Just a Geek (13 page)

I laughed. I haven't spent nearly enough time in green rooms to know, but I took his word for it.

I opened a ginger ale and picked up a handful of veggies. As I munched on a carrot, he said, "How have you been?"

It was the question that I always dreaded. I would always smile bravely, ignore the knot in my chest, and say something like, "Oh, you know . . . things are slow, but I have an audition next week."

I spoke before that familiar knot could tighten.

"Not too bad. I haven't worked in ages, but I'm doing a really good sketch comedy show at ACME in Hollywood." I lifted my ginger ale with a mostly steady hand and took a long drink.

"And I made myself a website where I write a lot of stuff. It's pretty fun."

"Have you been doing any cons?" he asked.

"A few," I said. "I did one in Vegas last month."

"Slanted Fedora?"

"Yeah," I said.

"How did it go?"

"I took my sketch group out there and we did a show. It was really fun."

"Oh! I heard about that. I hear you're really funny."

"Yeah, I try to entertain the kids," I said. The knot tightened so violently in my chest, it felt like a heart attack. I felt intensely uncomfortable and embarrassed. The feeling surprised me; here was the one thing that I'd been doing, and doing well—I was very proud of my sketch work, yet I didn't want to talk about it.

"I may be funny in some sketch comedy shows that hardly anyone ever sees,"
I thought,
"but I'm struggling to pay my bills, I can't get hired for anything in Hollywood, and all of you guys have gone on to be rich and famous. I may be funny, but I sure fucked up the biggest opportunity of my career when I quit
Star Trek."

I shoved several carrots in my mouth and changed the subject.

"Have you been watching
TNG
on TNN?"

"Yeah," he said, "it's amazing how those old shows hold up."

"Except 'Angel One,'" I said.

"And 'Code of Honor,'" he said.

"No vaccine!"
we said in unison, quoting one of the actors in that show and laughed. The knot loosened.

"It's so weird for me to watch them," I said, "because I was so young. It's like my high school yearbook has come to life."

"That's because you've actually grown up since then," he said. "The rest of us have just gotten fatter."

"Don't let Marina hear you say that," I said.

He thought for a moment, and added, "Okay, all of us except Marina."

He winked. I smiled. The knot untied itself.

"Seriously, though," he said, "we've just gotten older. You're the only one of us who's actually
changed
."

"I guess you're right," I said. "Did you know that I just turned 30?"

"You're 30?!"
If he'd been eating, he would have choked on his food. "Do you know how old that makes me?"

"Uh . . . 35?" I offered with a smile. I heard the elevator bell ring out in the hallway and a familiar voice echoed down the hall.

"Man, I can't believe you're 30," he said, shaking his head in disbelief, "and you're
married
."

"With children," I said.

"Goddamn! Children? Plural?" he said. "How many do you have?"

Before I could answer, Brent Spiner entered the room like an actor taking the stage.

"Hello, boys!" he said.

"Data!" Jonathan said with a smile. "Do you know how old Wheaton here is?"

Brent didn't miss a beat.

"Of course, I do. He's 37!" he said. "But he doesn't look it."

I stifled a laugh, but I couldn't deny the huge smile that spread across my face. I was overjoyed to be there with them.

"Brent!" I said. "How did you know?! I've worked so hard to keep it a secret!"

"Wil, you were 22 when we started," he deadpanned. "Do the math."

We all laughed.

Jonathan pointed at Brent's enormous goatee. "You know what I just realized, Brent?"

"What's that, Jonny?"

"For the first time in history, you look more like Robert Goulet than I do."

"Oh my god," I said. "You're right!"

Brent laughed. "It's for a character I'm playing called 'The Evil Devlin Bowman' in Dana Carvey's new movie,
Master of Disguise
."

"Are you
really
evil or just sort of evil?" I asked. I always admired Brent's ability to create and portray diverse characters. I was especially impressed with his comedic ability. I could just imagine him stroking that goatee and stealing the spotlight from everyone else on the set.

