Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (13 page)

At the gig, we’d receive the all-important costume list revealing which costumes each dancer was to wear and, hence, what parts we would each be playing for the evening. This news elicited either groans of despair or sighs of relief. The costume assignments were a big deal, as certain outfits could make or break your night; they could spell “e-a-s-y s-t-r-e-e-t” or “d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r.”

While there were innumerable ways in which to embarrass oneself in Celebration Magnifico, the costumes were one of the best. It wasn’t so bad if you were incognito, like when you had to wear what we called a “giant head”—a hugely oversized facsimile of the head of a famous celebrity like Richard Nixon, Joan Rivers, Sylvester Stallone, or Steve Martin. These bulbous orbs completely covered your own relatively measly head save for a minuscule peephole out of which to see. Therefore, it wasn’t uncommon to bump into patrons, walls, or other giant celebrity heads. Although I didn’t particularly like shoving my face into these stuffy, smelly, big balls of fiberglass with dangerously limited vision, at least no one knew it was me inside.

But on many occasions, we would have to wear absolutely ridiculous get-ups that left our faces totally recognizable. I particularly hated when we had to dress up as giant alcoholic drinks and mingle with patrons during cocktail hour. I’d cringe when my name showed up on the list of beverages, dictating that I’d have to become a super-sized strawberry daiquiri, my head serving as the cherry atop the fake whipped cream.

I was wearing just such a fruity concoction at a party once when I bumped into a big-time entertainment accountant from Los Angeles who was best buddies with a friend of mine. “Kristi? Is that you?” the man shouted from across the room. My face turned as red as my cherry head. In this case, I would have opted to take “flight” instead of “fight or freeze,” but my legs were so tightly squeezed into the spandex stem of my cocktail glass that I could only slowly shuffle away. Making a run for it was out of the question. I merely hoped he’d had too much to drink already and either wouldn’t remember the next day or think he was hallucinating. “Oh, hi, Mike,” I said as nonchalantly as I could, smiling and trying to convince myself (and him) that there was nothing unusual or embarrassing about standing inside a large-scale libation. Who needed the drink now?

Then there was the time I was playing Carmen Miranda for an opening of a new high-rise building in Atlanta, and I ran into newscaster Dan Rather. I wished I had been there dressed in some beautiful ball gown like the other partygoers, but instead I was balancing plastic fruit salad atop my head, shimmying my shoulders, and failing miserably to fake a Spanish accent. I rolled my “R”s saying, “Arrrrrrrrre you Dan Rrrrrrrratherrrrrrrr? I’m Carrrrrrrrmen Mirrrrrrranda.” He gave a socially polite chuckle, and I shimmied away in shame.

But even worse than the embarrassing costumes were the life-threatening ones, like the carousel horse. The idea was lovely: a herd of human carousel horses prancing about in a circle forming a real, live merry-go-round. The spandex leotard body suits were tolerable, but the real problem was the horsey head: a large, heavy, flat, carved and painted piece of wood into which I had to carefully wedge my face. It was such a tight fit that they practically needed a giant shoehorn to get me in and the Jaws of Life to get me out. I nearly had a nervous breakdown being trapped in that contraption.

Another headpiece horror happened at the Chicago Hilton, where we were presenting a fancy, French Victorian scene. Donning an elaborate floor-length black and silver lace gown and massive hat, my job was to pose on a pedestal and look pretty. Usually it was great if you were assigned to a pedestal because you didn’t have to work as hard. While everyone else had to dance with the patrons, you simply stood on your post and did “armography,” which entailed moving your arms to the music or gesturing gracefully. For some of the larger costumes, this was a matter of safety. Our “New York, New York” set, for instance, had gargantuan costumes like the Chrysler Building or the Brooklyn Bridge (which required two people: one for each pillar with the bridge draped in between) that were so cumbersome you were actually a liability on the dance floor, knocking patrons over with your big buttress.

