Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (16 page)

In addition to all the surfers, famous triathletes were a dime a dozen given the superior training conditions: year-long gorgeous weather, mountains for cycling, and the ocean for swimming. Famous or not, it seemed that everyone ran races or mountain-biked on the weekends, worked out daily, juiced, practiced yoga, got massages, and saw a therapist. Many women sported fake sets of perfect, perky, bulbous breasts. Clearly, the body was highly revered here. There was no shortage of buffed physiques. As a result, every untoned muscle on my body suffered from low self-esteem. Something had to be done. And quickly.

Working out became high on my list of priorities, not only so that I’d fit in, be accepted, and be beautiful like everyone else, but also because there was so much I wanted to eat, without getting fatter. The influence of nearby Mexico was as strong as a Habanero chili pepper, and there was plenty of fabulous Mexican food to be found: savory fish tacos made of flaky white fish nestled in a bed of crispy cabbage slaw with a squirt of lime juice and salsa verde all pocketed in a soft corn tortilla, crisp and salty tortilla chips to dunk in salsa fresco (diced tomatoes, onion, peppers, and cilantro), and overstuffed burritos with garlicky shredded beef, refried beans, rice, and guacamole smothered in cheese and sour cream and washed down with a tangy margarita. Olé!

The word “cilantro” became an important addition to my vocabulary, and if either cilantro or some type of hot pepper wasn’t in my meal it was probably only my morning scone. I cranked up the heat on my taste buds and craved spicier and spicier foods. Having grown up with such gastronomic delicacies as Jell-O, Velveeta cheese, Oscar Meyer bologna, and casseroles based on Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, these fresh, foreign foods blissfully expanded my palate.

I enthusiastically soaked myself in this exotic culture like I was basking in the warmth of the sun. Spanish was the second language, and I wished I knew how to “hablar español.” Southern California was a place where Mexicans, who had risked their lives crossing the border illegally, slaved away as fruit pickers or worked secretly in the kitchens of popular restaurants. Homes had roofs made of terra cotta tiles and were often decorated in Southwestern turquoise and salmon colors. Even the vegetation spurred my soul: palm trees galore; beach areas covered in thick-leaved, green ice plants with magenta blooms; masses of large trumpet-shaped hibiscus flowers in red, orange, yellow, pink, purple, and white; spiky Mojave yucca plants; fences lined with vibrant, papery Bougainvillea; cheerful flocks of Bird of Paradise flowers proudly displaying their orange plumes; night-blooming jasmine seductively scenting the air. Even the freeway medians and roadsides were lush with lemon-yellow and hot-pink flowering bushes. This piquant, tropical paradise felt worlds away from the gray, frigid Michigan, of my youth.

The people scene enthralled me as well. I was fascinated by anyone who had shunned the normal life of nine-to-five jobs, broken all of the rules, and risked everything to find something better. Many of these people were artists who showed their artistic creations at Intarsia Gallery where I worked. Take Molly, for instance. She was a handsome, thirty-ish, tall, leggy, tan runner with a short, black, pixie haircut, who painted abstract designs on silk neckties and scarves. When hanging out in Paris some years earlier, she had seen an advertisement for silk-painting classes in the back of a magazine. She learned the trade and now made a living selling her hand-painted ties and scarves in shops around San Diego. She also cooked for a family or two and would travel with them on their boats as their private chef. I collected delicious recipes from her: basil beer bread, mint-chocolate brownies, carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, and ginger-soy chicken (chicken breast marinated in soy sauce, lemon juice, fresh grated ginger root, minced garlic, and a touch of sugar and then grilled).

Another quiet, unassuming, librarian-like artist who intrigued me sold Chinese brush paintings, which consisted mainly of graceful, purposeful, abstract, thick, black brush strokes with a splash of red. She taught classes from her beautiful home so, out of curiosity, I joined in. The mood was very zen. We meditated while mixing our black ink in slate dishes, counting every stir. After reaching some ridiculously high number (it felt like one million), we were allowed to stop the stirring ritual and start painting. By this time we were in a self-induced trance. Fresh, whole strawberries were served along with Chinese tea in delicate Chinese porcelain cups. We ended the afternoon in the artist’s lovely, peaceful, flower garden with a session of tai chi. I was a tiger.

