Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (18 page)

“This was my first singing audition,” I blurted out apologetically before the casting people had a chance to comment. My statement was a waste of breath, as my inexperience was painfully obvious after they heard, or didn’t hear, my first few notes. (Never apologize or make excuses for a rotten audition. It just makes you look worse and certainly makes you look unprofessional. Ugh. What humiliation.) Fortunately, instead of being appalled and rude, the casting people were compassionate and kind, and took pity upon me. After all, I had just given a real-life performance of the vocally challenged character Kristine. And I was pretty convincing, if I say so myself.

I walked out of the room terribly defeated and embarrassed in one sense but slightly triumphant in another. Sure I was absolutely atrocious, but I had gone through with it. I had overcome my fear and lived to tell about it. I resolved to take voice lessons, confident that I could only get better.

Once everyone had sung, the choreographer came out and, just like in
A Chorus Line
after an arduous day of auditioning, announced which people they would like to have stay. He shuffled through the deck of headshots naming the chosen ones. Only after his polite dismissal, “Thank you all for coming,” did we know for sure that those of us whose names hadn’t yet been announced hadn’t been called back. I was disappointed, but certainly not surprised that I got cut after that dreadful singing disaster. Still, I held out hope that they would consider me for the part of Kristine. Unfortunately, none of my castmates had gotten a call back either.

No sooner had we returned to Jenny’s aunt’s house, foiled in our attempt to secure employment post
Funny Girl
, when the phone rang. It was the choreographer calling for me. “We accidentally put your headshot in the wrong pile. We’d love for you to come to the callback.” I couldn’t believe my ears. The victory was bittersweet, however, as my Beef and Boards buddies hadn’t been invited back. Competing with your friends stinks. It’s the nature of the beast. Even when you make the cut, it’s hard to be completely happy for yourself when you are glum for your chums.

Cut to the chase: I attended the callback and didn’t make the final cut, but I felt proud that I had made it that far. As far as I was concerned, my “failure” was simply a step closer to future success. I wasn’t convinced that I wanted to live in cold, windy, gray Chicago anyway. I missed sunny California. I missed my sister and friends.

Back at ye olde Beef and Boards, I started to feel that five weeks of the same show, no matter how much fun initially, would be tedious. I had never repeated a performance more than three times total in the past, let alone eight shows a week for five weeks. Getting settled in a long run—this wasn’t even long by industry standards—was a whole new experience for me. Soon after getting comfortable in the show, I began beefing about being bored. I didn’t know how to relax and enjoy the ride.

The restlessness didn’t last long, however, thanks to one especially effective boredom breaker: visits from family and friends. Indianapolis was a drivable distance from Detroit and Chicago, so parents and pals ventured down to witness my professional musical theatre debut. Having loved ones in the audience was like a jolt of caffeine giving me just the buzz I needed to perk up my show.

Another monotony savior was mistakes. My first big onstage mishap was a costume malfunction that happened in the “Beautiful Bride” number. The wedding dress I wore had a heavy, wire-framed skirt à la eighteenth century France, which protruded several feet to either side of me and dripped strands of beads and white doves. As my partner paraded me around, the clasp holding the marital monstrosity around my waist broke. I was horrified as I felt it plunge to the ground, and I quickly grabbed it with both hands. The number was about “taking the plunge,” but this wasn’t the plunge the songwriter had in mind. Instead of holding my partner’s hand and attempting any semblance of choreography, all I could do was try to hold up the awkward, weighty bird cage and keep my rear end covered until the end of the number. Of course, the rest of the cast found this hilarious. Even I could giggle about it later.

My five-week stint at Beef and Boards culminated in the traditional playing of pranks at the last performance. We ladies opted to abuse and amuse the guys with the old “lotion in the hand” trick: put a glob in your palm before going onstage, and when your partner grabs you he gets a slippery surprise. Everything that happens on stage then is exponentially funnier because 1.) you know your victim has to keep a straight face in spite of having been slimed; and 2.) you know you yourself are forbidden to break character while pulling off such hijinks. The boys were so shocked by our gooey gifts that I had a chuckling fit on stage that could have gotten me fired. As a final bonus, we girls put on thick layers of fiery red lipstick for kissing attacks on the guys when they came off stage. Smothering their faces in crimson smooches, I kissed Beef and Boards “goodbye” and my future in showbiz “hello!”

Although
Funny Girl
had been funny and fun both on stage and off, bidding farewell to Jenny and my new friends was no laughing matter. I would miss everyone. But I refused to allow the gloom of parting with my performing pals to overshadow my enthusiasm for the entertainment adventures that surely awaited me in sunny California.

