Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (21 page)

Fortunately, the vivacious finale more than made up for the “Rosie” debacle. It was a dazzling dance party made all the more spectacular by the bubbles spraying out of bubble machines à la Lawrence Welk, as we tapped our way to the end of the show in our colorful, sequined flapper dresses. It was a delightful, effervescent champagne finish.

Due to the abundance of dance numbers, the ensemble had loads of costume changes, including hats and bows and wigs. Between numbers we all stampeded en masse down the stairs to our dressing rooms to quickly change clothes. Between the onstage dancing and the offstage sprinting, it was a great overall workout—better than interval training at the gym.

We also had a ton of choreography to learn. I panicked one day when I realized my head no longer knew what steps came next, especially for the tap numbers. Before each show and before each number, I tried to review the choreography in my head, but it was pointless; the choreography had already migrated from my brain to my muscles. At first, when performing, I’d have to make a concerted effort to remember the step sequences. After enough rehearsals, however, I danced on auto pilot and couldn’t have told you in words what came next even if you offered me a million dollars. When another performer asked me, “What comes after the kick ball change?” I replied, “I don’t know. Let me find out.” Then I had to do the dance in fast forward and let my body show me, because the show had settled in my muscle memory.

My brain had delegated the job to my muscles, thereby freeing up precious space in my mind for new information. I was then free to think about other, more important matters, like what to buy my friend for her birthday, where to go out for drinks after the show, or whether there were any cute guys in the audience. The process became second nature, like driving a car. Once you’ve done it enough, you can listen to the radio, talk to passengers, drink a smoothie, make phone calls, and fix your lipstick while the car seems to drive itself.

The problems came when I got nervous or distracted, or second-guessed my muscles. Thinking about the choreography too much sabotaged my performance. Once during “I Want to Be Happy” I started to consciously wonder what came next, and I didn’t know what to do. It was terrifying, and I had to glance at my castmates next to me to get back in step. I learned that I had to quiet my mind, relax, and trust my muscles to do their job.

The lead actors in
No, No, Nanette
awed me, as did anyone who could really sing, act, and dance, for that matter. Alan Young was one of the leads in our production, and he had been a real, live television star! From 1961 to 1966 he starred as Wilbur Post in the popular
Mister Ed
series about a talking horse by the same name who only talked to Wilbur and liked to cause trouble. I was thrilled to introduce my parents to him, as they used to watch his TV program back in the old days. Alan was very kind to my parents and in front of them said to me, “You should keep performing. You have what it takes to make it.” I was honored to have his seal of approval.

Two of our other leads were none other than the directors’ son and his wife. Sure it was nepotism, but they were both incredible talents and well suited to their parts. The daughter-in-law had given birth to two children and was still able to wear short shorts and wow the cast with her perfect legs. I was inspired. Maybe having babies wouldn’t ruin my figure forever. If she can do it, why can’t I? Eventually the couple went on to star in
Crazy for You
in London’s West End. Another young female lead in our show went on to star as Eponine on Broadway in
Les Miserable
. At least two of the ensemble members went to Broadway as well. So I was thrown in the midst of a group of very talented people with bright futures ahead of them.

The Starlight Bowl was a unique place in which to perform, not only because of its setting within Balboa Park, but also because it sat in the middle of the San Diego Airport flight path. As the story goes, some time after the Starlight Bowl was built, the San Diego airport decided to redirect all incoming flights directly over the theatre. I’m sure the musical theatre directors were none too thrilled. Of course, a few singers and an orchestra were no match for the deafening jet noise. It was impossible to perform as airplane after airplane roared overhead. Audience members would have been highly disgruntled had they bought tickets to
Oklahoma
hoping to be moved to tears by Curly and Laurey singing their tender, romantic love duet “People Will Say We’re in Love” only to see the star couple open their mouths and hear nothing but jet engines. They’d surely want to boo, throw tomatoes, and demand their money back.

The ingenious solution was a stoplight system visible to performers at the back of the orchestra pit. As long as the light was green, the show proceeded normally. A yellow light warned that a plane was approaching, and we should prepare to stop. A red light signaled that all performers were to “freeze.” We watched the orchestra conductor for the exact cut off point. Whenever possible, he tried to pick the end of a musical phrase or an appropriate moment in the dance, hopefully not while our partners were holding us up in a lift.

We’d be frolicking around stage, singing and tap dancing and suddenly catch a glimpse of a plane in the distance. Oh boy, here it comes. The jet noise would become audible, “I want to be happy…” (triple time step right, triple time step left). The yellow light would come on, “but I can’t be happy…” (triple time step right, add arm swing, triple time step left, add arm swing and move one spot to the left). We’d try to discreetly take a peek at the conductor without breaking character, “till I make you happy…” (triple time step right, bigger arms, triple time step left, bigger arms, and move one more spot to the left). The conductor would bring his baton to sweeping halt, “… too!” We’d strike a pose using whatever dance move we were in at that moment.

If we remained there for an inordinately long amount of time, the situation could get pretty hairy, depending on the pose we were in. After a while our muscles began to quiver with fatigue. (Try lunging deeply on your right leg with one arm up above your head and one straight out to the side with your head and eyes looking skyward. Hold that pose for a full minute.) And we’d have to remain frozen with whatever goofy face or toothy grin we had plastered on at the pausing point. If I got stuck gazing directly into the eyes of another performer I’d feel like I was in a childhood staring contest not wanting to blink or laugh first. The entire wait we’d have to watch the conductor with our peripheral vision to see when he waved his baton and the green light “Go!” signal returned to resume the show. We’d try to remember where we’d left off, but the lag time could seriously disrupt the flow if we were already dancing on autopilot.

