Dancing Barefoot

by Wil Wheaton

  The lights come up, and the show begins.

  It goes incredibly well. We are all funny, and we never miss a beat in any of our sketches.

  Jim is a natural. He never misses a cue. A few times, he even anticipates when an improvised bit needs to end and blacks it out like he’s been doing it for years.

  We are extremely lucky to have him doing our lights. If we take this show on the road, we’ll take him with us, we decide.

  All our sketches kill[4] except one, and that’s a great batting average for us.

  We only have one real problem, and the audience never knows about it: With about 20 minutes remaining in the show, Maz and I both have to pee worse than we’ve ever had to pee in our lives! Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. All theaters have a bathroom backstage, but we’re in a ballroom, behind pipe and drape, and there’s no way to run off to the real bathroom without distracting the entire audience.

  We have little choice but to do the pee-pee dance for the rest of the show, even when we’re on stage for sketches. I seriously consider using an empty bottle of Crystal Geyser, but think better of it.

  Months of planning, hair pulling, and agonizing have resulted in 90 incredible minutes, and the show is over. When we do shows at ACME, there is always a touch of sadness on closing night. That feeling currently mixes with the opening night excitement that we’re also feeling. I can’t believe it’s over.

  When the lights go down on the final sketch, the crowd roars, whistles, stomps their feet. They demand more, but we don’t have anything else to give them. We have left it all on the stage.

  I walk out to thank the audience for coming, and introduce the cast.

  As I step out from behind the curtain, the most amazing and unexpected thing happens – they leap to their feet. They scream. They applaud. They whistle. They howl. I stand there, dumbfounded, and struggle to keep myself together. The validation I feel from this crowd is overwhelming, and my eyes fill with tears.

  It’s hard for me to share with anyone how much shit I’ve gotten over the last 15 years because of Star Trek. The lousy treatment at the hands of WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER is nothing compared to some of the things Trekkies have done to me. They’ve insulted me. They’ve called me names. They’ve hated me without knowing why. It was risky for me to put up this show . . . if it had tanked, I would never have been able to show my face at a Star Trek convention again.

  I’ve been working so goddamn hard for so goddamn long to get people to just give me a chance – to let me challenge their expectations of me, and hopefully change their minds about me. Getting this huge, genuine, passionate, heart-felt standing ovation, from this group of people, is simply magical. I will cherish it for the rest of my life.

  My only regret is that I forgot to thank Jim, our sound and lighting technician.

  So, Jim, if you’re reading, here is what I would have said:

  “This show did not come together overnight and it didn’t come together easily. We all worked very hard to make it happen and the whole thing could have been easily ruined by a bad tech guy. Fortunately, we had the most amazing tech guy ever. Jim [here is where I’d point to the side of the stage and call you up] has never lit a sketch show before and he didn’t miss a beat tonight. If you enjoyed the show, Jim deserves your applause as much as any of us do. [The entire house and all of us on stage applaud. Jim gets hit in the face with several pairs of women’s underpants . . . and one set of boxers. I whistle innocently.]”

  The house begins to empty out and I run at Mach Four to the bathroom. When I come back into the theatre, I get the most important review of all: Anne walks over, puts her arms around me and says, “Oh puss! You were great. I’ve never laughed so hard in my whole life. This is one of the best shows you’ve ever done! I am so proud of you!”

  Truth be told, I am proud of me too. All our hard work has paid off.

  I gather the cast. I sit on the edge of the stage, and look into all their faces. During our months of preparation, we have become a family, and I feel like a proud father.

  “We killed, you guys. They loved us! Thank you all for doing this show. Now, it is time to party.”

  “Party! Woo!” Kevin screams, like a frat guy. We all laugh.

  While they pack up the show, I seek out my parents.

  My mom waits for me near the back of the theatre, next to my dad. I approach her, she stands, arms outstretched.

  “I am so proud of you! You killed!” She hugs me tightly.

  “You guys are so funny!” My dad says. He then goes on to tell me something that he loved from each sketch, laughing deeply and warmly with each recollection.