The next morning, I walked the few blocks from Jenny’s place to the nearest subway station and caught the N train from Queens into Manhattan for my farewell performance as a Radio City Rockette. I was an emotional cocktail—a heavy dose of excitement, invigoration, and anxiety with a splash of melancholy, grief, and regret. I was proud of myself for all I had accomplished, regretful of the risks I never took, and grief stricken by the fact that my dance career was ending. It was hard to imagine leaving showbiz behind after all these years. “The theatre feels like home,” I thought. “It’s where I feel most like myself, most passionate about life.” Throughout the course of my adulthood I had taken brief forays into other jobs, but, like a boomerang, I always returned to show business. Whenever I felt lost, I could step back into a musty, dusty dance studio and feel safe and comforted. Dance fit me like an old shoe. 

Most jobs are what you do. Dance is who you
are
. Dance was at the core of my being. “Who am I if I stop dancing?” I wondered. Ironically, throughout the majority of my career I had worried about how I was going to break into showbiz and sustain a living in entertainment. Now, I was wondering how to break out of showbiz and create a lucrative career doing anything else. My duffel bag sat heavy on my lap. Saying goodbye to the theatre felt like breaking up with a lover when it wasn’t my choice.

Quit depressing yourself, Kristi, or you’ll never get through this day. Focus on all the fun you had. Be grateful for the adventure.
The familiar “ka-chung, ka-chung, ka-chung” rhythm of the subway soon lulled me into a trance with memories of my past continuing to pierce my awareness like a barrage of fantastic dream images.

Act 1, Scene 4

The Cow’s Behind

(And Other Embarrassing Parts)

Upon returning to California, I plugged myself right back into the life I’d left behind almost as if I’d never left, with one important exception: My intention to follow through on my dream of becoming an entertainer was cranked up a notch.
Funny Girl
had left me even more enamored of the theatre and all its trimmings and had given me the boost of confidence I needed to forge ahead.

Alas, I still didn’t have a plan on how to accomplish my goal. So I went back to working at the art gallery, teaching aerobics, and dating Adam. Then one glorious day, I got the break I was hoping for. While casually sipping my morning cup of java and flipping through the newspaper, I spotted an ad. It jumped out from the pages, grabbed me by the collar, and pulled me in close. Auditions were being held for Starlight Musical Theatre’s Summer Series at Balboa Park in Old Town, San Diego. Five different musicals were being presented at the Starlight Bowl amphitheater over the course of the summer–practically in my own back yard!

When I laid eyes on that audition notice, I became a three-year-old begging for a cookie: “I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it!” Unfortunately, I hadn’t been taking dance classes and wasn’t in top-notch shape. Looking at myself in a leotard made me cringe. Since leaving Indianapolis I hadn’t been singing at all either. But I was absolutely determined to be in a show, and I still had several weeks left to prepare. I could picture it so clearly: the thrill of being up on that stage singing and dancing for a live audience. It was almost too much to bear. I had to audition, and, more importantly, I had to get hired.

This time I practiced and practiced and practiced my audition song until I could sing it in my sleep. “I can sing this measly amount of music without making a fool of myself. It’s not that big a deal,” I counseled myself, knowing I needed to be much more emotionally prepared than I was for my last, disastrous audition. I was a woman on a mission. No piddling sixteen bars of little, black notes were going to stop me from my dream. I showed up at that audition, danced as best I could, and belted out my song. That
Chorus Line
catastrophe must have shocked the stage fright right out of me, because I sang my solo without incident. I didn’t freeze up, shake uncontrollably, hyperventilate, implode, or spontaneously combust. Hallelujah! Victory was mine. Lo and behold, I made it into one of the shows:
The Wizard of Oz
. I was ecstatic.

The Wizard of Oz
was one of those films that I both loved and hated as a kid. I loved the music, the magical Land of Oz, Toto the dog, and glittery Glinda the Good Witch. The Munchkins left me mesmerized, being my first encounter with midgets. I joyfully imitated Dorothy, Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion frolicking down the yellow brick road while singing “We’re Off to See the Wizard.” To this day, I find opportunities to exclaim, “Lions and tigers and bears! Oh, my!” or to liquefy, like the Witch, into a puddle on the floor while screeching, “I’m melting!” But parts of the movie scared the pantaloons off me. Who doesn’t recall those terrifying scenes where the tornado came spinning toward Dorothy Gale’s Kansas farmhouse? How about when the Wicked Witch threatened Dorothy, “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!” “Not the dog!” I’d protest tearfully as a child. And the Witch’s evil, ultra creepy, flying monkeys were no barrel of monkeys. The show was a recipe for nightmares.

