Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (14 page)

In some form or another, the Phantom would mesmerize his muse, Christine, with enchanting hand movements and a powerful “whoosh” of his mysterious cape. A tug-of-war would ensue with the Phantom and Christine embracing and pulling away from each other, lifting and lowering, twirling and standing in awkward stillness. Tormented and torn, but exhausted and weak, Christine would finally succumb to his spell, the Phantom enveloping her in a passionate kiss beneath his cape. The crowd would cheer and even the dancers would be amazed at what they were able to create in the moment.

Of course, unrehearsed dances like these were just invitations for mishaps—like the time one girl playing Christine spun wildly into a waiter carrying a tray of wine glasses. It’s hard to resume the melodrama with a straight face when you’ve just taken out a staff member and showered the floor in alcohol and broken glass. But, honestly, some people got so good at improvising that you’d think they’d been performing the number for years. The company really relied on the talent and improv skills of each dancer. I was always flabbergasted by how we could spontaneously create such a spectacular show.

Dancing for Celebration Magnifico turned out to be great training in trusting your creative instincts, being in the moment, improvising, and becoming comfortable with the unknown. If you were terrified of what might go wrong, not knowing how the dance was going to unfold, or not being able to pre-plan your moves, you were sunk and had better quit the job or up your intake of anti-anxiety meds. Even though the performance part of the gig was often a high-pressure, chaotic, wing-it situation, I generally found it liberating and fun.

It was the second part of the gig—dancing with patrons—that didn’t always jive with me. Being naturally shy, I hated having to ask people to dance. Whenever possible, I’d try to hide in the middle of the crowded dance floor and pretend I had a partner. I didn’t get away with this for long, however, because Bart watched us like a hawk, always scoping the room to make sure we were paired up. I didn’t want to ruffle his feathers.

At some parties it was nearly impossible to get people to dance with you—especially the corporate gigs with employees with really boring jobs. I’d begrudgingly bounce over to a table and tap on the shoulder of some random guy in a suit and tie. Plastering on my best fake smile, I’d shout over the music, “Would you like to dance?” He’d glance up from his half-consumed chicken breast and, without so much as a grin, say, “No.” At the really miserable parties, you’d have to take rejection after rejection before you could successfully coerce someone into dancing with you. Eventually you had to get aggressive and grab their arms and yank them out of their chairs as they clung onto the tablecloth in a desperate attempt to remain seated.

A top Celebration Magnifico priority was that all the “important people” get invited to dance whether they wanted to or not. At a wedding, I was once sent on a mission to get the bride’s stodgy uncle to boogie with me, only to receive the angry response, “I’m eating!” It was a challenge to please the boss without ticking off the partygoers.

I learned to scope the tables and use my intuition to determine who would be less likely to reject me. To make the process more fun, sometimes we held a contest to see who could be the first to get the cute guys to dance. The risk of choosing a hot babe was getting the look of death or verbal lashings if he had a jealous girlfriend sitting next to him. I danced with old men, young men, women, kids, teens, octogenarian grandmas—you name it. Anyone was fair game.

While certain aspects of the job were quite unpleasant—including harsh rejections, drunk ladies stabbing your feet with their spiked heels, and creepy guys getting fresh—letting loose and uninhibitedly dancing my heart out was cathartic and enjoyable. We were expected to put on a show and be entertaining, so the wilder the better.

On occasion, one of the male dancers would get a burst of adrenaline (or maybe he was just losing his mind) and go off into some spastic routine like kicking over his head, quintuple pirouette, jump split to the floor, and break dance. The rest of us would clap and hoot and holler at the frantic one-man-show. Unfortunately, these high-speed dance extravaganzas didn’t happen often, because it was hard enough making it through the night on low to medium-speed. Most of the time, everyone was just too jaded and tired to go the extra mile. In fact, sometimes we were so exhausted at the end of the night, we’d just do energetic armography and faceography ( enthusiastic arm gestures and facial expressions) while basically keeping our feet still to conserve energy.