"I'm
really
evil. It's a lot of fun," he said. "But the hours are long. I'm really tired."

"As long as
Late Night With Les
?" I asked. I referred to a director we used to work with on
TNG
who would always turn in good shows, but took forever to shoot them. It was common for us to be at Paramount until midnight when he directed us. It felt good to recall our
Star Trek
days together, and I didn't realize it then, but I can see now that I was looking for commonality, familiarity. I wanted to reconnect with a happier time as much as I wanted to reconnect with the two of them.

"
Nothing
is as late as
Late Night With Les
," he said with mock gravity.

We laughed together, and it was like I never left. I felt a new knot beginning to form in my chest. This time, it wasn't regret, though, or embarrassment. It was sadness. I missed Jonathan. I missed Brent. I missed
this
.

"Did you get the latest draft of the script?" Jonathan said to Brent.

"Oh my god, they're talking about Nemesis!"
my inner fanboy said.

"Shut up!"
I said back.
"You're not a fanboy here. You're a peer. Be cool."

I took my own advice and stood there, silent, and listened to them talk about the movie. Production hadn't started yet, but I could tell that they were excited about putting on their uniforms and getting back into character.

While they talked, I felt like a grounded kid, sitting at the living room window, watching his friends play kickball in the street.

"They want to make some substantial changes to the wedding," Brent said.

"I like it the way it is," Jonathan said.

"Well, I'm talking with Stuart and Logan about it," Brent said. "We'll see what happens."

"Is this really the last one?" I asked, in spite of myself.

"Yeah," Brent said.

"I think so," Jonathan said.

That made me incredibly sad. In the hallway, the elevator bell rang again.

"That's really sad," I said. "It's like the end of an era."

"We've done it for so long," Brent said. "I think it's time for me to do something new. I'm getting too old to play Data."

"I'm the only one who's changed. They've just gotten older."
Jonathan's words echoed in my mind.

A deep, commanding voice bounced off the marble floor of the hallway and filled the room before its creator crossed the threshold.

"Are there
Star Trek
people in this room?" it boomed. "I just love those
Star Trek
people!"

We all turned to the door as Patrick Stewart walked in.

Patrick is one of the most disarming people I've ever met. If you only know him as Captain Picard or Professor Xavier, his mirthful exuberance is shocking. Patrick is one of the most professional and talented actors I've ever known, but he's also one of the most fun.

"Bob Goulet? I haven't seen you in
ages
, man! You look great!" he said to Brent and hugged him.

"Jonathan Frakes! I am a big fan," he smiled at Jonny and hugged him to.

He turned to me. "Who are you? You look familiar, but . . . I can't place you."

"Wil Wheaton, Mr. Stewart," I said.

He looked thoughtful for a moment and shook his head. "I'm sorry, but it doesn't ring a bell."

"I was Wesley on
Next Generation
," I said.

"Get out! You were never that young!" he said.

"Oh, but I was, sir," I replied, solemnly. "I believe we spent some time in a shuttlecraft together."

He nodded slowly, but remained unconvinced. "Go on . . ."

"That's all I've got, man," I laughed.

"Wil, darling, you look wonderful." he said with a huge smile. He held his arms wide and pulled me into a warm embrace. "I am so happy to see you!"

He held me at arm's length, and looked at me. Even though Patrick and I are the same height, I felt, like always, that he towered above me.

"You too," I said.

"I like that shirt, Wil. It's very cool."

He looked at Jonathan, then at Brent. We all wore black shirts. Brent and Jonathan wore black pants. Patrick wore a blue shirt and khaki pants.

"I guess I didn't get the memo about wardrobe," he said.

"It's okay," I said. "I don't think anyone will notice."

"Gentlemen, we're ready for you downstairs," one of the convention volunteers said from the doorway.

I felt a surge of adrenaline as we walked to the elevator.

I was silent, and mentally checked my notes as we descended 20-something floors.

The doors opened in the hotel lobby, which was packed with fans. Some convention staffers walked ahead of the four of us, as flashbulbs popped and fingers pointed. I was somewhere near the middle of the pack and felt incredibly out of place.