  I have never felt such pride from my parents. It comes off of them in waves, it radiates from their smiles and wraps around me in their hugs. I bask in the warmth.

  “Do you guys want to join us for some gambling and stuff?” I ask them, hoping that they’ll come along and share in our celebration.

  “No, we need to get to bed. It’s late, and we are driving home in the morning,” my dad says.

  “Are you sure? Please?”

  They look at each other. My mom says, “I don’t think so, sweetie. You guys have a good time. You’ve earned it.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you guys when we get home.”

  We head over to The Rio, where gambling, eating, and drinking ensues.

  Remember the first time you stayed up all night with your friends, and watched the sun rise? Remember how cool it was that you were awake that late? Remember how you never wanted the night to end? That’s how we all feel, and it is nearly 3 a.m. before we give in to our exhaustion.

  Some cast members need to fly home early in the morning, and others are just too tired to stay awake, so we sadly share a tearful farewell.

  We all go our Separate Ways, seeking out our own Frontiers, watching the Wheel in the Sky, knowing that we’ll never Stop Believin’.

  It is quite a Journey.

  Anne and I return to our hotel, and fall asleep before our heads even hit the pillows. Sadly, we are too tired for that post-show romp that rock stars always talk about.

  Come to think of it, I’ve never had a post-show romp in my life. I think I need to get into a different line of work.

  Morning arrives, surprisingly devoid of hangover. Anne and I are going to stay the rest of the weekend, so we can attend the party at Star Trek: The Experience on Sunday night, but we’re not staying at Bellagio any more. We’re moving to Monte Carlo.

  While Anne moves us, I go back to the convention, and spend the day sitting in the autograph room, so people who missed me the first two days can get their picture or autograph. After several hours, I decide to call it a day. Two of our best friends, Stephanie (who introduced us, and was the Best Man in our wedding) and Mykal (who has known Anne forever, and is one of the most loyal and reliable friends she’s ever had) are meeting us to spend the weekend, and I’m ready for a little break from Star Trek.

  I meet them at the Monte Carlo, and we spend the rest of the day at the hotel pool, paying too much for drinks with umbrellas, laughing at Speedo-clad Euros.

  As the afternoon turns to evening, we split up, and plan to meet for dinner at this restaurant in the Barbary Coast called Drais, which Anne has heard is a great place to eat; very hip.

  There are books everywhere, the floors are hardwood, and the walls are painted red and yellow. The only light in the entire place comes from hundreds of candles which are in sconces, on tables and floating in bowls on bookshelves. Drais looks pretty cool, in a Pottery Barn sort of way.

  The dichotomy between waiters and customers is striking. The former are all young, clearly college students. The latter are all mid-life-crisis ponytails who are checking out my wife. Normally this sort of thing doesn’t bother me, but I don’t have a whole lot of patience for the annoying drunk businessman who is getting his courage up for the trip to the Moonlight Bunny Ranch later that night.

  I look at this guy who is trying to vibe Anne
. While I ready an insult, he winks at me.

  Winks.

  Right at me.

  It is such a Smokey and the Bandit move, I can’t be bugged by him. I make a pistol with my thumb and forefinger and shoot him a wink of my own. Anne and I laugh as a cocktail waitress comes over. We order two Ketel One martinis, straight up. Mine with five olives, hers with a twist. We drink them slowly and talk about the kids, the convention and what we’re going to do when we get home. Life is good. We are young, in love, and having drinks in Vegas.

  Steph and Mykal arrive and we eat a wonderful (if grossly overpriced) meal, enjoying each other’s company. I truly love them both. Our waiter is inexperienced, and makes lots of mistakes, but he’s got a great sense of humor and we let it go, tipping him generously.

  When dinner is over, we head over to Bellagio, where we do some gambling.

  It’s prime time in Vegas: midnight on a Saturday. Call girls rub elbows with businessmen who smoke cigars and drink Bud in bottles. Newly-legal 21 year-olds attempt to count cards at a blackjack table. There is smoke, laughter and energy hovering over everything. We have a great time and when we finally fall into bed around 5 a.m., we feel happily exhausted.