By far the best part of the job, to me anyway, was traveling out of New York. We flew to Indianapolis, Atlantic City, Las Vegas, Palm Desert, Chicago, Baltimore, and Beverly Hills. Our time was usually so limited that we didn’t get to see much of any one city, but I took my trips as an opportunity to pamper myself and at least enjoy lounging in the hotel.

To begin my hotel experience, I would check the room service menu for the price of hot chocolate and count how many different toiletries were provided in the bathroom. A high cost of hot chocolate and a high number of toiletries were sure signs of a high-quality hotel. I liked to order hot chocolate from room service while snuggled in one of the crisp, white terrycloth robes that every high-quality hotel provided. Sometimes I treated myself to an Amaretto from the mini-bar and a soak in the bath. I’d work out in the gym, tan by the pool, relax in the jacuzzi, or shop.

I especially loved our trips to the west coast; trading the gray, cement city for palm trees and sun was pure heaven. One of my favorite journeys was to Palm Desert, California, an oasis of golf courses and spas built in the middle of the desert overlooking the mountains. We stayed at the mega Palm Desert Marriott where you could actually catch little boats from the inside of the hotel and sail to various restaurants and shops, the golf course, or the spa. Most of the time I would try to save as much per diem as possible hoping we ‘d get free food at the party, but sometimes it just felt good to splurge. This was one of those times; I paid the $25 a day to use the spa and gym, shopped at the expensive boutiques, and dined on a gourmet dinner, spending every last cent of my per diem. I was living the dream!

Another time we stayed at the Four Seasons Beverly Hills, where I adored the complimentary Earl Grey tea with cream and honey. About twenty-five of us dancers were flown all the way across the country for a bar mitzvah, of all things. Rumors were that each dancer cost the client between $1,500 and $2,500. (Of which we only got $200, but let’s not go there!) Couple that with our hotel rooms, per diem, and flights, and you are looking at a very expensive party for a thirteen-year-old. This bar mitzvah was more lavish than most weddings I’ve seen.

To impress the Los Angelenos, Bart played us up as Broadway performers: “Live from New York City…Celebration Magnifico!” We entered in white top hats and sexy, white tuxedo-style outfits to Frank Sinatra’s famous tune, “New York, New York.” We got the crowd to sing the song with us and then join us in the “world’s longest kick line” for the grand finale.

The entire dance floor was covered in row after row of partiers and dancers linked arm and arm, raucously singing off key and kicking off beat. Just when it seemed the mood couldn’t possibly get any more exciting, we passed out neon glow-stick necklaces, and the party reached a frenzied climax with rich people falling over each other to obtain the free swag. This was one religious initiation ritual they’d never forget.

*******

More and more, I was relying on Celebration Magnifico excursions abroad to keep me sane. Life in the Big City was wearing on me, especially being regularly accosted by wackos and beggars. Before long, I began to recognize certain homeless people who consistently worked the same corner or subway line. One guy had a sign that said it honestly: “Save the winos!” Others rode the subway all day long collecting change in their five-gallon water jugs. Do I give them money or ignore them? The daily decision wore me down. Either choice made me feel bad; I couldn’t donate cash for everyone’s every request, but I felt guilty turning a deaf ear and a blind eye to their plight. I had a heart, which only compounded my charity confusion.

Adding to my predicament was the unfortunate fact that I was a weirdo magnet. I had “Come talk to me; I’ll listen” written all over my approachable, gullible face. On the subway, one super drunk, homeless guy staggered over to me and spoke in his slurred and sloppy fashion, expelling his marinated breath in my face. Having learned that ignoring people isn’t always the best solution, I succinctly answered what I surmised he had asked. Satisfied, he went back to his seat across from me and promptly puked.

I was approached by so many kooks that I eventually developed my own “Midwestern Bumpkin’s Guide to Looking Invisible and Staying Safe in New York”:

1.) Don’t wear any clothes that might draw attention. Non-sexy, drab, cheap garments are best, preferably in black, brown, beige, or gray.

2.) Carry a purse that cannot be easily cut, snatched, or opened and hold onto it for dear life while on the subway or street.

3.) Cover your eyes. Dark sunglasses are a must at all times so you can avoid eye contact.