In this case, my costume was more of a hazard to myself than the patrons. The over-sized hat cinched my head like a vice and was so heavy I got a migraine headache. It also had a tight bodice that squeezed my diaphragm like a corset and a weighty veil that completely covered my face. Consequently, I could barely see and wasn’t getting much in the way of fresh oxygen either. This deadly combination made me feel dizzy and faint. I soon realized that I’d better get this costume off pronto or I was going to pass out and plunge from my perch.

The problem was I couldn’t just leave on my own accord, because I couldn’t see well enough to safely step off the pedestal. Even if I could, I required help climbing down. I needed both hands to hold up my long, puffy gown, or I’d surely trip on the fabric and fall to my death. And I couldn’t just blurt out, “Help me!” over the roar of the music, without alarming all the patrons. How was I going to get out of this predicament without drawing attention to myself?

As I saw it, my choices were: 1.) stay where I am and eventually faint and fall to the floor (certain embarrassment plus possible major injury), 2.) attempt to climb down by myself (highly probable embarrassment, because there was no way to get down gracefully, and there was a good chance I’d trip and fall thereby possibly incurring injury), 3.) scream my head off for help (extreme embarrassment but no injury), 4.) spell S.O.S. with my hands (no embarrassment, no injury, but probably not effective) or 5.) wait for someone who worked for Celebration Magnifico to walk or dance by me, discretely grab that person’s attention without being seen or heard by the partygoers, and beg for help (very minor embarrassment and no injury, but it could take a while for someone to get near enough to notice me). I decided to start with number 5, but knew I had to make this plan work quickly or I’d be involuntarily invoking plan number 1.

I desperately tried to make out a familiar figure or voice through the thick fabric covering my face. After some time, I finally recognized Bart who was ambling in my vicinity. Like a shipwreck survivor stranded on a desert island, madly trying to alert the rescue boat just appeared on the horizon, I frantically did the universal hand-signal for “Come here!” and prayed the boss would glance my way. With luck on my side, eventually he did, and I was saved in the nick of time.

Some of the costumes were so elaborate that they were traumatic both on the dance floor and in the dressing room; it was often an overwhelming job to figure out where all your costume pieces were and how to affix them to your body. Costume racks and trunks were filled with assorted pieces, but all I had to go by was the costume list, which read something nebulous like “Kristi—Gold Fantasy.” I hadn’t a clue what that costume looked like or that it had forty-three parts to it that I had to search for like a treasure hunt and then fit together like a puzzle. I was often forced to beg the veterans for help. This was my last resort, as they weren’t necessarily obliging, especially those who as I said earlier, didn’t believe I deserved a spot on the A-team.

To make matters worse, after I did find what I was supposed to wear, I never knew if I’d be able to squeeze my body into it. While by no means fat, I was one of the bigger gals in the group, and the costumes were not one size fits all. It was disconcerting and uncomfortable when my love handles would hang over the side of my much-too-tight trousers.

In spite of all the costume conundrums, they seemed spectacular to me and were unlike anything I’d ever worn. I loved getting dressed up and instantly took on the role of whatever I was wearing. Much to the annoyance of the old-timers in the group, I excitedly had my picture taken in all my costumes.

The worst part about sharing costumes with other dancers was, well, sharing costumes with other dancers. Celebration Magnifico had weekends where they were booked solid with parties on Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday day, Saturday night, Sunday day, and Sunday night. While these weekends with multiple parties were heaven for my bank account, they were hell for my olfactory system, as the company had no time to clean the costumes between jobs. Oftentimes you’d have to wear costumes that were soaking wet with the sweat of other dancers who had danced the party before yours. I cringed every time I had to don yet another outfit with moisture and dampness that wasn’t my own.

Sweat swapping was one of the many issues the dancers enjoyed moaning about in the dressing room. Complaining was not only a highlight of the job, but practically a prerequisite. It was part of the company milieu. “These costumes stink like hell!” “When are they going to bring us food? I’m starving!” Usually we were offered at least a sandwich, chips, and soda pop, which I often took home in my duffel bag along with hotel toiletries. I was grateful for any free food, but the veterans complained unless it was a really nice, hot gourmet meal. “Crappy sandwiches again? I’m not eating this garbage.” In between gripes, you’d often hear Southern Gent, from Mirmdance, squawking like a sick bird and calling the boss “an ‘ol’ buzzard” in his thick, Southern drawl.

