Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (37 page)

Not knowing when my next gig would present itself, I thought, “Kristi, you’d better make some money and not just sit around twiddling your thumbs.” Friends had told me about a temp agency called “All-Star” that serviced only movie, TV, film, and recording studios. It was a favorite of many wannabe actors who thought they might be discovered answering phones or typing on a computer.
I suppose it is a foot in the door, even if it is the wrong door.
I finally got the nerve up to go to the office and take the spelling and typing test. “You passed. You’re hired,” the lady announced. All I had to do was be available every workday during regular office hours. 

Each morning at six, I arose, showered, styled my hair, and put on makeup. Since cell phones weren’t yet affordable or popular, I had to stay in the apartment in case All-Star called. If by noon, I hadn’t received a call, I would figure I wouldn’t be getting called that day and could leave. I went absolutely nuts waiting. While desperately needing the money, I dreaded having to go somewhere unfamiliar to work and not knowing what my job would require and whether or not the other employees would be friendly. New Line Cinemas brought me in just to answer phones. That’s all they expected me to be able to do, which was probably for the best. Mostly I just sat around twiddling my thumbs, but this time for money. Some people excel at it, but I deeply disliked being a secretary.

The day I worked at Warner Chappell Music on Santa Monica Boulevard was a bit more interesting. I seemed to be in the receptionist hot seat as the phones were ringing off the hooks. Apparently, whoever I was answering calls for was someone of great importance and popularity in the music industry. I was so flustered putting a zillion calls on hold and cutting people off while trying to transfer their calls that when the polite, frizzy blond-haired gentleman asked me to let Mr. So-and-so know he was here, I wasn’t giving him my full attention. He told me his name the first time, which I forgot. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was again?” “Sammy.” That didn’t seem to register either. A few more hundred phone calls later… “Excuse me sir, what did you say your last name was?” “HAGAR,” he said with a chuckle. I turned red with embarrassment at my rock and roll faux pas. The man was one of three singers for the legendary rock group Van Halen. Duh! Luckily, he was extremely cool about my cluelessness.

My next experience was as the replacement for the administrative assistant for one of the Head Honchos at Twentieth Century Fox. The H.H was out of town; I was left instructions to update the A.A.’s Filofax, which meant making all these dreadful calls to people who had no idea who I was and asking to verify their addresses and phone numbers. I hated doing it. Little did I know I’d really be in Hatesville when the boss phoned in. I answered cheerfully as I thought an administrative assistant should do. “WHO IS THIS?!” he yelled angrily. He was clearly offended by my jovial personality. (In his defense, perhaps I didn’t sound professional enough.) My tone immediately changed to a woman on the defensive, and I was enraged. He was so rude that I left a note for the A.A.—who wanted me to take over for her once a week while she went back to school (good choice)—that “under no circumstances would I be caught dead working for someone as horrible as Mr. T.V.!” I was so brain dead and upset by the end of the day that I rear-ended a guy, well, really his car, on the way home. That was my last day temping. I decided I would rather starve.

I nearly did starve. My solution to my employment dilemma was to put as many of my expenses on my credit card as possible and save my dwindling cash reserves to write checks for bills and rent. Who knew how long it would be before I got another show, if I ever did get another show? How long should I hold out before giving up and getting a real job?

*******

Yippee! I didn’t have to wait too long before booking another Playboy gig, a whirlwind four-day excursion to Taipei, Taiwan. The trip was so short and sweet that our body clocks never reset to the new time zone; hence jet lag wasn’t much of a problem. Our hotel, the luxurious Grand Hyatt Taipei, was a gorgeous site, with massive bouquets of fresh flowers welcoming its guests. Upon arrival, we sat down to an incredible, gourmet breakfast buffet. This is the life!