I heard pieces of conversation as we walked across the lobby: ". . . Picard! . . . Data! . . . Wil Wheaton? . . . on stage now! Hurry!"

This continued for the remainder of our walk across the lobby. It's always easier for me to be in front of people when they're obscured by footlights, and this walk provided no such barrier. I smiled and waved to a few people, but kept my eyes mostly down, until we turned a corner and headed down a hallway to the ballroom.

The four of us crowded the doorway, and looked into the room. Robert Beltran stood on a stage in front of about 300 hundred excited
Star Trek
fans. Our escort waved at him, and he nodded. We walked toward the stage, and he lifted his microphone to speak.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome, from
The Next Generation
, Patrick Stewart, Jonathan Frakes, Brent Spiner, and Wil Wheaton!"

We took the stage as our names were called, and the audience applauded ferociously.

My heart raced in my chest and pounded in my ears. I was scared, excited, and overwhelmed.

"I can't fucking believe that I'm on fucking stage with these fucking guys! Holy fucking crap!"
I thought.

"Watch the potty mouth, mister!"
my mom's voice said.

I spent the next hour in a complete daze, and I can recall very little about what happened. It's interesting (and a little anti-climactic, I know) that I can recall my backstage conversations so clearly, but the actual "performance" is a blur . . . that's the way it always is with me, though. When I do well in a show, I never can recall exactly what happened, because I'm too busy reacting to the audience or the other performers to watch myself. When I tank (like my talk did in Vegas, for example), I can recall every word, every step, and every painful silence with photographic precision.

What I
do
recall, however, is how much fun I had, how happy I was to be on stage with my friends again, and how wonderful it felt to be on the same "level" as them.

I can recall all of us teasing each other, and saying to the audience, "Hey, which one of us doesn't belong up here?" in reference to myself.

We spent about 30 minutes just talking and reminiscing, before someone (Patrick, I think) suggested that we take questions from the crowd.

"Well, time to sit down and fade into the background,"
I thought.

I was certain that, with The Big Three present, people wouldn't want to ask me about anything . . . but lots of them did. Most of the questions I fielded were about my website, which was still in its infancy. Though my stats showed a few thousand readers a week, I was still having a hard time accepting that anyone actually visited WWdN on a regular basis. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed that so many people were asking me questions, when Patrick, Brent, and Jonathan were right there . . . but it felt good.

All that improv warm up in the car paid off too. When we were done, I had made the audience, myself, and (most importantly) my peers, crack up several times.

Our time onstage flew by, and before I knew it, the hour was up. The audience cheered for us, and I allowed myself to bask in their approval before I walked off stage.

Jonathan had to leave early, because he was taking his daughter rollerblading?, so I walked back to the green room with Patrick and Brent. I felt far less self conscious than I had just an hour earlier, but it still floored me when Patrick turned to me at the elevator and said, "Wil, I had no idea you were so funny!" He looked to Brent and said, "Can you believe how funny he is?"

"You've got the funny, Milt," Brent said to me, using the nickname he'd called me when we were shooting
TNG
.

"Thanks, you guys. It was . . . well, it was really fun. I'm so happy that I got to be part of this with you."

Patrick put his hand on my shoulder, and leaned close to me. "Wil, I must tell you, it's simply wonderful to see you. I was so happy when I heard you were coming today, because I thought you'd just vanished over the years."

I didn't know what to say. He was right. I had vanished, and I would probably vanish again. The undeniable fact was, and is, that I feel ashamed when I have to face anyone from
TNG
. I still regret my teenage idiocy—the big film career I was hoping for when I left never materialized and probably never will. Whenever I face anyone from
Star Trek
, I can't help but replay all the mistakes I've made, and I nearly choke on regret.

"Well, I did vanish," I said, "but I can't even begin to tell you how wonderful it is to see you today."

I thought about exchanging phone numbers with them before they left, but I lost my nerve.