As a general rule, the dancers were bitter and jaded and didn’t appreciate anyone who was actually enjoying their job (like me). My smiling face and good attitude were poison to the toxic atmosphere they loved and in fact created. I quickly learned to squelch my excitement so as not to by lynched but found myself jaded along with the rest of them soon enough.

While I found the dancers fascinating and highly entertaining, I had a hard time fitting in at first. I wasn’t used to the Jersey girls with their big hair, extravagantly painted long nails, and strong accents (“Oh my gawd…a-nuth-ah bah mitz-vuh on Lon Guy Lind? Fuh-git about it!”). Gay men were also still somewhat of a novelty to me and slightly out of my comfort zone. Many of the dancers were into crystals and metaphysics. Several even practiced Buddhism, which was completely foreign to me. They would find a quiet place to meditate and chant for money or something they needed. I didn’t get it. They might as well have said they were Martians. These people and their strange ways of life blew my closed, little Midwestern mind wide open.

To make matters even more intriguing, relationship drama was happening behind the scenes. Mainly, sometimes female dancers hooked up with the Schleppers or the D.J.s., even becoming official couples. The Schleppers and D.J.s were Jersey (pronounced “Joy-zee”) guys, all with names ending in “y” (e.g., Joey, Bobby, Danny, Tommy), who tended to stick with their own kind—the Jersey girls—which was fine by me, as they weren’t really my cuppa tea. I also heard rumors of girls sleeping with one of the bosses to further their careers, but I never believed it. How much did you really have to gain? You got to attend a few more bar mitzvahs dressed as the Chrysler building?

If you were savvy enough to survive the backstage soap opera, your next challenge was to survive on the dance floor. The first task was learning and executing the dance number that started each set. Most of the real dance numbers we performed were taught and rehearsed only a half-hour before we were supposed to get into costume. The owners didn’t want to pay for extra rehearsal time, so we had to pick up choreography fast and furiously and fake the parts we didn’t know. It was mayhem.

The rehearsal scene on stage would go something like this: The choreographer would bark out orders. “Okay, we don’t have a lot of time people, so listen up! Half of you pony stage left, half stage right, and then get into one straight, vertical line. Step-touch and clap moving downstage. As you get to the front, do some kind of trick, turn, kick, or jump, or something. Then peel off, every other person stage left and right. Form into a clump in the back. When everyone gets there, take three different poses and freeze in between each one.” We’d all try to run through the choreographer’s instructions as quickly as possible, like a movie played on fast forward.

We’d get about halfway through a number and Bart, the boss, would come running in shouting frantically and waving his arms, “Stop! Stop! Stop! The guests are coming in for cocktails. Everybody in the dressing room and get your costumes on NOW!” The choreographer would throw her hands up in the air in surrender and say, “Obviously, we didn’t finish the choreography, so when we perform the number on stage, just try to follow what I’m doing. And watch for my signal about when to take a group pose at the end!”

There was no point in getting all worked up over the fact that we had only practiced half of the dance. After a while, we all learned to shrug our shoulders and laugh. “Whatever.” Somehow we always pulled it off. It’s amazing what we could do with great stage presence and crazy garments. We were so entertaining that the crowd never knew, or cared, that we were making much of it up as we went along.

It was a bit trickier when you were assigned a lead role like Christine from
Phantom of the Opera
, which required you to do an adage—a slow, balletic, partner dance—with the Phantom. You were expected to figure out your own choreography. If time permitted before the party started, you’d discuss or experiment with a few “lifts,” where the guy picks the girl up over his head in some dramatic pose. Usually there wasn’t time, so you’d improvise on the spot, even whispering in each other’s ears about what to do next during the actual performance: “Run to me and grab my waist and I’ll twirl you!” The entire performance was an exciting adventure into the unknown. It was all about focusing on your partner, maintaining intense eye contact, and sensing each other’s movements in order to know what to do and where to go next. You really had to tune into and play off each other.