Thankfully, there were no nightmares involving our directors. On the contrary. The Mom-and-Pop team of Don and Bonnie Ward were a dream to work with. The Wards were a fifty-something, former dance duo who brought the house down in the Catskills. These happy, light-hearted souls played off each other and corrected each other like any married couple might. Their easygoing nature was reflected in their practical, comfy, street clothes—Bonnie in a flowery dress and ballet flats, and Don in a collared Polo shirt and khakis. They truly cared about the cast and were glad to have us on board. It was like working for doting parents. They seemed to enjoy directing
The Wiz
and held no bitterness about The Biz. Don and Bonnie were a refreshing introduction to the world of musical theatre.

With a mere two weeks to put up the show, the cast rehearsed long days, six days a week. It was like having a real job, only doing something fantastically fun. Rehearsals were held in a brick building on a deserted street near downtown San Diego. The rehearsal room had high ceilings and lots of light. I loved being there. Another room, for costume fittings, came complete with wardrobe people to take our measurements. My favorite was the funky woman in her twenties who wore different wigs of varying lengths and colors. New and interesting people were everywhere.

Many of our leads—Lion, Tin Man, Scarecrow, Wicked Witch, and the Wizard—as well as a portion of the ensemble were Equity professionals, some imported from out of town. The remaining cast consisted of local, non-union performers. The Equity members made about three times as much moolah as the rest of us (who received about $200 per week) and got more time off throughout the day. I marveled at the clandestine union meetings to which I was not privy, their rules and regulations, election of union reps, official breaks at specified times, and higher wages. “I’m working as hard as they are. Why do they get more time off and more money for doing the same job?” Basically, they earned more because they had paid their dues, literally and figuratively, and were extremely talented, seasoned professionals. Still, it was easy to get annoyed with the inequity. The theatre was required to hire a certain number of Equity performers at full price, and then were free to fill in the rest of the cast with bargain-priced, non-union, less experienced entertainers like myself. The musical required a large cast, mainly due to all the townspeople needed to populate the Emerald City—capital of the Land of Oz—so it made sense for the producers to cut costs this way. Who was I to complain, when it got my foot in the door?

A crowd of kids also got their feet in the door, as they were used to play “Munchkins.” The whippersnappers were a lot more prevalent than bonafide little people and easier on the payroll. Toto, on the other hand, was a consummate professional and probably cost a pretty penny. Toto came with his very own trainer who taught Dorothy how to get the dog to follow her on stage: click a hidden clicker in her skirt then reward Toto with a small treat. The process was fascinating to behold. Animals and children can be unpredictable, so having them in the cast made the show all the more exciting.

While dancing was my forte, I absolutely adored singing. I looked forward to the point in the day when we were all exhausted from jumping about, and we grabbed folding chairs and gathered around the piano. I brought my tiny tape recorder to record our sessions and my pencil and score, so I could circle my harmonies and note any changes from the musical director. It really helped that I played piano and could read music. Plus, having spent years singing in the choir in high school and church, I was comfortable singing harmony and finding and holding my note while others around me sang different parts of the chord. Doing that can be a real chore for someone who hasn’t done it before. Picking your note out of an eight-note chord can be like finding a needle in a haystack. It’s all too easy to gravitate toward someone else’s note or switch to an easier part.

When the musical director asked what part I sang, I said I sang alto. That was what I sang in high school, more so because I could sing the right harmonies than because I had a low voice. “First or second alto?” he inquired. I could have been a mezzo soprano, for all I knew. Those sopranos always had to screech notes so shrill and high only a dog could hear them. I didn’t think I could reach the rafters. “Can you belt a high E in your chest voice?” he asked. “You have a nice blend of head and chest voice.” I appreciated the compliment, although I was unschooled in differentiating between the two. Exasperated, I finally accepted that I was a first alto for lack of a better idea. I should have known what part I sang. How embarrassing. I was just relieved he didn’t make me sing solo in front of everyone to determine my vocal range.

Not only was I thrilled to be at rehearsals, but I was ecstatic that I was going to be performing at the San Diego Civic Theatre in downtown San Diego. It was a big theatre (about 2,500 seats), and I had seen the Broadway tour of
Les Miserable
there, so the venue itself overwhelmed me with delight. To top that off, I got to enter through the stage door—the “secret” backstage entrance for cast and crew—instead of out front with the rest of the ticket-carrying crowd.

My main role in the show was as one of the green-clad citizens of the Emerald City. The show didn’t require much of the ensemble, but our most exuberant number was more athletic than an aerobics class. It culminated in thirty-two frog jumps while sustaining a high A note—the kind of note that would make a dog whimper in pain—as part of a magnificent, climactic chord. Thirty-two frog jumps would exhaust even the most athletic frog. I could barely catch my breath, so trying to sing and hold any note, let alone a high A, was worse than having a frog in my throat.

