Scott,” she says.

My mind fumbles for recognition.
Jackie Scott? Jackie Scott. Who the hell is
Jackie Scott? I wonder if she's related to Jack Daniels, my good friend from last night.
Jackie Scott . . . Oh! I know, she's one of the organizers of the Star Trek convention that
has brought me to Las Vegas.

“We need you here at 10 for an autograph signing. Do you want to be picked up at 9:30, or
do you want to take a cab?”

Did she say 10? They don't need me until five. I'm sure of it. I am so sure of it, I
stayed out until just past three, drinking and gambling. She must be mistaken.

“Wil? Hello?”

When asked where he got his ideas, the great writer Ray Bradbury said, “I listen to the
voices in my head, and write what they tell me.” Because I'm a wanna-be writer, I listen to
the voices in my head whenever I can. The loudest of those voices is someone I call
Stay-in-bed, who speaks up whenever an alarm, (or in this case a phone) rings.

Stay-in-bed says, “
Dude, mumble again and go back to sleep. It'll be
okay.
” Stay-in-bed is calm, and reassuring. Sounds good to me.

I prepare to hang up the phone when another voice speaks up. It's someone I call
Do-you-really-want-to-do-this. His is the voice that saves me from stupid things, like
combining shrimp and chocolate cake at the all-you-can-eat buffet. When I wanted to climb a
stack of speakers at Lollapalooza in 1992, it was Do-you-really-want-to-do-this who
successfully shouted down You-know-what-would-be-cool.

Before I can take the phone away from my ear, Do-you-really-want-to-do-this says,
“
What?! Stay in bed?! You have a commitment to these people! Get up,
fucker!
” He sounds an awful lot like my mom, if she said things like
“fucker.”

Before I can move, though, Stay-in-bed presents his thoughtful and considered rebuttal.
“
Gettin' up is for pussies!
”

I sit back, and let them have at it.

“If you don't get up, everyone will hate you!”

“They hate you already! Stay in bed! Hey! Youurreee wiiffee'ssss innnn bedddd . .
.”

A new voice, one that I don't hear very often, interrupts them. “
If you even try
to touch her, you're going to get The Wrath, Wil. She's only been asleep for five hours too,
you know
.”

“Who the hell are you?!”
ask Do-you-really-want-to-do-this and
Stay-in-bed, in unison.

“It's Self-preservation, and he's right.” I say, and sit up.

I tell Jackie Scott that I'll take a cab, and see them about 9:45.

I get in the shower, and when I get out, Anne sits on the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing up?” I ask her.

“I couldn't sleep with your goddamn inner voices talking, so I ordered you some breakfast.
It should be here any second.”

She is too cool.

It is September of 2001, and Star Trek is 35 years old. I am in Las Vegas with thousands
of Trekkies from all over the world for an enormous Star Trek convention that is celebrating
this milestone.

I have attended Star Trek conventions – gatherings of Star Trek fans, where actors from
the various Star Trek shows give talks and sign autographs – since I was 14. I have always
done the same thing: a short talk, followed by a question and answer period, followed by an
autograph signing session. Because this convention is so unique, though, I am doing something
very memorable and different for the fans, something original and unexpected, that will show
them a side of me they have never seen.

I am a member of the prestigious ACME Comedy Theatre in Hollywood. From this exceptional
company, I selected some of the best writer/performers I know, and put together a special
sketch comedy show. After months of rehearsal, we have come to Las Vegas to perform “Mind Meld
Presents: Assimilate This!” My head is throbbing because, after our rehearsal last night, I
assured the cast that I didn't need to be at the convention until 5 p.m., and we spent our
evening accordingly.

Breakfast comes, and I spend the next 45 minutes trying to wake up and shake off the last
free cocktail that I probably should have refused at Barbary Coast. All I have left are
impressions:

Coffee.

Eat.

Coffee.

Kiss.

Grope.

Pause.

Look at clock.

Sigh.

Walk through casino.

Walk through more casino.

Pause at slot machine, lose ten dollars in less than one minute.

Curse.

Kick slot machine.

Hurt Foot.

Ouch.

Limp through lobby.

Cab.

Convention – 9:55 am.

I'm supposed to start at 10, but I can't find anyone from the convention staff, so I
wander all over the hotel, giving all of the appropriate Vulcan and Klingon salutes. I finally
find someone from the con who tells me where to go. Then she shows me where I'm supposed to
sit and sign autographs.

We walk together, past several hundred fans, toward a long service hallway, where several
tables have been set up. I've done this countless times before, but I politely listen to her,
as she tells me how I will be spending the next few hours.

“The fans will come into this hallway in groups of 25, and stop at each table for an
autograph. We've asked them to move quickly, because there are hundreds of people in this
line. If you need water or pens or anything, there will be several volunteers to help you
out.” She points to my table, which is about fifty feet down the hallway, near a fire
exit.