Del Mar also had a captivating dating scene, peppered with men unlike any I’d met in the Midwest. My boss, twenty years my senior, had been wooing me—a flattering prospect, but not the wisest choice, perhaps, given our age difference and the fact that he had the ability to fire me. I decided I needed the job more than the dalliance, so I passed on him and instead dated Matt—a hunky, long-haired, thirty-something artist whose work was displayed at the gallery. His big-ticket items were stunning, large, plaster wall hangings—bas relief sculptures of wild horses made to look like antique relics using paint and fake cracks. Being situated in a horse-racing town, horse art was a big seller. But what really intrigued me were Matt’s travels down to South America to make plaster replicas and rice paper rubbings of Mayan and Incan designs. He gifted me a rice paper rubbing of a pregnant woman and a miniature sculpture entitled “Bondage” of a long-haired slave in a loin cloth kneeling with an arched back. Matt’s accent was a mixture of Stanford-educated academic and California surfer dude. He was also a runner, of course. He took me to Tijuana to shop, eat, drink tequila, and be accosted by small, pesky, insistent Mexican children selling Chicklets. I returned home chewing gum, carrying two bottles of cheap Kahlua, and covered in a layer of grime. Matt was certainly captivating, but the relationship didn’t make it much past Tijuana.

For a short time, I dated an extremely handsome Top Gun fighter pilot and even got to visit the officer’s bar at
Top Gun
air force base where they filmed scenes from the Tom Cruise-Kelly McGillis film Top Gun. One of my date’s instructors actually flew a plane in the flick. Having spent many a movie drooling over Tom Cruise since high school, I was in awe of it all. My date was debatably as hot as the diminutive movie star. Sadly, even though his gun may have been the tops, the relationship didn’t fly.

Aside from meeting groovy new people, I spent most of that first year working at the art gallery while taking the odd dance class. I found a professional studio in downtown San Diego, but getting there was inconvenient, finding parking was a pain, and the lack of instructors who satisfied my needs made the effort not worth my while. I tried a studio a few towns north of Del Mar that had a couple of excellent teachers, but I was too tired to travel all that way after working at the gallery all day. At either studio, fitting classes into my schedule was a task, and my motivation was weak. Finally, I started teaching aerobics and a few dance classes at a nearby gym, figuring I might as well get paid to workout. For the most part, I was spending all my energy paying rent and getting adjusted to my new surroundings.

To be honest, I had also become highly distracted by my persistent boss, Adam—a forty-five-year-old, tan, athletic, Jewish, ex-hippie—who finally persuaded me to go out with him. In addition to designing and owning a gorgeous art gallery, he was a woodworker who handmade exquisite furniture adorned with colorful, Southwestern inlaid designs in the studio behind his house on the hillside overlooking the ocean. He was both creative and energetic, a combination of personality traits that compelled him to constantly reconfigure the interior and exterior of his stunning home, which he embellished with a collection of provocative African and Southwestern artifacts.

Adam wasn’t afraid to try whatever intrigued him. At one point in his life he studied to become a psychotherapist. At another, he spent a few years on an Ironman team, just training—running, biking, and swimming—for the Ironman race in Hawaii. He even started a health-food restaurant back when I was just a toddler. Now he owned a retail art gallery, and his daily work attire was khaki shorts and a good-quality Hawaiian shirt. Adam was a native Los Angeleno; his father had been the agent to Willie Shoemaker—one of the most successful and famous horse jockeys in history. Adam’s family had a box at the Del Mar Race Track, where he took me on the momentous Opening Day. Adam knew everyone in town and was extremely sociable. He lived life the way that made him the happiest, disregarding the opinions of the outside world. I envied that.

So, I gave in to his advances, against my better judgment of dating a man so much older. It was gratifying to be desired by this worldly man about town, and being on some tenuous mission to find myself, I allowed myself to experiment. Let’s face it, I was lonely, too. My free time was now spent hanging out with this long-time Del Martian who wined and dined me; taught me about running and cycling and art; and took me on exotic trips to Hawaii, Banff, and Las Vegas, on gallery art-buying excursions to San Francisco and Scottsdale, and on ski vacations to Whistler and Mammoth. The man had exquisite taste and bought me wonderful gifts as well. Once we hooked up, I was immediately welcomed into Adam’s circle of fascinating friends. This gossipy, slightly dysfunctional, small town functioned like a soap opera, and I was now part of the melodrama. My new social life kept me from wallowing in unsolicited solitude, as my sister Cindy was deeply focused on her writing and often unavailable. I was living the high life.

And yet I was discontented. I wasn’t doing anything in entertainment like I had envisioned. This would’ve been a great retirement lifestyle, but I still wanted to make something of myself and utilize my potential. But how?

