Dancing Barefoot by Wil Wheaton

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