  The taxi races at warp 15 down Las Vegas Boulevard. My life flashes before my eyes.

  It’s 8:15 on Sunday night, and we were supposed to be at Star Trek: The Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton by 7:30. Slanted Fedora has put together a party where the few people who have bought $1500 tickets to the con can rub elbows with the Star Trek guests, go on the ride, and take pictures on the Hilton’s version of the Enterprise bridge.

  When we get into this cab, I tell the driver,“ We need to be at the Hilton 45 minutes ago. If you can get us there quickly, there’s an extra five bucks in it for you.” I wink. I am so money.

  “An extra five bucks?! You bet, sir!” He slams his foot to the floor, and the cab explodes into the street.

  Red lights? A good way to get the cars around us to slow down so we can pass them. The medians? Grass-covered passing lanes. Pedestrians? Luckily, we didn’t get to find out what they’d be, though I suspect that the word “bump” would be involved.

  We arrive at our destination, I pry Anne’s fingers out of my arm and leg, give the cabbie his promised fiver and head straight to the bar for a shot of whiskey to stop my shaking hands.

  Star Trek: The Experience is split up into three main areas: a restaurant which features Quark’s Bar, a replica of the DS9 Promenade which is filled with memorabilia and souvenirs, and the actual Star Trek “Experience” itself, which features an amazing trip right onto the bridge of the Enterprise D.

  The whole thing is built beneath a huge model of the Enterprise D that hangs from the ceiling in mid-flight.

  This is my first trip to Star Trek: The Experience, and I gasp involuntarily when I see my spaceship hanging there.

  Staring at this giant model now, which must be 20 feet across the saucer section, I recall the first time I saw the Enterprise D in flight, when Paramount screened “Encounter At Farpoint” for us back in 1987. I sat in a darkened theater, and when Patrick Stewart intoned, “Space . . . the final frontier . . .” I got goosebumps. The seats began to rumble, and there was my spaceship, cruising by. She was beautiful. When she went to warp speed, my mouth hung open, and tears sprung into my eyes. I knew that I was part of something wonderful.

  I point at it and say to Anne, “Hey! Look! I can see my house from here!” I giggle, and she has no idea what I’m talking about, which is one of the reasons I married her.

  Anne and I are a little overwhelmed by how large and detailed everything is, but we don’t have any time to take it in, because as soon as we arrive the fans begin to approach. They’re all very cool and friendly. Most of them have seen my sketch show and want to compliment me on it.

  “It’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen,” says one man.

  “I haven’t laughed that hard at anything, ever, in my entire life. You guys rocked!” says another.

  A woman recounts an entire sketch called “What dreams may come,” where I play a 12 year old kid who is supposed to have his first wet dream. His “nice dream angel,” played by Travis (at 280 pounds, wrapped in a sheet, Travis got laughs just walking on stage) has a battle with his “naughty dream angel,” played by Maz, who wore leather pants and a vest. During the sketch, all I do is lay in bed, and occasionally hump the mattress. The sketch always kills, and this show was no exception.

  “I’ll never be able to see you as just Wesley Crusher again,” she says.

  “That’s the idea, ma’am,” I say.

  “Are you ever embarrassed to perform that sketch in front of your wife?” She asks.

  “It’s nothing she doesn’t see at home several times a week,” I say. Anne punches my arm, and we all laugh.

  Another man tells me that he had planned to see the other show that night, which was a performance of Love Letters that Rene Auberjonois did with Nana Visitor.

  “I stayed in it for about 15 minutes, but I kept hearing laughter from your theatre, so I left and bought a ticket to your show. I’m so glad that I did!” He tells me, and claps me on the back.

  Everyone wants to know when they can see the show again, and if they can buy audio or video versions.

  “Sorry, but there aren’t any recordings of the show. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime deal.” I say.

