by Wil Wheaton
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.
“Well, as long as you’re here, you should meet Mr. Shatner!”
Mr. Shatner? Who was Mr. Shatner? There’s no Mr. Shatner here, just Captain Kirk and several Starfleet officers.
He turned toward Captain Kirk, and called out, “Hey! Bill! Come here a second!”
My heart began to beat rapidly, as he turned toward us. Captain Kirk looked right at me. I froze. He gave his book to someone, and began to walk in our direction. I involuntarily straightened my back, and sucked in my stomach. My muscle suit felt tight and awkward around my arms and chest.
Within seconds he was standing next to us. He was about my height, and looked heavier than he did on television.
Captain James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise said, “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Bill, this is Wil Wheaton. He’s part of the cast of The Next Generation, and he’d like to meet you.”
Captain Kirk looked at me for a long time.
“So, you’re the kid on that show?” He seemed annoyed.
My throat and mouth were dry, and my palms were sweating. My heart pounded in my ears, as I answered. “Uh, yes, sir. My name’s Wil.”
He continued to look at me. I carefully wiped my hand on the hip of my spacesuit, and extended it. “Nice to meet you,” I said.
He didn’t take my hand.
“What is that, your spacesuit?” He said, and made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a cough.
“Oh? This? Yeah. It’s not as cool as yours, but it’s what they tell me to wear.” I put my hand down. I really wanted to leave. I felt a little light headed. Why wouldn’t Captain Kirk shake my hand? And why didn’t he like my spacesuit? Could he see the fake muscles? Maybe he didn’t like the color. I became hyper-aware of the spandex, clinging to my body, and longed for the comfort of my fleece jacket.
“Well?” He asked.
Oh no. He’d asked me a question, and I’d missed it.
“Excuse me?” I replied.
“I said, what do you do over there?” he asked. There was a challenge in his voice.
“Oh, uh, well, I’m an acting ensign, and I sometimes pilot the ship.” Maybe he’d be impressed that I’d already logged several hours at the helm of the Enterprise D, all before the age of 16.
“Well, I’d never let a kid come onto my bridge.” He said, and walked away.
Captain James Tiberius Kirk, of the Starship Enterprise 1701, and Enterprise 1701-A, the only person in Starfleet to ever defeat the Kobiyashi Maru, the man behind the Corbomite Maneuver, the man who took the Enterprise to the Genesis planet to return Spock’s katra, the man who I had admired since I was eight years old, was immediately transformed into WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER.
I bit my lip, and turned to say good-bye to the still photographer who had made the introduction, but he had vanished as well.
I walked back to my own stage with my head down, avoiding eye contact the entire way. When I got to the entrance, I found Mandy, and asked her to unzip my costume, so I could put my fleece back on.
As she unzipped the back, she said, “did you get to meet William Shatner?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t want to let on that I was upset.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, as she handed me my fleece jacket. There was concern in her eyes.
“Well . . .” I hesitated. Saying it out loud would make it real. “He was a dick to me.”
Her eyes widened, and she gasped. “What?! Why? What happened?!”
I fought back tears, and recounted our introduction.
“What an asshole!” She said, “Oh, Wil, I am so sorry!”
I nodded my head, and she gave me a hug. I drew a deep breath, shrugged my shoulders, and walked back to my trailer, where I sat down and cried. I had spent weeks getting up the courage to meet this man, and in less than five minutes he had insulted and humiliated me. He had reduced me from peer to peon. I had worn my stupid costume, thinking that it would matter to him, and he’d made fun of it.
15 minutes later, an assistant director knocked on my door, and told me that they were ready for me on the set. I stood up, wiped my face off, and told him that I’d need to make a quick stop at the makeup trailer on my way. He radioed this information to the 1st AD, and told me to hurry.
I walked to the makeup trailer, taking great pains to look at the ground, the walls, the sky . . . anything that would keep my head turned away from the Star Trek V stage.
I sat in the chair, and my makeup artist, Jana, began to touch me up.
“I heard about what Shatner did to you.” she said. “Fuck him. He’s a jerk, and has been for years. He’s probably just jealous that you’re younger, better looking, and more famous than he is.”
I sighed. I didn’t want him to be a jerk, and I didn’t think that he was jealous of anything. I was certain that I’d done something wrong.
“I guess so.” I said, as noncommittally as I could.
She put down her makeup sponge, and turned the chair away from the mirror, so I was facing her. She looked me in the eye, and said, “Don’t let him upset you, Wil. He’s not worth it.”
