Dancing Barefoot (6 page)

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 image 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:

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 applause 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.