“
Well, at least you can make a quick escape if this turns into
Altamont,
” says Self-preservation. I'm glad he came along.

As I walk toward my table, I pass some of my longtime friends: Michael Dorn, Marina
Sirtis, Armin Shimerman. We share handshakes and hugs. It's always great to see them. I also
pass some people I know only through these events: Rene Auberjonois, some cast members from
DS9 and Voyager who I know by face, but not by name. I share smiles and waves with them. We're
part of the same fraternity.

As I get closer to my table, I see Kate Mulgrew talking with William Shatner. They share a
laugh.

My stomach tightens a bit, and I get a little nervous. William Shatner, the one and only
Captain James T. Kirk, has treated me like crap as long as I've known him.

I first met William Shatner on the set of
Star Trek V
back in 1988. I
was 16, and had been working on
TNG
for two years at the time. We were
enjoying some success with our show, and I was very proud of the work I was doing. When I
found out that the original series cast would be working next door to us for two months, I was
beside myself.

Gene Roddenberry was still heavily involved with the production of
TNG
back then, and he and I were good friends. When I'd pass by his
door, it was not uncommon for him to throw an executive out of his office and ask me in for a
visit. He knew that I was a fan of the original series, and he knew that I was more than a
little intimidated by these actors. He offered several times to make introductions, but I
always declined. If I was going to meet these legends of Science Fiction, I was going to do it
on my own.

For weeks, I tried to get up the nerve to introduce myself. When I would walk from the
stage to my dressing room or school room, I would do it slowly, looking at their stage door,
hoping to catch a glimpse of Mister Spock, or Doctor McCoy, or even the legendary Captain
Kirk. The few times they did appear, though, I could never find the courage to approach
them.

This went on for about six weeks.

Word got around our set that I was too chicken to introduce myself to the original series
actors. It became something of a joke, and the crew began to give me some good-natured ribbing
about my reluctance. Next Generation was immensely popular at the time, and I was still riding
high on the success of
Stand by Me
. They couldn't understand why I was so
intimidated by these actors – my face was splashed across the cover of every teen magazine in
print.

Why was I so intimidated? I was a 16 year-old geek, with a chance to meet The Big Three
from
Star Trek
. You do the math.

One afternoon, while I was sitting outside stage 9 talking with Mandy, my costumer, they
opened the huge stage door across the way, and I could see right into the set of
Star Trek V
. It was a large area, like a cargo bay, filled with extras
and equipment. It was quite different from our set, but it was unmistakably
The
Enterprise
. Standing in the middle of it all was William Shatner. He held a
script open like it was a holy text. The way he gestured with his hands, I could tell that he
was setting up a shot and discussing it with the camera crew.

I waited for the familiar rush of nerves, but it didn't come. Seeing him as a director and
not as Captain Kirk put me at ease. I knew that this was my moment. If I didn't walk over and
introduce myself right then, I would never do it.

I was wearing the grey “acting ensign” space suit, unzipped with the sleeves tied around
my waist. That costume was quite uncomfortable, so I'd take the top half off whenever I got
the chance. Because it was a jumpsuit, I would tie the sleeves around my waist, and wear a
lightweight fleece jacket, zipped up to cover the embarrassing muscle suit the producers had
me wear.

We all wore those muscle suits, but I think I was the most traumatized by it. I've always
been a very slight person without much muscle mass (even now, at age 30, I weigh 145 pounds at
5'10”) and having to wear all that thick padding did little to improve my fragile teenage self
esteem.

I turned to Mandy, and took off my fleece. I asked her to zip up my spacesuit, and fasten
the collar. If I was going to meet William Shatner, I was going to do it looking as “Starfleet
regulation” as I could.

She made sure my costume looked good enough for camera, and wished me good luck. I got a
high-five from one of the teamsters as I confidently walked across the street and into the
cargo bay of the
Enterprise 1701-A
.

It took about eight steps for my confidence to evaporate. Surrounded by extras in
Starfleet dress, standing next to a shuttlecraft, William Shatner, director, was immediately
transformed into Captain Kirk, intergalactic legend. I was transformed from Wil Wheaton,
fellow actor and film industry professional, into Wil Wheaton, drooling fanboy and Star Trek
geek.

I looked around. I guess I blended in well, because nobody had noticed me. I turned to
make my escape, and bumped into a still photographer who had worked on
TNG
the first season.

“Hey, Wil. What are you doing here?” he asked.

I swallowed, and looked at the stage door.

“Oh, uh, I just came over to, um, look around, and, uh, stuff.” I said. I shuffled my
feet, and began to move back toward the familiarity of my own spaceship.