Again, our cast changed; this time we traveled with eight: Me, Jasmine, Callie, Satin, Athena, Lynda, Porsche, and our new addition, Kira—a tall, gorgeous brunette, 30-ish woman who had also been taking voice lessons from Kali and sang in an alternative rock band. She and I were backup singers/dancers for Lynda who was singing the sultry En Vogue song, “Never Gonna Get It.” It was my job to teach Kira the choreography. Our costumes were black crushed-velvet shorty shorts, black bikini-type tops, and long, white satin gloves. Oooo, la, la! I loved doing that number.

Our biggest concern was Satin, who, after being on hiatus for a month, showed up on the first day of rehearsal considerably plumper than previously. Valerie was fit to be tied. Satin was still a bombshell, certainly, but her skimpy costumes didn’t allow much room for expansion. Satin joked, “My boyfriend says I’m storing food for the winter.” Val laughed nervously, her mind racing a mile a minute trying to figure out how to deflate her star Playmate’s weight in a matter of days. Somehow Satin managed to pull it off (the surplus poundage and a great show). Constant weight-watching was a pitfall of our career; sometimes there was nothing more gratifying than saying, “Supersize it and, yes, I will take a cherry pie with that and an extra large order of fries.” But we had to be willing to pay the consequences.

Our performances were held in the Hyatt Ballroom after attendees had enjoyed an exquisite gourmet dinner (duet of salmon, braised shark’s fin with shredded abalone and crab roe, stir fried lobster, tangerine sherbet crowned with champagne, panfried beef tenderloin in garlic sauce with prawn and scallops). Sponsored by American Express, the first show was a classy affair; each ticket costing over $400 American. Everyone in our cast was friendly, and I was having a ball. After the performance, the important clients and producers wanted to snap a few photos with us in costume, and we willingly obliged.

Having traveled with Playboy for over six months by now, I felt relaxed, confident, and able to handle just about any performance in just about any costume with grace and style. Not that I endorse Playboy or pornography, but I have to admit that my Girls of Rock experiences definitely loosened me up and made me more comfortable with my sexuality and my body. I read an article in which Hugh Hefner claimed he had started
Playboy
in response to his repressive Midwestern Puritan upbringing, which was far from touchy-feely. Growing up in a loving but conservative, church-going Midwestern family myself, I felt sex as a conversation topic to be totally taboo and excruciatingly embarrassing. I always had the impression that it was wrong. Mind you, I’ve since realized that
every
person in church was the product of sexual intercourse. Even our pastors. And
every
person in church who had children (who weren’t adopted) had actually
done it
themselves. (Except for the few cases of in vitro fertilization. But even in that situation, the father had to produce a sperm sample, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a copy of
Playboy
magazine had been provided to help him in his pursuit.) Show business in general revered sexuality (perhaps too much at times). Even backstage, discussions about sex were normal and natural, tolerant and open. Sex was a delightful pleasure of being human and not something to be ashamed of. Love
is
a wonderful thing. Working in an environment in which sex and sex appeal were celebrated, and not a dirty secret, was liberating.

The second show was presented by the Hyatt itself, and the equally delectable meal featured “skillet chicken and corn salad, mussel and spinach mousse parcel in vermouth sauce, sherbet intermission, beef in oriental herb sauce, buttered asparagus, potato pancakes, pear and ginger with mascarpone frot in tulip, coffee, tea, chocolate cookies.” They served us this very dinner after our show, and it was lick-your-plate-clean magnificent. Afterwards, we went dancing at a nightclub whose specialty drink was a chemist’s container of test-tube iced vodka shooters. Ice, ice baby.

Before leaving Taiwan, we managed to squeeze in a whirlwind day of sightseeing that included visits to the Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial, Soldier’s Memorial, and the National Palace Museum, which showcased representative displays of the country’s best ceramics, porcelain, calligraphy, painting, and ritual bronzes. I was disappointed to find that all the bargain Made-in-Taiwan items were already in America. Only outrageously expensive, foreign, designer goods remained in Taiwan. Consequently, I didn’t do any shopping for myself this time.