“Okay,” I lied. I knew I was going to be upset about this for a long time.
“Okay,” she said, and dusted my nose with translucent powder.
I walked into the stage, and took my seat on the bridge of the Enterprise D, next to Brent Spiner.
“I heard about Shatner,”
Brent said.
Jesus, was this on the news or something?
“Yeah,” I said.
“You know he wears a toupee, right?”
I giggled. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yep. He’s balder than old baldy up there.” He tossed a gold thumb over his shoulder at Patrick.
I giggled some more, as the stored up adrenaline coursed through my veins. “Boy, that’s pretty bald.”
“Yep.” Brent put his hands up on his console.
The first AD said, “This will be picture,” and we all focused.
“Picture is up! Very quiet please!” He shouted, “Roll camera!”
“25 apple, take 1,” the sound mixer said, “Sound has speed!”
The camera assistant clapped the slate.
“Action!” said the director.
Patrick entered from his Ready Room, and walked to the captain’s chair.
“Mister Crusher, take us out of orbit, and lay in a course for the Ramatis system, warp 6” He said.
“Aye sir,” my fingers danced over the CONN. “Course laid in, sir.”
“Make it so, Mister Crusher.”
The camera creaked back on the dolly track, as the Enterprise D went to warp speed.
“Cut! Great! New deal!” the director said.
“Wrong set! We are moving to the Observation lounge for scene 55!” said the 1st AD, “The actors can relax for about 10 minutes.”
On my way back to my trailer, the DGA trainee stopped me. “Gene Roddenberry would like you to call his office, Wil.”
“Okay.”
I changed direction, and walked to the stage phone. My heart began to beat hard in my chest. Had Gene heard too? WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER had known Gene for over 20 years . . . if Gene knew that I’d upset him, maybe Gene would be upset at me, too!
I passed the craft service table, setup behind the starfield that hung next to the Ten-Forward set. Michael Dorn and Jonathan Frakes were pouring cups of coffee.
“To hell with him, W,” Jonathan said. I love it when he calls me “W.”
“To hell with who?” Michael asked.
“Shatner shit all over Teen Idol,” Jonathan told him.
Beneath his latex Klingon forehead, Michael rolled his eyes. “You want me to kick his ass, Wil?”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks, though.” I said.
“I’ve got your back, man,” Michael said.
I dialed Gene’s office, and told his secretary that I was returning Gene’s call.
“He’s expecting your call. Just a second, Wil.” There were two clicks, and Gene’s soft, gentle, friendly voice was in my ear.
“Hi Wil, how are you?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“Fine, fine. I understand that you had some words with Bill Shatner today.”
Oh my god. Was he going to be mad at me?
“Uh . . . yeah . . .” I said.
“Wil, Bill Shatner is an ass, don’t you worry about him, okay? I am proud to have you on my show. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Did Gene just call WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER an ass? And then he said that he was proud of me?
“Gosh, Gene, thanks,” was the best I could do.
“Come by my office soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
“See you then.” He hung up.
I began to feel better. Although a childhood hero had kicked me in the nuts, a bunch of people who I cared about and respected had all made efforts to put it in perspective. I felt loved, and protected.
The next day, when I got to work, there was an envelope on my dressing room table. It was addressed “To Master Wil Wheaton” and was “From the Office of William Shatner.”
I dropped my backpack, and tore it open.
Inside, there was a single three by eight note card. The Paramount Pictures logo was stamped into the top in blue, and “William Shatner” was stamped into the bottom in gold.
There was a message typed on the card, which said,
Dear Wil, You are a fine young actor, and I would be honored to have you on my bridge any day. Sincerely yours, Bill
He’d signed it in ink. Blue ink. My mouth hung open, and my hands trembled a bit. I held it up to the light, to make sure it was real. The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Wil? It’s Gene,” I recognized his voice immediately.
“Good morning Gene,” I said.
“I spoke with Bill Shatner yesterday, and he should be dropping a note off for you today.”
“It’s already here,” I said. I read it to him.
“Good. You are a fine young actor,” he said. “See you later.”
I couldn’t believe it. Gene Roddenberry, creator of Star Trek and The Great Bird of the Galaxy, had called WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER, Captain James T. Kirk and director of Star Trek V, and asked him to apologize to me, Wil Wheaton, 16 year-old acting ensign and drooling fan boy. Of all the wonderful gifts Gene gave me across the years, that is one of the most fondly remembered, because I know that without Gene’s intervention that note never would have been written.