Much more traumatic was my first appearance in the show, near the end of the first act, when Dorothy and her entourage approach Oz. They happen upon a field of poppies that lull them into a drug-induced, sleep-like trance. My big debut was as a giant flower in a field of singing poppies. We poppies wore black, spandex suits with hoods that covered our heads like a bathing cap, over which we clasped enormous red petals around our necks. Our heads were the flowers and our bodies the stems. I felt like a complete moron. When my friends came to see the show, I prayed they didn’t discover me. To make matters worse, later in the production, a girl named Dana and I had to dress up like giant birds and run across the back of the stage flapping our wings.

Why we didn’t get to actually fly as birds is beyond me, because theatrical flying experts, Flying by Foy, flew in from Vegas to rig the cables for our many airborne performers. The Wicked Witch flew, the flying monkeys flew, several people flew inside the tornado, and the Wizard flew off in a hot air balloon at the end. To add to the magic, pyrotechnics illuminated the appearance and disappearance of the Witch; she entered and exited in an explosive flash of flames.

The first time the entire cast saw the staging of the tornado scene, it blew our minds. Everything got swept up by the twister and spun through the air, including the nasty Miss Gulch on her bicycle with Toto in the basket and Auntie Em in her rocking chair. The whirlwind reached a frenzied pitch ending with Dorothy’s house landing on the Wicked Witch, her red and white striped legs extending out, wearing the ruby slippers. The cast cheered and applauded wildly. There is so much about a show that you are in that you don’t know about, as you rarely get to see the show in its entirety. If you ever get a chance to watch it from out front, you are always amazed at how the production looks from the audience’s perspective.

My four weeks rehearsing and performing
The Wizard of Oz
were simply enchanting. The theatre had become my “somewhere over the rainbow” where “troubles melt like lemon drops.” There was no stopping me now. I had found me a home, and, as Dorothy Gale proclaims, “There’s no place like home.”

*******

After
The Wizard of Oz
ended, I got more serious about show business and decided to take steps to move my career forward. Step #1: It was clear I would benefit from finding a voice teacher. I figured that by the time I was thirty-five, I could have ten years of voice lessons under my belt and possibly become a singer. Plus, if I wanted to get anywhere in this business of entertainment, I needed to be able to sing for auditions. My boyfriend Adam, who loved connecting people, knew some local women who sang in an all-female quartet called “The Fabulous Earrings.” One of the women in the group, Marcia, was also a voice teacher. Perfect.

My first lesson with Marcia was unnerving, because I was still self-conscious about singing solo in front of someone. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I asked myself and then answered myself right away: “I could make unpleasant sounds, and she’d know my singing stinks.” I decided I could live with that. Using the same karaoke cassette tape of James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend” that I used for
Funny Girl
, I pathetically, meekly, eked out the lyrics atop the background music. I was relieved when it was over. ”Okay, so you can see where I’m starting from,” I said. She nodded. So began my vocal training.

Marcia was a pretty, single woman in her forties who dressed in comfy, worn beach clothes and wore her wavy, blond hair long and natural. She played the acoustic guitar to accompany me except when she plunked out scales on her small, portable keyboard. Singing with the guitar was heavenly. We’d do songs by Linda Ronstadt, Bonnie Raitt, and Janis Joplin. Her hippie/folksy bent was not exactly ideal for musical theatre coaching, but if I lived near her now, I’d still want to sing with her.

My lessons were held in La Jolla in Marcia’s small studio apartment built atop the garage of a large house that she watched over while its owners were out of town. Her apartment had windows running the entire length of the back, which overlooked the ocean. I would sing while gazing out at the waves coming into shore. The room had a tiny bathroom and a little kitchenette where a mini coffee maker was always brewing in case I wanted a cup. Her sleeping area was a bed-sized loft, reachable by ladder. A small TV sat on a shelf, but I doubt Marcia watched it much, because it had a sign taped across the screen announcing “twenty-four hours notice needed for lesson cancellations.” I’m not sure the set was even functional. Sometimes she had a vase with a few flowers sitting on the counter. At other times, her sewing machine would be out, so she could stitch costumes for her quartet. Besides teaching voice lessons and performing with The Fabulous Earrings for private parties and shopping mall celebrations, she played guitar and sang standard, tropical vacation repertoire at oceanside restaurants. In the winter, her large family convened at a California ski resort where she would sing in the chalet to pay for her vacation. Her life seemed so serenely simple. Marcia herself took lessons from a famous teacher all the way up in Los Angeles and would come back and share the skills she had learned with me. Thanks to Marcia, my singing improved by leaps and bounds. I cherished my weekly lessons with her.