4.) Plug up your ears. Carry a transportable music listening device with earphones so you can pretend that you didn’t hear the crazy guys ranting and raving (or begging) in your direction.

5.) Adopt an “I’m-a-tough-chick-in-a-hurry-so-don’t-mess-with-me” scowl.

It was hard for me to act so hardened and thick-skinned, not to mention wear ugly attire. I wanted to be able to smile and say hello to people as they walked by. But doing that got me into trouble. So there I’d sit on the subway, clutching my most impenetrable handbag with a death grip, while wearing a boring outfit and sensible shoes, donning earphones even when not listening to music, pretending to read a book, and sporting sunglasses in rain or shine. Feigning absorption in my own private world, I clearly signaled, “Nutcases NOT welcome here!”

My disguise of indifference certainly helped, but the hoards of people I encountered daily still overwhelmed me. Traveling for Celebration Magnifico was the most stressful, and I nearly freaked out from all the crowds of scary people, destitute people, and panhandling people at the Port Authority bus terminal. Or the throngs of people at JFK Airport pushing and shoving to claim their luggage from the conveyor belt or to hail a cab. It was a shove or be shoved world. You had to fight to claim your spot in The City, and I simply didn’t want to fight.

My anxiety level was getting higher and higher. The thought of braving the crowds left me cowering in my apartment on several occasions. If I didn’t have to work, I sometimes stayed holed up at home for days at a time. At other times, like a pregnant woman craves pickles and ice cream, I’d crave nature and space and would escape to Central Park to lose myself in trees, openness, and fresh air. I could see why New Yorkers tried to grow plants on any possible surface available, even a 12” by 6” ledge on their fire escape. I was becoming agoraphobic and claustrophobic in the city. To make matters worse, I felt trapped without a car. I needed to know I could get away from bricks and cement in favor of green grass and blue sky.

What was my problem? I knew that New York had so much to offer. You were absolutely spoiled for culture: food, shopping, art, music, dance, and, of course, some of the best theatre in the world—BROADWAY! As a dancer, I could choose from a multitude of performance classes taught by incredible teachers. Nowhere else in the United States offered such comprehensive training. You could take a dance class any day of the week or all day long at a wide selection of phenomenal studios. Vocal coaching and all sorts of acting classes—straight theatre, musical theatre, commercial, soap, television and film, Shakespeare–were there for the choosing. It was the place to be for the stage performer.

But there’s so much more: You can walk everywhere in Manhattan. You can be inspired by some of the most incredible art in the world from its many art museums; eat virtually any type of ethnic food; be in Chinatown or Little Italy for a complete cultural change of scenery; nosh on the most delectable bagels in the world; stock your cupboards with the most glorious gourmet and deli food from Zabars, Dean & Deluca, and Balduccis; buy the best of whatever money can buy; see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and the giant Christmas Tree Lighting at Rockefeller Center; wave your silly sign on the street for
The Today Show
. You can grab a meaty hotdog or sausage with spicy mustard, a salty soft pretzel, or steamy roasted chestnuts in the winter from a street vendor. New York can meet your every desire, right? What’s not to like?

Some people truly could not be happy anywhere else. They need the electric buzz of the City That Never Sleeps like they need that jolt of caffeine to wake them up in the morning. But I wasn’t one of those people. To me, daily living was becoming a struggle and a chore. Apartments didn’t come with washers and dryers, and I dreaded going to the laundromat. I waited until I was absolutely out of every shred of clothing before making the five block trek to the closest facility, grunting and dragging my two bulging suitcases all the way. Then I had to sit there for hours keeping guard over my precious, trendy clothes. It was always me and the fat, Italian mamas. Had I spoken Italian, I could have at least eavesdropped on their conversations to keep myself occupied. Instead, I was stuck reading or watching my laundry spin around and around.

Grocery shopping was also annoying as the only grocery stores I could walk to were the small, overpriced, and understocked Greek markets where, even if I could afford them, I could only buy what I could carry. It wasn’t like home where you could fill up a grocery cart with every food imaginable and stock the refrigerator and cupboard for weeks. I decided to stick with bagels and cream cheese.