Dancing Barefoot (4 page)

“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.