Our hosts took us to a no-frills Taiwanese restaurant for the best Chinese food I’ve ever eaten. The giant lazy Susan in the middle of the table held a wide variety of individual dishes. We spun the wheel to sample anything and everything. It was all fresh and light and flavorful and delicious—none of those deep-fried nuggets slathered in thick, sweet and sour, super-sugary sauces like we get in America.

When we arrived back in L.A., Kira kindly inquired, “Kristi, do you need a ride home? My boyfriend is sending a car for me, and I’m sure you could come along, too.” A sleek and shiny black limo materialized, compliments of her beloved. “What does your boyfriend do?” I asked, noting that this was a particularly elegant vehicle. “Oh, he’s a drummer for the band Foreigner. They’re rehearsing tonight, so he couldn’t pick me up himself.” My jaw dropped. “Whoa! Foreigner? I was really into that band when I was a teenager.”
This is way too cool. Only in Hollywood.

*******

Now what? I didn’t want my job with Playboy to end, but there were no firm show confirmations in sight. My credit card debt was piling up. I’d had it with temping and was going insane holed up in my one-room apartment, doors locked to keep out the supposed drug dealers. I was one slice short of a loaf, two cards shy of a full deck, and nearly out of my mind with boredom. Dance classes would have been a productive way to pass the time, but I couldn’t afford them. Instead, I did aerobics in my apartment or rollerbladed along the beach, but it wasn’t the same. What do you do when you can’t go out and spend money? I did some drawing and painting to keep myself occupied, but I was losing it.

For one thing, I desperately craved social interactions. My sister was busy with her own boyfriend and her writing. My Playboy friends were spread out all over L.A. and the surrounding area. It generally took an hour and a half to drive a mere twenty miles, so meeting up wasn’t a quick and easy prospect. Most of my few evenings out were spent with Body Guard Billy going to the San Fernando Valley—also known as “the Valley,” where the term “Valley girls” comes from—to hear Kali’s band play at classy restaurants with twinkly white lights in the trees. These outings were wonderful—like water for someone dying of thirst—but few and far between. After enjoying such a thriving social life both with Adam and friends in San Diego and then with the Playboy gang on tour, my new, solo, isolated, underemployed, city lifestyle was tremendously lonely. I was down to just enough money to make one more rent payment.

The tourists lined up for photos with the lovely Rockette, who perfectly posed and smiled graciously for each and every request.
I wouldn’t miss everything about being a Rockette—the rehearsals and performances could be grueling—but being on the Roster with a guaranteed job, income, and health insurance sure felt great.
Before being hired by Radio City, I never knew where and when my next gig would turn up and, consequently, when I would receive my next paycheck. It could be a stressful way to live if you were the type to freak out about money. “I don’t know how I survived all those crazy, uncertain years without having to take anti-anxiety meds,” I thought to myself. The whole career was an exercise in learning to trust that the Universe would provide what I needed when I needed it. I had to find the security in insecurity. Still, I didn’t look forward to going back to iffy employment.
Remember, Kristi, that somehow a job always appeared in time. Your new life will be different, but everything is going to turn out okay.

“Would you like a picture, Ma’am?” the Rockette sweetly asked. “Sure,” I answered.
Ma’am? Holy cow, it IS time to retire.

Act 2, Scene 2

Let Me Be Your Sugar Baby

Again, being a bovine’s backside with a good attitude paid off. Toni Kaye, the choreographer who had cast me as the back half of a cow in
Gypsy
, called to tell me she was choreographing
Sugar Babies II
and wanted me to audition. My guardian angel had answered my prayers again. The show was to be held in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Fine with me; I was game to travel just about anywhere. I almost had to be to survive. The audition came none too soon, as I was down to my last few hundred dollars in the bank. If I didn’t get this show, I would have to find a real job to sustain me. I didn’t even know what
real job
to look for. Temping made me insane, so that was out of the question. Waitressing I had never tried and never wanted to; I had enough obsessions with food and certainly didn’t need to be carrying it around all day. Plus, the thought of serving rude Hollywood customers sent chills down my spine.
If I couldn’t dance, what job would I do?
I choked at the thought of it. There was only one solution. I would have to get the gig.