The sound of a key in the door lock awakened me from my slumber. Jenny and I greeted each other like long-lost sisters, squealing and hugging. “J-Dancer!” “K-Dancer!” We picked up as if no time had passed. Jenny poured two generous glasses of chardonnay. “I’m so excited to have you here! Do you want to come to my show tomorrow night after your Rockette thingy? You can sit backstage with me and watch me call the show if you’d like.” I was overjoyed at the opportunity to see a top-notch stage manager in action. Plus, a behind-the-scenes peek at Broadway actors was sure to be highly entertaining.

“Cheers, Jen,” I toasted, raising my glass. “If it weren’t for you I would have never become a professional dancer.” It was true. Not only had she talked me into moving to New York, but even after I left town, she kept getting me gigs. She was like the Pied Piper, and I followed her wherever she led me, even to Indiana. This woman believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. She got me dance jobs when I didn’t have a clue what to do or where to go with my life. As far as I was concerned, she was my guardian angel and divine guide, disguised as a dancing, feminist, Bohemian, hippie, New Yorker. We stayed up far too late laughing, sipping vino, and recalling moments from our crazy, musical theatre days together.

Act 1, Scene 3

Beef and Boards

When out of the blue, after more than three and a half years, I received a phone call from Jenny, I nearly fell to the floor. “I’m in Indianapolis doing
Funny Girl
,” she said. “One of the chorus girls is breaking her contract to do a cruise ship gig, and they need a replacement. I want you to come and do the show!”

Serendipity or destiny? “You’re just about her size and will fit the costumes. I told the stage manager about you. You need to fax him your headshot and resume, and mail a vocal demo tape right away,” Jenny insisted. “I don’t have a demo tape,” I wailed. “Just throw something together quickly, before they find someone else. It would be so much fun! You have to do it!” She begged me, but it was unnecessary. I wholeheartedly agreed.

In haste, I bought a karaoke tape of James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend,” taped myself singing the vocals atop the canned background music, and threw it in the mail. “It’s not the best, but at least they’ll know I’m not tone deaf and can carry a tune,” I rationalized. You’d have thought I’d been smoking some bad Tijuana marijuana when I made this decision, as this song wasn’t even remotely appropriate for the gig I was trying to land. But, sometimes you get the job simply because “you’ve got a friend.” Jenny laid her credibility on the line, begged, pleaded, and promised her first born to the stage manager to get him to consider hiring me. In the end, he did, mainly because I was immediately available, likely to fit the costumes, and saved him from having to spend time auditioning people. Jenny can be very persuasive.

“Your room and board are free, and we can pay you $275 a week,” the stage manager informed me over the phone. I didn’t care if I got paid $75 a week. I was going to do a professional musical! This was living! He didn’t want to pay to fly me out there but gave in at the last minute. Here I was in Del Mar, California, population 4,000-ish, plugging away at the art gallery and going nowhere with my entertainment career when unexpectedly, no audition necessary, a dance job comes my way. I thanked my lucky stars. I thanked my tall angel, Jenny. That’s how I landed my first professional musical theatre job: It was handed to me like a gift.

The next thing I knew, I was on a plane bound for the Midwest. “Goodbye, Hollywood. Hello, Hoosierville!” I settled in for a long day of travel, with multiple layovers and an overload of peanuts and Diet Coke. They had obviously scored the cheapest flight option available, but at least I wasn’t footing the bill. The travel time across country gave me plenty of opportunity to think about
Funny Girl
. As a kid, I had seen the movie version starring Barbra Streisand as Ziegfeld Follies star comedienne, Fanny Brice, and Omar Sharif as her gambling husband, Nicky Arnstein. I recalled that Fanny and Nicky had a tumultuous relationship that ended sadly, and Barbra sang renditions of “People” and “Don’t Rain on My Parade” that gave me goosebumps. But that’s about all I could remember. “Wonder what I’ll be doing in the show?”

It was fall when I arrived in Indianapolis, but the leaves had already fallen off the trees. So mainly it was cold, brisk, and gray—the familiar look, smell, and feel of football season in the Midwest. “Ahhhhhh….home sweet home.” Made me want to put on a sweatshirt and make a big pot of chili. The theatre was located just off Indiana interstate 465, exit 27, among hotels and office buildings, and, oddly enough, just down the road from my college sorority national headquarters. That was a good sign. If I needed support from my sisters-in-the-bond, they were only a secret handshake away.