  “Why didn’t you tape it? It was great!” a woman asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, and that’s the truth. We just didn’t think to record it. I know that we all regret this fact. There will never be another Mind Meld performance like it.

  I pose for pictures, visit with some friends who I only get to see at conventions, and decide to take Anne on the ride.

  The line takes us down a long and winding path, flanked by props and costumes dating all the way back to the original series, in what they call “the museum of the future.” It’s the largest collection of Star Trek props in the world and it’s a Trekkie’s wet dream. For me, it is the first stop on a trip through time. Behind thick panes of glass, I see tricorders and PADDS that I may have held one or more times during my years on the show. I see costumes that I remember being worn by guest stars, or my fellow cast members. It’s a very surreal experience to see these relics of my youth on display in a museum.

  We take our time, looking at all the props, reading all the plaques. Every item we see sparks a memory and Anne patiently listens to all of the stories that go along with them. Imagine sitting through your crazy Aunt Dorothy’s vacation slides. It’s like that.

  We finally make our way to the end of a short line of people waiting to get into the ride. We are in a passageway, standing right next to a large display about the Klingon Empire. A visual record of Klingon history plays on a monitor, next to a display featuring weapons and costumes worn by Michael Dorn. I look at them, and I can hear Michael’s deep voice as he whines about how uncomfortable his makeup is. I smile to myself.

  The Experience is closed to the public, so all the people in this line are hardcore Trekkies, most of them in costume. The people ahead of us are wearing Next Generation Starfleet uniforms. We exchange greetings, as a group of Trekkies dressed as Klingons arrive behind us.

  My Trekkiesense begins to tingle again.

  There is a certain psychology that inhabits the minds of people who dress up like Klingons . . . they tend to be very extroverted and a little obnoxious from time to time. These Klingons fit that description completely. Before long, they’ve begun an argument with the people in front of us. Something about Klingon honor versus the Federation’s Prime Directive. The whole thing is amusing to me, but it’s beginning to scare my wife. I forget that she hasn’t been around this type of thing for years, like I have.

  The argument escalates, and both groups try to get me on their side.

  “Wil! You were in Starfleet!” the “Federation” fans say. “Surely you’re with us!”

  The “Klingon
” fans grunt and snarl at me in what I imagine is the Klingon tongue. One of them shows off a dangerous looking Klingon batleth.

  Of course, I side with my now completely freaked-out wife: “I gotta go, you guys.”

  Anne and I step out of line and head down to Quark’s for a drink. We end up talking with Garret Wang for a while. He’s a super nice guy, very funny and friendly and even though we’ve never met before, we get along instantly. He asks me if I’ve ever been on the ride before and I tell him about the Klingons. He sympathizes, and suggests that we ride it together. He’s been on it before and he is certain I’m going to love it. We run into Stephen Furst, (an actor from Babylon 5 who I worked with on St. Elsewhere before I started Star Trek) and he joins us.

  We work our way back through the museum and make our way to the entrance.

  The ride starts out like Star Tours. We’re all in a line, watching some monitors. An actor is describing to us how the safety belts work, or something, when all the lights go out. The monitors flicker, lights strobe, there are some special effects and a gust of air. When the lights come back up, we’re standing in the transporter room on the Enterprise.

  I didn’t expect this. I am stunned and stare at my surroundings. It’s amazing.

  The Transporter Chief says, “Welcome to the 24th century. You are aboard the starship Enterprise.”

  She could have said to me, “Welcome to 1987, Wil. You are on Stage 9.”

  She touches her communicator and says, “I have them, Commander.”

  Jonathan Frakes’ voice booms over the comm, “Good work, Lieutenant. Please take them to the bridge.”

  We leave the transporter room and walk down a long corridor which is identical to the ones I walked down every day. I realize as we walk that, in my mind, I’m filling in the rest of the sound stage. I’m surprised when we don’t end up in engineering at the end of the corridor. Instead, we are herded into a turbolift, where we enjoy some more special effects. The turbolift shakes and hums . . . it’s infinitely cooler than the real ones we would stand in for the show.