The audition was held at the Pantages Theatre—a 2,700-seat, Art Deco, former vaudeville venue that opened in 1930 in Hollywood. I felt privileged just to be auditioning in such an amazing, artistic setting. Little did I know, that place would pale in comparison to the theatres to come in my future.

I wasn’t so worried about the musical theatre dancing or the tap dancing, but I had to get through my singing audition. The director of the show was there, and instead of the typical sixteen bars, they asked to hear
all three verses
of my song.
Gulp
. Thank God, I was prepared. But I preferred skating by with a quick sixteen. I survived the song (Remember when I could hardly eke out a single verse? By now I was able to belt out over three times that much music!), and was asked to read for the part of the “Soubrette.” I had not a clue what a soubrette was (the dictionary defines it as “a minor female role in a comedy, typically that of a pert maidservant”) and wished I had researched the show before the audition. No one had ever asked me to read lines before. I hadn’t the slightest idea how to act. “Maybe I should take some acting lessons, too?” I chided myself.

Needless to say, I did not get the part, but I did get the job! Including rehearsals, it was a three-month gig running from January 18 through March 17 at the Broadway by the Bay Theatre at Harrah’s Casino in Atlantic City. The pay was a mere $450 a week, not enough to get rich off but enough that I wouldn’t starve. I was going to be one of twelve “Sugar Babies”—a typical, girlie, ensemble, dancer part that I was comfortable with. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It was going to be tricky, but if I could make my last few hundred dollars stretch until rehearsals began a few weeks later, I could survive for the next three months. I put all my purchases including gas and food on my credit card and eagerly awaited rehearsals. 

The rehearsals were held at the Alley Kat Studios in Hollywood. Every time I got a job, I had to get used to a new part of L.A., the traffic getting there, and the possible dangers surrounding the neighborhood. Most of L.A. felt sketchy to me in terms of safety, and this location followed suit. I was glad I was able to drive and did not have to take public transportation like in New York. L.A. was desperately trying to initiate a subway system, but people were still too attached to their cars. They chose their cars like they chose their designer clothes; it was another piece of their wardrobe and had to look good. I locked my doors as I drove through certain areas. Even the nice, upper-class neighborhoods, like Brentwood, weren’t immune to car thefts. It’s just as well people were stuck in their cars most the day, because as soon as a car was left alone for any length of time, someone stole it. I was begging for someone to swipe my old Ford Escort, but it was in such bad shape, all they did was steal the coins and the tools out of it.

I always delighted in seeing a new studio, and Alley Kat did not disappoint. Its interior was spacious with beautiful hardwood floors and red brick walls. When Toni Kaye had mentioned that Nederlander Theatre Corporation of Broadway fame would be producing the show and that it would be starring Juliet Prowse as “Prima Donna” and Rip Taylor as “Top Banana,” I had phoned my parents to share my excitement. But it wasn’t until I walked into the rehearsal studio and saw Juliet and Rip live and in person standing with the musical director by the piano that it really sank in. I couldn’t believe my eyes!

Juliet was a stage, film, and television star, primarily famous for her exquisite dancing. She boasted an exotic background—born in India and raised in South Africa. I adored her in the 1960 movie musical
Can-Can
(her first film role), starring Frank Sinatra, Shirley MacLaine, Maurice Chevalier, and Louis Jourdan. At one time, she and Sinatra had been engaged. During the filming of the movie
G.I. Blues
(1960), in which she co-starred with Elvis, she and “The King” had had a hot, steamy fling. (That meant there was now only one degree of separation between Elvis Presley and me!) Talk about some high-profile ex-lovers. Now, at fifty-seven years of age, she was svelte and toned with perfect breasts and short red hair and was in a serious relationship with the stage manager of our production. I loved that she always carried her needlepoint with her in case she found time for a few, quick, stitches. It made her seem almost regular.

