Dancing Barefoot (5 page)

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.

I hear a man clear his throat, and I look up to see a smiling middle-aged face. He has a
dark beard, and is dressed as Commander Riker.

He gives his autograph ticket to the staffer sitting next to me, and asks me to sign his
model of the
Enterprise D
. He thanks me, and moves along.

And so it is in the world of Star Trek conventions. One person will scream at me, and the
next will want to give me a hug. A person will walk up dressed in an elaborate Borg costume,
and the next person will be dressed in a T-shirt and Dickies, quietly laughing at “all the
weirdos.”

For the next three hours, I sign pictures of the young, geeky Wesley Crusher. I sign
posters of the teen heartthrob that I'm told I once was. I sign posters that I'm not even on,
in silver because everyone else did, accepting the apologies from the poster owners that I'm
not on the poster. I always answer with the same joke: “That's okay, you just can't see me,
because I'm on this planet here . . .” They laugh and feel good and so do I.

A group of very attractive German girls comes over next, and two of them tell me, in
broken English, how much they love me.

I think,
Oh yeah, tell me some more, baby. Tell daddy how you love him. Ich bin
ein sexmachiner!

What?

I am so sorry. I have no idea where that came from. I apologize.

There are also 20 Japanese kids who've all come over together from Tokyo. They are all
smiles and laughter, excited, and having a great time. The girls ask me to write their names
on their picture when I sign it, they giggle and bow and blush and thank me, over and over.
For a second, I feel like a rock star.

One of the Japanese kids is a boy, about my height.

When he presents his Wesley Crusher action figure for my signature, he tells me, “My
friend all say I am you twin!”

He smiles proudly. “We look just the same!”

Last time I checked, I wasn't Japanese, but I'm not about to tell him that. I look at him
for a moment and reply, “Dude. You are so right. It's like I'm looking in a mirror!”

He turns to his friends, says something in Japanese, and they all share an excited murmur.
I pick up my pen, and write: “To Hiroyuki, my long lost twin brother: Don't Panic! -Wil
Wheaton.”

He thanks me over and over. His smile is so huge, I fear that his face will turn inside
out. As he walks away from my table, I feel happy – I've brought joy into this kid's life,
just by signing my name and being friendly. It's one of the few perks (or responsibilities, if
you will) that comes with celebrity that I truly enjoy.

About 200 or so people into the day, I have one of those memorable “battlefield”
experiences; the kind that we Star Trek actors share during a layover in Chicago, after a
convention in Cleveland.

I've just finished signing a poster for a 40-ish man who is wearing a spacesuit that is a
little to tight across the waist. He's painted his face blue, and donned a white wig topped
with antennae, like the Andorians from the original Star Trek. The next person in line is a
woman in her 30s, dressed conservatively.

I say hello, and she smiles at me . . . until she sees my T-shirt. Then she becomes
hysterical. She points at my shirt and screeches at me, “You are going to hay-ell! You are
going to hay-ell!”

“Why am I going to hell, ma'am?” I ask, trying to figure out if she is joking. I am
wearing a black T-shirt with a picture of a hand making rock-and-roll devil horns that says,
“Keep Music Evil.” I think it's very funny, and it's a nice counter-point to the squeaky-clean
image of Wesley Crusher that is so indelibly burned into these people's minds.

“You're wearing that shirt! And that shirt promotes SATAN!”

Okay, she's definitely not joking.

“So I'm going to hell because I'm wearing a shirt? Is that right?” I ask her,
patiently.

“Yes! You! Are! Going! To! HAY-ELL!”

“Well, as long as I'm not going where you are, ma'am.”

And she leaves, but not without getting my signature, on her collectible plate, in gold
ink, not silver, because John DeLancie signed his in silver, so now silver is the color
reserved for “Q.” Nobody else can sign in silver. Not even a captain. Well, maybe Captain
Picard, but not Captain Janeway.

I am able to contain my giggles until she is out of earshot.

“Is it always like this?” the staffer sitting at my table inquires.

“Nope. Sometimes it's really weird.”

We laugh, and the signing goes on.

And on.

And on.

The clock chimes 1p.m., and there are still about 150 people left in line. I begin to feel
a little nervous, because I need to meet my sketch group at 1:30 p.m. for a rehearsal. I feel
torn: I don't want to piss off the remaining fans by rushing them, but I also don't want my
show to suck. So I make a tough choice: I decide to leave, and get those 150 people the next
day. I am going to be there all weekend, and I figure that if I sign those people's things the
next day, they will get a refreshed, funny, cool me, rather than the top of my head. (Which I
understand the gay community has wanted for years. Sorry guys. Mrs. Wheaton's got
dibs.)

But this choice is not without risk. I am afraid that most of these people want to hate
me. It's probably an irrational fear, but I've spent the last 14 years dealing with people who
have built me up to be this awful pseudoperson. They would love for me to validate that for
them by being rude, or wearing a satanic T-shirt, or signing in gold when I was asked to sign
in silver . . . they'd love it if I was WIL FUCKING WHEATON. I am nervous that leaving early
would give them exactly what they are looking for.

I stand up on my table, and make an announcement:

“Guys! I was told I'd be done by 1 p.m.”

The grumbling begins.

“I've got to go! I'm supposed to be rehearsing with my sketch group in . . .” I check my
watch. “. . . 25 minutes!”

The grumbling gets louder.
This jackass, in his satanic T-shirt, who is he to
decide when he can leave?! He IS going to HAY-ELL!

“But I'll be here all weekend and I'll sign whatever you want tomorrow. If I don't go now,
the show will suck.”

I brace myself, certain that this is going to become an angry mob of Comic Book
Guys.

But they are kind, and understanding. The fans nearest to me, a young family wearing
matching “Data” T-shirts, smile. The mother says, “That's okay, Wil. We'll get your autograph
tomorrow.”

“Really?” I ask, just to be sure.

“Yeah, you go and prepare your show. We're really looking forward to seeing it.”

I can't believe that she's excited about my show. “You know that it's not for kids,
right?”

She nods. “Yep! The kids will be staying with my parents. We live in Henderson.”

I look down the line, and see over 100 smiling, supportive faces. I hop off the table,
shake hands with her and her husband, and walk down the hallway, sharing high-fives and hellos
with every single person in line. I marvel at how supportive and friendly everyone is. Things
sure have changed in 14 years!