Dancing Barefoot (10 page)

“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.

When the turbolift doors open, and reveal the bridge of the
Enterprise
, I gasp.

The bridge is a nearly-perfect replica of ours, with a few minor differences that are
probably imperceptible to anyone who didn't spend the better part of five years on it. The hum
of the engines, which had only existed in my imagination on Stage 8, is now real. I stare at
the view screen, where a beautiful starfield gives the appearance of motion. I remember how
much I hated doing blue screen shots on the bridge and how much I loved it when they'd lower
the starfield. When I looked at those thousands of tiny mirrors, glued onto a screen of black
velvet, I could lose myself in the wonderful fantasy that this spaceship was as real as the
view.

I am consumed by hypernostalgia.

I am 14 years old, walking out of the turbolift during
Encounter at
Farpoint
. Corey Allen, the director, excitedly tells me, “Picard controls the
sky, man!
He controls the sky!
”

I am 15 years old, sitting in my ugly grey spacesuit at the CONN. My fake muscle suit
bunches up around my arms. I feel awkward and unsure, a child who desperately wants to be a
man.

I am 16 years old, working on an episode where I say little more than, “Aye, sir.” I want
to be anywhere but here.

I am 17 years old, wearing a security uniform for
Yesterday's
Enterprise
. I am excited to stand in a different place on the bridge, wear a
different uniform, and push different imaginary buttons.

I hear the voices of our crew, recall the cool fog that hung around our trailers each
morning from Autumn until Spring.

I recall walking to the Paramount commissary with the cast, on our way to have lunch
meetings with Gene before he died.

I have an epiphany.

Until this moment, all I have been able to remember is the pain that came with Star Trek.
I'd forgotten the joy.

Star Trek
was about sitting next to Brent Spiner, who always made me
laugh. It wasn't about the people who made me cry when they booed me offstage at conventions.
It was about the awe I felt listening to Patrick Stewart debate the subtle nuances of The
Prime Directive with Gene Roddenberry between scenes. It wasn't about the writers who couldn't
figure out how to write a believable teenage character. It was about the wonder of walking
down those corridors, and pretending that I was on a real spaceship. It was about the pride I
felt when I got to wear my first real uniform, go on my first away mission, fire my first
phaser, play poker with the other officers in Riker's quarters.

Oh my god. Star Trek was wonderful, and I'd forgotten. I have wasted ten years
trying to escape something that I love, for all the wrong reasons.

I am filled with regret. I miss it. I miss my surrogate family, and I will give anything
to have those ten years back. Like Scrooge, I want a second chance, will do anything for a
second chance. But Christmas day came and went 10 years ago.

The stars blink out, and I'm looking into the smiling face of Jonathan Frakes on the view
screen. I'm smiling back at him and I notice that everyone is staring at me. I become aware of
wetness on my cheeks. I am embarrassed and make a joke. I say to the actors walking around the
bridge, “If you need any help flying this thing, I've totally got your back!” The group
laughs. Garrett says something about helping out the security guys if they get into trouble
and we laugh over that too.

Johnny tells us that we have to leave the ship now and board a shuttlecraft so that we may
safely return to Las Vegas.

I don't want to leave. I've just gotten here. I want to cry out “No! Don't make me leave!
It's not fair! I want to stay! I
need
to stay! Please let me
stay!”

Instead, I am silent and I stare hard at the bridge, trying to catch a glimpse of a dolly
track, or a mark, or maybe my costumer waiting for me to come offstage so she can hand me my
fleece jacket.

The group I'm with herds me into the turbolift, and the doors close. I remember all the
times the FX guy didn't pull the doors open in time, and we'd walk into them. The turbolift
takes us to the shuttle bay, where we board a flight simulator that looks like one of our
shuttlecraft. I don't pay any attention to the voyage home – I am deep in my own memories,
consumed by thoughts of days gone by and time forever lost.

The ride comes to an end and we walk back to Quark's. Everyone we pass wants to know what
I thought of the ride, if I enjoyed my Star Trek experience. I tell them, truthfully, that it
was just like being back on the set. I tell them that it's reminded me how cool Star Trek was.
I keep the rest to myself. I don't think I can even give voice to the incredible series of
emotions I have felt in the past 15 minutes. I don't even know if, in recalling that
experience and writing these thoughts down, I have been able to convey how it affected
me.

But it did. It
changed
me.

Being inside those walls, even though it was in a casino in Las Vegas, I was safe. I was
protected from the bullshit that had been the focus of my life since I quit the show. When
that bullshit was washed away, I saw Trek for what it is: a huge part of my life. I will
probably never be bigger than Trek, but why try to avoid it? Why not love it, embrace it, and
be proud of it? It was cool. Gene was cool. The cast
is
cool. Star Trek
may never be what it once was . . . but I got to be there when it was great.

We stay at the party for another hour. We talk with friends and I pose for pictures, sign
a few autographs, and shake some hands. We watch Armin and Max perform a very funny sketch,
and I have my picture taken with a cardboard stand up of WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER, circa
1967.

Finally, the five days in Vegas catch up with us, and Anne and I need to leave. I seek out
Dave and Jackie Scott and thank them for a great convention. I tell them that I'll see them in
a few weeks, never thinking that in just 2 days I will never want to board an airplane
again.

We take a cab back to our hotel. Anne puts her head on my shoulder, and is asleep before
we're even out of the driveway.

We drive up a wide and empty street, about a quarter mile off the strip. This part of
Vegas seems lonely, desolate. The carnival glare of lights along The Strip robs the rest of
the world of any light, and the whole desert is black, like outer space . . . I stare out the
window into the darkness, and imagine a starfield that's fifteen years away.

I had forgotten how cool Star Trek was and how much I missed it. I feel a little
sad.

The cabbie keeps looking at me in the rear view mirror, giving me that ‘I think I know you
but I'm not sure why' look. He says, “What brings you to Vegas?”

“Star Trek,” I tell him.

“Oh yeah? You a big fan or something?”

“Yes I am,” I tell him. “I love Star Trek.”