Rip, a heavyset gent with a wiry toupee (his crazy trademark hairstyle) and handlebar mustache, kept
us
in stitches. He was the confetti-throwing, “Crying Comedian” extraordinaire I had seen numerous times on television. His career spanned TV, the silver screen, and stages alike, with numerous spotlights on Vegas stages alongside such entertainment notables as Frank Sinatra, Debbie Reynolds, Sammy Davis Jr., Ann-Margaret, and Judy Garland. At nearly sixty years of age, he still was a hoot and a half. I was in awe of our stars. They were real people.

I scanned the room to see if I recognized anyone else. “There’s Georgia from the Starlight Bowl!” I thought excitedly heading over to give a hug and hello. I sized up the other girls to see where I fit in. We were a real assortment of “Sugar Babies”—a dozen of us in all ages, shapes, and sizes. We were a mixed box of chocolates—all sweet but different flavored. The cast also included four youngish men who made up “The Gaiety Quartet,” a handsome “Straight Man” (as in comedy straight, not heterosexual), a sexy “Soubrette,” and an older gentleman (who reminded me a lot of comedian Don Knotts) playing the “2nd Banana.” In addition, Michael Roloff and Company provided a variety act that involved balancing cylinders atop one another and then balancing him on a board like a teeter-totter on top of the rolling objects. It was a dangerous stunt that you shouldn’t try at home. (I hope his mother doesn’t know what he’s up to.)

With Nederlander producing the show and Toni Kaye choreographing, I had no doubts about everything panning out. We even had Ralph Allen, the writer and director from the original
Sugar Babies
starring Mickey Rooney and Anne Miller, writing new comedy sketches for our show. However, the production, which was under A.G.V.A. jurisdiction, was overshadowed by a cloud of union problems and housing challenges. As we got closer and closer to the date of departure, the company manager still didn’t have housing secured for us, and we still didn’t have a contract.

An A.G.V.A. rep came to meet with us on our lunch breaks to help resolve our predicament. He was a nice guy who would listen to us gripe and then talk in circles and then have us so confused and then accomplish nothing. Or so it seemed. Who knows the calamities he was fighting on our behalf? Regardless, no one wanted to commit to a job when we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. So we sat in on endless meetings to hear disgruntled union actors demanding a contract and concrete info on where we’d be living once in Atlantic City. One fantastic, beautiful dancer quit because she was a widowed mom and had a toddler who was coming with her. Naturally, she didn’t want to take her tiny tot to New Jersey in the dead of winter with no place to stay. With little to lose, I decided it was worth the risk to sit tight and see what happened. Nothing was resolved, so the brave cast boarded the plane bound for the east coast with no inkling of where we’d rest our weary heads that night.

Once in New Jersey, we were taken straight to a real estate agent to look at rental properties. Although we’d be performing in Atlantic City, the most suitable housing they could find for us were beachfront condos on nearby Brigantine Island. Since I was only going to be gone a few months, I hadn't bothered finding someone to sublet my Los Angeles apartment; the thought of a stranger using my belongings didn’t agree with me at all. Hence, I would have to pay double rent, which I couldn’t afford.

Luckily, I was able to find three other girls in the cast who I barely knew but who were willing to share a three-bedroom condo and split the rent. Ashley was a short, shapely, funny, fetching blond singer about my age. Olivia was a delightful, solid, short-haired brunette and a fierce tap dancer in her early twenties. Brigitte, at a mere 18-years old, was a decade younger than I. She spoke fluent French, because her mother (who had also been a dancer and was even performing when pregnant with baby Brigitte) was French. Still very attached, Brigitte spent a good deal of her hard-earned cash phoning France to “
parler à sa maman
” (speak to her mom).

