Dancing Barefoot by Wil Wheaton Read Free Book Online

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.”
    â€œReally?” she says.
    â€œYeah. 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.
    â€œDo you need anything?” she asks.
    â€œNo, I’m good. I just need a few minutes to focus. Thanks.”
    â€œHave 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:
    I’m the last speaker of the day. The fans are tired and a little burned out.
I’m following Michael Dorn and Marina Sirtis. They do conventions together all the
     time, have a set routine that never fails, and the fans adore them.
I was Wesley Crusher.
    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.
    â€œYou look great,