Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (17 page)

After “Wigs 101,” I was ready to hit the stage and shine like the star I was meant to be. I plugged into my part with no particularly troublesome problems. The songs and dances were pure joy to perform. Once I got into my show routine and knew the ropes, I felt quite confident that I was doing a bang-up job. The exception was the pre-show, of course. Even after banging away at it for several weeks, I still couldn’t tell if my singing was passable or even tolerable. I was too mortified to ask. They weren’t firing me, so I left well enough alone and had fun faking it as best I could. Eventually, I became so comfortable with the show that I was able to play cards in the green room between scenes with the other actors waiting to go on stage.

The most hazardous part of the show was running through the kitchen of the theatre for certain entrances and exits during the performance, being careful not to slip on spills on the tile floor. I wasn’t too stable to begin with in my much-too-tiny, used shoes. The smell of steam and industrial dishwashing soap mixed with a collage of leftover buffet food became etched in my olfactory memory.

Our performances were Tuesday night, Wednesday matinee and evening, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday matinee and evening. The matinees were overrun with senior citizens. You could tell by the glare of all the glasses. Those two-show days were tough for me. Coupled with the show the night before, I felt like I never left the theatre for days. I was in and out of make-up and costume over and over and over. I loved dancing and singing and wearing the costumes, but running up and down stairs for fast changes scene after scene, show after show, day after day got monotonous.

The saving grace was Monday—our “dark” night at the theatre. A “dark night” sounds like a moonless night or a night when everything goes insidiously wrong, but it really refers to a night in which the theatre is dark, as in no lights, no audience, no show. In other words, it was our precious day off. While
Funny Girl
was dark, however, there was always something else booked in the theatre. Acts as famous as Marie Osmond (who made her own beet juice, by the way) performed there. Once there was even a male strip show, which, of course, Jenny and I eagerly attended. The muscular, young men stripped on stage and then circled the room, dancing and caressing for tips. I bravely and carefully stuffed a dollar in one guy’s G-string and received a kiss on the cheek. It was revolting in one sense and stimulating in another. The smell of the strippers’ cheap cologne lingered in our green room for days. It felt like slimy strangers had invaded our home.

Barring the striptease, my time off was often ho-hum, as I was essentially trapped at the theatre without transportation. The cast members from out of town did have one company car to share, but it stayed parked near the lead actors’ apartments several miles away from Beef and Boards. Consequently, those of us living at the theatre had to beg for rides to the grocery store and were at the mercy of the people in control of the wheels. The theatre was within walking distance of a few mediocre restaurants, but otherwise there was just an exit off the highway and a few office buildings.

Thankfully, the cast learned to make our own fun by organizing activities we could drive to together, like racquet ball, gymnastics classes, progressive dinner parties, and bowling. Sandi served as the unofficial extracurricular activities coordinator and, being a local who had her own car, also kept the ball rolling by giving us rides to the various events. She was a big proponent of continuing Beef and Board’s post-performance Friday night bowling tradition, for which cast members would buy a bona fide bowling shirt and sew on a patch for every show they had done at the theatre. I’m sure we were a hoot to watch as we dance-bowled our way through the game doing crazy ballet/jazz moves before, during, and after the ball toss.

A couple of times the cast ventured to downtown Indianapolis to a sing-along piano bar where we played pool, shot baskets, drank beer, and ate peanuts, throwing the shells on the floor. Occasionally a group of us made the exciting trip to a popular pancake house that served “dutch babies”—a puffy pancake the size of a large plate, topped with cooked cinnamon apple compote. On Halloween, our leads hosted a costume party at their apartment, and Jenny and I went as headshots of the Doublemint Twins. I was “Wanda Job” and Jenny was my twin sister “Anita Job.” We drew our oversized headshots on poster board, cut holes out where the faces were, and stuck our faces through. On the back we created funny, mock resumes. Socializing with the cast was a highlight of my experience at Beef and Boards. Fortunately, I liked my castmates (even Harriet and I had made peace), because ours was a pretty closed world, and I spent most of my time hanging around these same few people. We rarely even got to fraternize with the techies, as they were local and scooted straight home after the show.