Other than Brigitte’s homesickness, which often kept her alone in her room, the bunking arrangement worked out t
rès bien
, and Ashley and Olivia and I became
bons amis
(good friends). Our condo was gorgeous, as was the view, because we were situated on the beach. The ocean waves crashed onto the snow that covered half of the sand. My roommates and I spent a short time scouting for seashells in the snow, but it was bitter cold and windy. The winter there was the worst in years.
Brrr
! It was a good reminder of why I loved living in California. Several other cast members entered their condos only to find that their pipes had frozen. They were without water for days.  

About three days after our arrival, we awoke to frantic phone calls and terrifying television reports of the L.A. earthquake that killed people in Northridge and left cars and trucks stranded on overpasses that were breaking in pieces. Those of us from the cast who came from L.A. spent the day attempting to contact loved ones. I had a colossal pit in my stomach as I tried to find out if my sister had survived. Learning that she was okay was a tearful, prayerful moment. And, of course, we still had to perform that night with smiles on our faces and be hilariously funny. The earthquake was a reminder of why I
hated
living in California. My apartment was a mess, but I felt so fortunate that none of my posse was hurt. My darling sister cleaned up the dish shards, broken glass, sugar, and water on my apartment floor, which had hardened into a mosaic of sweet cement. Prior to leaving for Atlantic City, a tremor had knocked me off my bathroom counter where I was sitting while putting on makeup. In retrospect, it had been an eerie foreshadowing of the impending disaster to follow. I was glad to be safe on solid New Jersey soil.

*******

Sugar Babies Act II
was a burlesque-style musical revue patterned after the old vaudeville shows. A combo of old-fashioned burlesque and vaudeville-style comedy sketches and song and dance numbers, it was campy and cheesy and perfect for a casino audience who just wanted to have a good time and not think too hard. A longer version of the show had been originally performed over a decade earlier starring Mickey Rooney and Anne Miller and then again about five years later at Harrah’s starring Rip Taylor and Carol Lawrence. Now Rip was back at it with the lovely Juliet as his leading lady.

Our show, set in “The Gaiety Theatre,” was pure mirth, jocularity, and clowning around. It opened circus-style with all the cast members dressed as different crazy characters—belly dancer, acrobat, fireman. Lucky me, I got chosen to be an enormously big-busted nurse. The ridiculously buxom, white uniform had the massive mammaries built right in. I was so top-heavy, it’s a wonder I didn’t fall forward, flat on my face. Had I been a real nurse, that protruding bosom would have certainly gotten in the way of proper medical care.

Our
Sugar Babies
theme song, “Let Me Be Your Sugar Baby,” was absolutely adorable. The lyrics let the audience know we could satisfy their sweet tooth like a lollipop, fudge sundae, danish pastry, strudel, or even a crepe suzette. To make us appear even sweeter (and to emphasize the “baby” theme), we wore baby blue and pink, corsette-style costumes with pink lace-up boots and baby bonnets. This cutesy, girlie-girl number included what was to be an applause-generating kick line. However, we could never seem to get our kicks in sync, and the stage manager constantly called us in to rehearse. It became extremely frustrating.
Who knew it was so difficult to do a good kick line?

The girls also performed “In Louisiana”—a song about travelin’ by train back to that marvelous state we loved so much. We did a fun, lighthearted tap dance wearing negligees (what else?) and carrying suitcases for sittin’ a spell or tapping upon. Then there was the comedic Salute-to-Sally-Rand fan dance in which we cleverly used giant leaves to strategically cover what appeared to be our naked bodies (but were really nude-colored unitards) in yet another Garden of Eden-type scene. In addition, I got to do a short comedy gag with my “husband”—an actual acting bit! One night I got the hiccups right before going on stage. As we entered from the hotel kitchen, the empathetic waitstaff frantically brought me water, made me hold my breath, and scared me in a series of attempts to stop the spasms. Finally, just in time, the mixture of remedies seemed to do the trick. I was still afraid I was going to blurt out a horrible sound right in the middle of the punch line, but, thanks to the food service workers, I made it through without so much as a hiccup.