In the years that followed, when we’d be at the same event, WFS ignored me at best, or was nasty to me at worst. I never understood why, and just came to accept what pretty much everyone else agreed on: sadly, for whatever reason, he was a jerk who was occasionally nice to people if it served him.[1]
WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER and Kate Mulgrew stand between me and my table, talking with some convention staffers. At the very least, I’m going to have to say, “excuse me.” I feel very uncomfortable, like I have to face the girl I really regret sleeping with.
As I near them, the staffers look up, and smile at me. I smile back, and say, “Hey! How are you guys doing?!”
Everyone returns my greeting, even Kate, who I don’t know at all. Never even been introduced.
WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER, however, is true to form, and says nothing. He won’t even look up at me. It’s about what I expected, so I shrug it off, walk around them, and get set up at my table.
As I pass, I hear Kate ask a staffer, “Could we get some coffee?”
The staffer replies, “Sure. There’s a coffee cart in the lobby,” and starts to head for said coffee cart.
WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER stops him before he can get two steps away. “Uh, no. What we need is not just coffee. We need a Starbuck’s run.”
Wow. You’re a thoughtful guy, Captain. Like this convention staffer isn’t over-worked enough. Good thing there’s a Starbucks every hundred feet.
It’s another one of my favorite inner voices: Sarcastic asshole.
I sit at my table, uncap my sharpie, and put on my gameface.
My pen hand is strong. I’m ready to be witty, charming and friendly. Although the actual number of autographs I’ve signed over the years is probably close to half a million, I am ready to make these fans feel like the autograph I’m currently signing is the only one I’ve signed all day, maybe the only one I’ve signed in my whole life.
Over the years, I’ve learned something from this experience: it’s never about the signature. It’s about that brief moment, that brief encounter with a Star Trek cast member, that is so important to the fans. That 30 seconds or so of hopefully undivided attention is what they’re really paying for, and I always do my best to make sure they get their money’s worth. Contrary to popular belief, sitting at a table signing hundreds of autographs for several hours without a break is hard. It’s not just mindlessly scrawling my name; It’s stopping and listening to the always excited, sometimes shaking, always sweating, sometimes scary dude who wants to know exactly why I did “X” on episode “Y” and would I please sign his picture in silver, because Marina signed it in gold and now he wants the men in silver and the women in gold, and I hated your character and here are 25 reasons why and I expect an answer for each one of them and I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied.
The fans come down what amounts to an assembly line, stopping at a table,
enjoying their 30 seconds of attention and trading a ticket for an autograph. They move to the next table, and repeat.
I personally think that this “assembly line” method, while the only one that really works, has the potential to totally suck for the fans.
The first one hundred or so who come through the line will get to see a smiling, effusive, friendly actor, and will leave feeling happy and satisfied. Those unlucky ones who are at the end of the line risk seeing actors who are tired, with cramped hands and degraded signatures.
It is a challenge for me, but I always remind myself that the last fans through the line have paid as much as the first fans, and they’ve also waited much longer, so they are the ones that I need to give the most attention to when I am the most drained. I know that as I get toward the end of the line, my humor slows down, and my voice fades. I know that I’ve let down my fair share of people over the years, but I always do my best.
I see the first fan walking down the hallway, trading tickets and getting signatures from actors. I watch her as she goes table to table. She’s not wearing a spacesuit . . . that’s a good sign. She has a witty sci-fi T-shirt on. Also a good sign. About 20 feet away, I still can’t smell her. A VERY good sign.
She arrives at my table, and I cheerfully say, “Hi! How are you doing today?!”
“AWFUL! THIS IS THE WORST CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO! I HATE DAVE SCOTT! I HATE LAS VEGAS! I HATE THIS CONVENTION!”
Oh boy. This is not the way I’d hoped to start out.
I try to soothe her. “Uhh . . . I think . . . that . . . this convention . . . just started . . . and . . . uhh . . . I’m sure that if you talk to Dave Scott, everyt–”
“DAVE SCOTT IS AN ARROGANT ASSHOLE!”
“Uh . . . yeah . . . well, you see, the thing is, I’m sort of not exactly involved in the planning of this convention, you know? I’m just, like, a guest . . . maybe you could try talk–”
“THIS IS THE MOST FAN-UNFRIENDLY CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO!”
And she storms away, without an autograph, without another word.
I look at Marina, who’s one table down from me. Angry Fan has stormed past her, too. Marina shrugs, and I make the international sign for “crazy person” by twirling my finger near my temple.