Speaking of going home, it was a bit eerie living in that theatre when the crowds, waiters, staff, and the rest of the cast had gone home for the night. “Rumor has it that the theatre is haunted,” Jenny informed me. When the lights were out, those ghastly white Styrofoam wig heads looked pretty creepy. It felt like we were living on a Scooby Doo mystery set and at any time would find Scooby, Shaggy, Velma, Daphne, and Freddie bursting through the door with flashlights on their search for the ghost of Beef and Boards.

*******

Word spread that
A Chorus Line
was being performed in Chicago. Auditions were going to be held on a Monday, which was perfect, since that was our dark night. Many of us didn’t have gigs lined up after
Funny Girl
ended, so this was a prime opportunity. Actors are constantly looking for work. No sooner did they start one show then they were already auditioning for the next show, at least with short stints like this one. This musical theatre world was all so new to me; I hadn’t given any thought to what I would do once the show closed. But my success in
Funny Girl
had proved to me that I wanted to continue pursuing a career in entertainment. Who knew how many auditions I’d have to go to before landing a part? It behooved me to get a head start on the process. Our run at Beef and Boards was only three months long. Time to pound the pavement.

“We can drive after our Sunday show and stay with my aunt. Her house used to be a bed and breakfast,” Jenny suggested as she rallied the troops. I was excited and extremely nervous to go.
A Chorus Line
was the epitome of dance shows, and this was my first professional musical theatre audition. The very first. Ever. I was going to audition for the chorus line in a show about an audition for the chorus line in a show. “Rumor has it that they are going to do the original Broadway choreography,” Sandi informed us. “I know it and can teach anyone who wants to learn.” I welcomed her gracious offer, thrilled to be learning the real Broadway choreography, and
before
the audition, no less. I could use all the help I could get.

My enthusiasm slightly dampened, however, when I realized I would have to sing at the audition. “You could always be Kristine. She’s the girl in the show who really can’t sing,” Jenny reminded me. The apparently tone-deaf character Kristine spoke her solo (which was all about how vocally challenged she was), except for her few ear-splitting, painful, failed attempts at reaching an actual note. “Yes, but I really can sing and I want to sing,” I countered. “I just need more training, more practice, and a lot more confidence.” I got up the guts to ask Belinda—the eccentric, heavyset, jovial, middle-aged actress and voice teacher who lived with us in the theatre—if she would give me a couple of voice lessons. She was a gypsy of sorts, traveling from show to show with all her personal belongings, including sheet music. Thankfully, she agreed to help.

When the time came immediately following our Sunday evening show, Sandi, Matt, Brent, Harriet, Jenny, and I piled into Sandi’s car and drove the 180 miles from Indianapolis to Chicago. We pulled up to Jenny’s aunt’s gorgeous home at about three a.m. on Monday. Auntie served us a quick cup of Earl Grey tea with milk, kept warm in a ceramic teapot snuggled in a quilted tea cozy, one of her large collection of pretty and unusual teapots on display. Then it was off to try to get some sleep, each of us in our own room warmly decorated with antiques. The few hours of sleep I managed to get were restless with anxiety about the audition.

Morning arrived all too soon. Auntie gave us the royal treatment and served the big, gourmet breakfast she used to make for her paying guests: Eggs Florentine baked in individual custard cups, sausage, homemade biscuits, and more delicious tea. I had a feeling I shouldn’t eat so much when I had a leotard to squeeze into, but it was all so wonderful, and I didn’t want to offend Jenny’s aunt. Also, I tend to overeat when nervous.

The audition was held at the theatre where the show would be performed. The lobby was packed with dancers stretching and catching up on the latest gossip. Many of them knew each other because they lived and performed in Chicago. I felt anxious beyond anxious. My voice needed warming up, but where? And that decadent breakfast had left me bloated and uncomfortable. My stomach was so nervous and full of heavy food that the combination gave me the runs, so run I did, continuously, to the bathroom to relieve my churning intestines. The bathroom seemed as good a place as any to try singing a bit, especially since I was spending so much time there anyway, but I was too embarrassed to allow anyone to hear me, and girls kept coming in to primp. “In less than an hour, I will be singing solo in front of the casting people,” I realized. I could have died just thinking about it.