The name of the venue, “Beef and Boards Dinner Theatre,” should have alerted me that I’d be in for a unique experience. “Beef” stood for the dinner they served and “Boards” for the stage. The most unique facet of the “gig”—a showbiz term meaning “job” that I started throwing around casually—was that I lived at the theatre in a second-floor room that I shared with Jenny, who served as my tour guide. Our bedroom, which doubled as our dressing room during the show, was full of costumes and wigs resting on white Styrofoam heads. A young chorus guy named Brent and an older character actor named Belinda lived down the hall from Jenny and me; everyone else lived in apartments a short drive from the theatre.

The rest of our home for the next few months was downstairs at stage level. It consisted of two smallish, no-frills rooms adjacent to each other (and conveniently located next to the stage left entrance) that served as our kitchen and the green room. (The “green room,” I learned, is a room backstage that provides a place for the actors to hang out before, after, or during a show. There are many opinions on the origin of the term, but suffice it to say that the room is rarely actually green.) She then led me into the theatre, which could hold up to 450 patrons sitting tableside, surrounding centrally located, portable buffet carts that were covered in sneeze glass. “We get first stabs at the dinner buffet before the audience descends upon it, but we have to fend for ourselves for breakfast and lunch,” Jenny informed me. “Bonus! Free chow!” I applauded. I would soon tire of seeing the same salad bar, beef, chicken, and baked potatoes night after night, but it certainly saved on the food bill. The lobby was adorned with posters of the previous shows that were performed there. The next poster would be for a musical that featured me. And people were going to pay to see me!

After the tour, it was time to stop dilly-dallying and get down to business. We had a lot to do, and quickly, as I had only a week to learn how to fill the shoes of the girl I was replacing. First order of business: try on costumes. Luckily, nothing needed alterations except for the shoes, which I filled and then some, as they were two sizes too small. Being young and naïve, I stuffed my tootsies into them anyway, like the ugly stepsister pretending to fit into Cinderella’s glass slipper. My feet could have been permanently damaged, and my career permanently ruined, but I was afraid to ask for new shoes. Not wanting to lose my first job, I grinned and beared it.

Second order of business: placate (pay off) the union. “This is an Equity theatre,” the stage manager announced, “so you have to pay $100 to the Actors’ Equity Association. This allows you to become a candidate for Equity eligibility.” I didn’t know what he was talking about, but if I didn’t do it, I wasn’t going to be working there, so I wrote out the check. (So far this gig had cost me money.) He explained that “Equity” was the nickname for Actors’ Equity Association, the labor union representing live theatre actors and stage managers in America.

Third, fourth, and fifth order of business: The stage manager handed me a pile of sheet music and said, “You will rehearse during the day with Sandi, the dance captain, to learn your track. At night, you need to watch the show to get a better idea of what you will be doing on stage. Oh, and here’s your music for the pre-show with Brent and Jenny.” My eyes widened. “Jenny didn’t say anything about a pre-show!”

As directed, I watched the performance that night, terrified about the pre-show. “Can I sing well enough to pull this off?” I would have to don a blond wig and black sequin gown, hold a microphone, and sing a Broadway medley for the geriatrics as they filled their bellies before the main production. I was simultaneously thrilled about using a mic for the first time and petrified that I would have everyone wondering who I slept with to get this part. “Most of the audience probably can’t hear too well,” I reasoned, “and maybe no one will recognize me in disguise.”
Funny Girl
, on the other hand, was totally within my realm of capabilities. Not willing to let a little pre-show rain on my parade, I encouraged myself that I might actually be good. Being a part of this show made me feel like one of the luckiest people in the world.

The next day I reported for rehearsal with Sandi, the “dance captain.” The title sounded intimidating. Unlike what the name implied, she had no military training whatsoever, although that probably would have helped her in her pursuits. Apparently every musical theatre show had a cast member who served as commander. It was the first time I’d heard of such a role. Jenny explained, “Someone has to keep the show clean after the director and choreographer leave.” “Aren’t there maintenance men to mop the stage?” I asked, but she wasn’t talking about that type of clean. “Clean” meant keeping the original directions and choreography intact. Over time, if someone didn’t keep a close eye on it, choreography had a sneaky way of morphing into moves unapproved by the choreographer. Since the director and choreographer skedaddled out of the theatre for good after “putting up” the show, the dance captain was needed to maintain the proper moves and grooves.

The dance captain also was in charge of settling choreographic disputes—a customer service representative of sorts, listening to performers’ gripes about one another. If you saw someone on stage doing the choreography incorrectly, it was taboo for you to tell that person directly. You were supposed to tell the dance captain, who would then relay the message to the offending dancer.

