Read Online Dancing Barefoot by Wil Wheaton - Free Book Online

them waiting any longer. We’ve prepared like crazy
     for this show, and anything we do now isn’t going to make it any better. We’re just going to
     get ourselves backstage and open up the house.
    I give my CD of “Warm Up The House” music, (Ataris, MXPX, Save Ferris, and other indie
     rock bands,) to Jim.
    Kris Roe intones, “Last night, I had a dream / that we went to Disneyland / went on all
     the rides / didn’t have to wait in line . . .” and the doors open.
    I hear the house begin to fill. The voices mingle to create a familiar white noise.
     Occasionally, I’ll hear a word above the din, or my father’s distinctive and very loud guffaw.
     Anxious moments pass while we all go through our pre-show rituals:
    Tracy stretches in some yoga poses. Maz recites his lines to himself and walks in a
     circle. Travis and Kristen talk about odds bets on craps. Chris and Kevin run through a scene
     called “Dude.” I stand alone to one side, reciting lines in my head, trying to calm my
     nerves.
    Dave Scott comes backstage, smiling broadly.
    â€œYou’ve got a full house. We even sold some standing room only seats. They are really
     excited! Are you guys ready to go?”
    We all look at each other. “Just give us a second, okay?”
    Dave walks over to talk with Jim, and we all step close together, forming a circle. I
     extend my hand, and it is immediately covered by Kristen’s, which is covered by Chris’s. Maz
     and Travis come next, then Kevin, and finally Tracy. We lock eyes, all of us, and I say, “You
     guys, this is going to be the best show, ever! Thank you so much for coming out to be part of
     this. Don’t forget to play to the back row, and improvise if you get stuck. If you’re not on
     stage, listen . . . we may need to call you out if we get into trouble.”
    We chant a secret actor’s chant, ending with our hands stretched skyward. I am overcome
     with excitement. I can’t wait to go out and show these people that I’ve grown up, become
     funny, and (most of all) that I’m not Wesley Crusher.
    Dave comes back over to us, and asks if we need anything else.
    â€œScotch,” I say.
    â€œHookers,” says Kevin.
    â€œA pool boy,” says Tracy.
    â€œCan we replace Wil?” says Travis.
    We all laugh. We’re ready to go. This is what we live for. Dave laughs with us, and takes
     the stage.

    I hear the crowd applaud, and there is some wolf whistling. They are in a good mood. I am
     thrilled.
    â€œThis show has been in preparation for several months, and I am just as excited to see it
     as you are,” he begins. “However, if you video or audio tape the performance, we will hunt you
     down and kill you.”
    The audience chuckles. They have all heard the warnings before.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage the director of Mind
     Meld , Wil Wheaton.”
    I walk onto the stage, trying to hold my head up, and keep my shoulders back . . . but
     walking across any stage has never been easy for me. I feel awkward, and studied, like they’re
     sizing me up. If I ever get on Letterman, that walk across the Ed Sullivan stage will
     absolutely kill me.
    I take about five steps before I realize that Dave has decided to play a little practical
     joke on me: the entire audience is wearing “Groucho” glasses. It is insanely funny to me,
     seeing all these people, in various levels of space-suitery, enjoying a mass giggle, like a
     bunch of school kids putting one over on the substitute.
    I take a long look around the room, lift the microphone to my mouth, and say, “You’re all
     related, aren’t you?”
    Huge laugh. The laugh I’d hoped for earlier in the afternoon. Much happier that I have it
     now.
    I am hugely relieved – they’ve traded their torches and pitchforks for Groucho glasses.
     They’re on my side.

    â€œI can’t begin