Some nights we stopped and started again and again. It seemed like every few bars of music we’d have to freeze, like someone was constantly hitting the video pause button. It wasn’t unusual for audience members to become annoyed, perhaps a reason the company struggled with patrons.

The other challenge had to do with dancing outdoors and braving the elements. In June, San Diego was loaded with, appropriately named, June bugs. June bugs were half-inch long, brown, winged, hard-shelled beetles that looked pretty scary the first time I saw them. They’d fly in our faces while we were dancing, but we couldn’t swat them away, or we’d distract the audience and mess up the choreography. Those insects seemed to know that we were helpless and took advantage of our predicament. Accidentally, I got revenge on plenty of those creepy crawlies. When tap dancing, I’d hear an awful crunching sound beneath my feet and know another one bit the dust. Or I’d do a cartwheel, my hands crushing their brittle shells. Yuk! Believe me I tried, but I couldn’t always avoid them. The temperature outdoors was also out of our control; we might sweat to death or freeze to death. There wasn’t much we could do about it.

Working at The Bowl definitely offered its pluses and minuses, one big plus being the live orchestra, which, of course, is better than working with a dead orchestra and infinitely better than working with recorded music. Dancing and singing to that full, rich, magnificent sound was a real treat. As performers, we relied on a competent conductor for the right tempos and on competent musicians for a clean sound. A change in tempo either faster or slower than what we practiced with in rehearsal made a considerable difference in the ease or difficulty of performing the choreography. As such, the orchestra could enhance or botch up the show. Regardless, the first rehearsal with the orchestra was always a big day. The glorious sound infused us with energy and excitement.

Opening night was also a thrill, not only because it was our first night to perform for a real audience and hear their response, but because opening night meant presents, flowers, and a party. The performers passed out cards and small gifts to the other cast members. I could barely afford to pay my bills, but that didn’t stop me from making cutesy little trinkets for everyone. For
No, No, Nanette
, I filled plastic champagne glasses with party streamers and bubble gum balls to look like glasses of bubbly champagne. Many cast members received bouquets of flowers from friends, family, and lovers. It almost didn’t seem fair that we got gifts for simply doing a job we loved to do—but that was tradition in the theatre world. For closing night, we all chipped in to get presents for the conductor, director, choreographer, and stage manager. It was a love fest from beginning to end.

Life in Southern Cali was moving along splendidly. Then, one morning around five a.m., I was awakened by the alarm clock from hell: an earthquake. Good morning, Mother Nature! My entire two-story building was grinding back and forth like we were being carried on ocean waves. My heart beat wildly as I waited for the wild ride to subside. I never slept well after that, always anticipating another tremor. Talk about feeling out of control. While California was certainly famous for its entertainment scene, it was also notorious for natural disasters. Earthquakes came with the territory. I was going to have to shake, rattle, and roll with the punches.

*******

The second show at the Starlight Bowl was
Chess
—a rock musical about American-Russian relations, illustrated metaphorically through a competitive professional chess match between an American and a Russian chess master. Also thrown in was a love triangle between the brash American, his female manager, and his Russian competitor/nemesis. I had seen the show in London and was blown away. I absolutely loved the music, which was co-written by two of the singers from the famous pop group ABBA. “One Night in Bangkok” was a radio hit dance tune from the eighties, and I knew it well. Rock musicals seemed to move me more than any other type of musical. Music was this show’s strong point.

This was the first show of the season not directed by the Wards. Instead, a middle-aged, silver-and-gray haired guy named Jamie Rocco directed with his sexy sidekick choreographer, Donna Drake. It appeared that I left little impression on Mr. Rocco, because he paid me next to no notice. Donna, on the other hand, left a big impression on plenty of us. At thirty-some years of age, she was still a babe with a bodacious bod. She would nibble on cold hotdogs during rehearsals making all the straight guys salivate. I never had an inkling what the backgrounds of the directors and choreographers were until the
Playbill
came out, at which point I would eagerly flip through to find their biographies. It turns out that Rocco had starred on Broadway in
Cats
and had directed and choreographed in many theatres around the United States and in London as well. Donna had been in the original cast of
A Chorus Line
. Now I was really impressed.

Our two male leads—the Russian and American chess competitors—were both handsome, sexy men. The American guy looked like a smokin’ hot rock star with streaky, spiky blond hair and tiny, gold hoop earrings in his ears. Boy, could he wail. I stood mesmerized as I watched him sing his solo, gyrating like a true rock star and ending dramatically on his knees, his back arched, head facing heavenward. I wished I had an ounce of his vocal talent. He was jaw-droppingly captivating. The Russian was attractive in a more stately way and belted out those ABBA tunes with the power of a proud Soviet.

Yet again, I was thrown for a loop when I heard a rumor that another super cute guy from the ensemble who had been dating one of the female cast members dropped her like a hot potato and hooked up with one of the other babe-alicious dudes instead. Hold on! Not fair! That took two of the prime dating possibilities out of the running in one fell swoop. Figuring out who to flirt with became confusing, because these guys did not look or act like stereotypical gay men. But really, was it fair for so many gorgeous, talented guys to play for the other team? I was partially disappointed that the women’s team had lost two good men and partially excited by witnessing what may have been my first bisexual in action.

Along with our amazing superstar talent, we had the perfect set for a show entitled
Chess
—a giant chess board, of course! Ours covered most of the stage. What made it particularly interesting was that its squares could be lit in different patterns and the whole board could be tilted on an angle or rotated. Very cool and effective visually. The set was so treacherously slick, however, that it was more like an ice rink than a game board. I had been slipping in rehearsal and asked wardrobe for some help. They gave me rough-surface stickers to adhere to the soles of my shoes. The stickers were cheap and ineffective and peeled off when I danced, but that’s all wardrobe would offer.