Dancing Barefoot by Wil Wheaton Page B

Travis
     keeps me under control.
    We’re all hungry, so we use 50 of our 90 minutes getting some food across the street from
     the convention at the Hard Rock Hotel. I order a sandwich, but don’t eat a single bite. I’m
     way too nervous.
    We race back to the convention, and gather in a suite that’s being used as our dressing
     room. We all clean up, make sure that we have our costumes and props, and run a few of our
     scenes. There is genuine excitement in the air. We are in our element: actors preparing to
     take the stage.
    We are expecting to be let into the theater at 7:30, so we can have a quick run-through of
     some blackouts, get our props set, and have five minutes to catch our breath . . . but the
     clock says 7:45. The show before us has run long, and we’re not even going to get into the
     theater until 8:30. The audience has been lined up for over an hour already, and I know from
     experience that an audience’s willingness to enjoy your show is inversely proportional to the
     amount of time you keep them waiting past the time on the ticket, which is, in this case, 8
     p.m.
    I’m pacing the dressing room, running my hands through my hair, occasionally swearing, and
     stressing myself out.
    My friend Travis asks, “Why are you so worried? Trekkies are the most supportive audience
     in the world! They will love anything you put up there! All we have to do is show up, and
     they’ll go nuts, right?”
    â€œWrong.” I tell him, gravely. “They can be the most hyper-critical audience in the world.
     They’ve booed me off the stage. They’ve marched up to me at conventions to tell me how much
     they hated me. Some of these people have a sense of entitlement that you’ll never see anywhere
     else. This particular audience will be filled with people who’ve paid lots of money to see our
     show. Some of them paid as much as 1500 dollars for ‘all access’ passes to the convention. So
     they expect, and deserve, an amazing show.” I pause. “I also have a lot to prove to them, you
     know?”
    â€œYeah, I know,” Travis says.
    I don’t say it out loud, but I have something to prove to myself, too.
    There is a knock on the door, and the stage manager tells us that we can get into the
     theater.
    We get our props set backstage.
    We find an appropriate lighting level.
    We give the list of blackouts to our tech guy. [ 3 ]
    â€œThe last line of each scene is on this list,” I tell him.
    â€œAnd the lights come down right after that line, right?” he says.
    â€œYeah.” I say. “Do you have our body mics?”
    â€œBody mics? Nobody said anything to me about body mics.”
    Oh shit. We have no body mics. This means we don’t have any mics at all. This means it’s
     highly unlikely that the back of the house will be able to hear us. This means we are
     screwed.
    I call a huddle of the actors. Jim, the sound and light tech joins us.
    â€œGuys, we have a situation. There are no mics.”
    Travis, who was just trying to calm me down, freaks out. “There is a full house! It’s over
     500 people! How are they going to hear us?!”
    Maz is calmer, “I think we should just project like crazy.”
    Tracy agrees. “Yeah, we’re all good actors. We’ll just play to the back row.”
    Kristen nods. “When you introduce the show, just mention that we have no mics, and
     encourage the audience to keep it down . . . and we’ll just have to project our voices.
     Pretend we’re in Ancient Greece.”
    â€œHow Greek is this show going to be?” Kevin asks, saucily.
    â€œNot that Greek.” We all laugh. Crisis averted.
    We are going to run through our blackouts, but it’s now close to 8:30. I can feel the
     audience outside the theater trading their “We love you, Wil” signs for torches and
     pitchforks.
    I decide that we’re not going to keep