Finally, the dance captain assumed the monstrous responsibility of knowing everyone’s individual “tracks”—their choreography and “blocking” (where to move to at specific times during scenes). Hence, Sandi was the one to whip me into tip-top shape in only seven days time. Thankfully, she was about as sweet as dance captains come, so I could let down my guard and rest at ease. She was a beautiful girl a few years older than I, who had done oodles of shows at Beef and Boards. Her handsome hubby Matt was in the show, too. Sandi loved performing, meeting people, and socializing with her showbiz friends. I envied how she made the most of her job and enjoyed the journey.

Fortunately, she wouldn’t allow me to dwell on the dreaded pre-show, as I had plenty to focus on for the real show. My numbers included an opening rehearsal scene; a military-style tap dance; “Sadie, Sadie, Married Lady,” a simple number sung by Fanny and the girls about how glorious it was to be married; and “Beautiful Bride,” a fashion show of sorts in which we glided around stage in ridiculously over-the-top, extravagant, designer wedding gowns with towering head pieces, escorted by debonair men in top hats and tails. This is the song where Fanny Brice, decked out in a wedding gown and roller skates, turns to the audience to reveal that she is hugely pregnant. I also did a couple bit parts, and my character even had a name: “Polly.” My first real role! I had only two speaking parts—called “lines”— in the show, but it was a start.

Once I learned my track, a portion of the cast was brought in for a quick “put-in.” A put-in is a rehearsal where the new, replacement actor is plugged into or “put in” the hole left by the original actor who vacated it. The cast consisted of the two leads (Fanny and Nicky), a group of older character actors (one man and three women), and the ensemble (three men and four women) who did the heavier dancing. Since my role required little in the way of direct interactions with the leads or the seniors, they were allowed to lounge at home in their pajamas and rest their voices while the ensemble gave up their time off to rehearse with the new chick. Jenny, Sandi, Matt, Brent, Steven (a debonair tenor), Harriet (a tall, statuesque redhead in her early thirties), and I comprised the ensemble. Everyone was warm and welcoming except for Harriet who offhandedly commented, “I was the prettiest one here until you came along.” The words sounded like a compliment but the tone made me tremble. I treaded carefully around her after that, not wanting to step on her toes, literally or figuratively.

For the put-in, I had to do all my costume changes and numbers “full out”—at performance quality with a big old smile plastered on my face—while the rest of the cast “marked” the show in their sweats. In other words, they went through the motions without really performing, so they could conserve their precious energy for the real deal. The numbers I wasn’t in were bypassed to speed up the process. I basically got a rough idea about where everyone else would be on stage relative to me and where I might crash into someone or trip over a set piece.

The put-in also prepared me for my “traffic patterns.” “Traffic patterns? Are you going to be driving cars on stage?” you might ask. Not usually. The term refers to how and where and when people move around on and off stage relative to each other. Performers are required to strictly adhere to their specific sequence every night, every single show, without fail or exception, or there’s bound to be an accident.

The problem with a put-in is that, without running the entire show at regular speed, you don’t get any idea of the pacing of the show and how much time you have to change costumes or how out of breath you’ll be between numbers. That pleasure is saved for the first time you do the show for an audience. Scaaaaaary. With our “dressing room” located on the second floor, Jenny and I were constantly running up and down the stairs to change costumes and wigs. I didn’t know how it would all pan out come show time.

Being wigged the entire show and having no prior experience wearing fake hair, I was grateful when Jenny took it upon herself to teach me about pin curls and wig caps. “Take small chunks of hair and curl them, like you’d wind a hose, into tiny buns all over your head,” Jenny demonstrated. “Then secure them with two bobby pins placed in an ‘X’ formation.” When I finished, my head looked like I’d been attacked by cinnamon rolls.

All these mini-cinnabuns and any leftover wisps of hair were then further secured by covering the entire hairdo with a wig cap. Our wig caps were sections of pantyhose tied into a knot on the top to form stretchy caps like criminals wear. After the show, all we’d need to do is pull the wig cap all the way down to hide our faces, and we’d be ready to moonlight as bank robbers. “I’m a sperm head!” I screamed as I grimaced at my hideous image in the mirror. Jenny burst out laughing, grabbed her camera, and took my picture. While I certainly did not feel glamorous, I was learning a vitally important lesson. The beautiful secret of pin curls is that they provide something you can anchor your wig into with hairpins. I didn’t want to take a chance on a wig mishap, as I did not look attractive in a wig cap. I learned to love wearing wigs, because I could be having the hair day from hell and it wouldn’t matter.