After giving up on the vocal warm-up, I joined Jenny in the lobby for a much-needed session of stretching out my body’s stiffness from a night of riding in the car. Sometimes your muscles freeze up from cold and exhaustion. Sometimes the anxiety and nervousness make them relax to the point of near liquidity, like a guy getting wobbly knees when he asks a girl to marry him. I hoped for the second situation, and, sure enough, I was instant Gumby. I could easily kick myself in the face or drop to a perfect split on the floor. The price paid would come the next day when my muscles would retaliate from being over-extended. My extreme flexibility reminded me of those miraculous stories where some poor guy is pinned under a car about to be crushed and a ninety-pound weakling passerby suddenly turns into Superman and singlehandedly lifts the car and saves the victim’s life. Of course, the next day our unlikely hero has to be hospitalized for muscle stress. “Tomorrow I might be sore as all get out, but today I get to be Superwoman,” I determined.

My body was ready and so was my resume. Thanks to Beef and Boards, this time my resume had a bona fide professional gig on it, one that didn’t require beefing up to disguise me as someone better than I really was. Jenny said I could hand write in my latest show,
Funny Girl
, instead of typing up a new resume. “It actually makes you look more professional by showing that you’re currently working and too busy to print new resumes,” she explained. I could even list my character’s name, “Polly.” I was lucky. Usually chorus girls didn’t get actual names. Perhaps it was only a small step, but I was definitely moving up in the world of showbiz.

The choreographer collected our headshots with resumes stapled to the back and handed us each a paper number to pin onto our leotards. I was now a number, not a name. I glanced at some of the other headshots and found them to be much more glamorous than mine. I was certain those girls could sing, too, and wondered what I was doing there. “I can only do my best and leave it at that,” I reminded myself.

Sometimes you sing first at an audition and sometimes you dance first. We danced first, and I was relieved when the choreographer taught the exact same choreography we had learned from Sandi. At least I was familiar with it, but so was everyone else in that room. It killed my knees, because I wasn’t really in dance shape, having not taken classes regularly since I lived in Minneapolis. Still, I loved to dance and felt fantastic when I got it right.

Then came the moment of truth: the singing audition. I prayed to God that I wouldn’t have to sing in front of all the other auditioners. The first number was announced, and the young man went into the room all by himself. Thank goodness! But as soon as the door shut behind him, people began peeking through the crack in the door and craning their necks to hear. The room wasn’t completely soundproof. “Great. The other performers are still going to be able to hear me, but,” I rationalized, “at least not at full volume.” Every time they got closer to my number, I wanted to run away and never look back. I could have bailed and not gone through with it. No one was holding a gun to my head. If I were really that distraught, I could have grabbed my bag and bolted outta there. But a braver, wiser, dream-filled part of me made me stay and go through this ordeal I knew would be painful. It just wouldn’t let me back out and quit.

When my number was finally called, I walked into the room and handed the pianist my sheet music (properly taped together, so he wouldn’t have to fumble with turning the pages). I cleared my throat, greeted the casting people seated at a table with my headshot in front of them, and, trembling, announced, “I am going to be singing, ‘You Can Always Count on Me.’” As the musical intro played, my heart began beating faster and faster. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. A wave of heat flushed through my entire body. My nerves took me hostage. By the time my entrance cue arrived, I had no breath support and could barely make a peep. After a seeming eternity of awkward silence, by sheer willpower, I broke free and managed to squeeze out a note. The sound that emanated from my lips was like nothing I’d ever heard, my voice cracking and shaking like a mini, oral earthquake. The same nervous energy that allowed me to kick to my forehead had left my vocal chords careening out of control. Nevertheless, I kept right on singing to the very end of the required sixteen bars, all the while horrified at what I was hearing. I knew everyone within earshot was completely uncomfortable and mortified for me.