Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (46 page)

“Next we’ll be tapping, Ladies, so please put on your shoes as soon as you’ve been measured,” the assistant instructed. I quickly put on the only tap shoes I owned, the ones I had purchased for my very first New York City audition some eight years earlier. I was slightly self-conscious about wearing them, because, since that time, they had been painted yellow and peach stripes for
No, No, Nanette
, and there were holes wearing through the soles. While ridiculous looking, I didn’t have extra cash to spend on new shoes, and they were comfortable. I reasoned that the goofy shoes might actually help the casting people remember me better. Maybe they’d even be impressed that I had tapped in another show.

The tap combination was performed to a Christmas medley played live by a pianist. Having not tapped recently, I was relieved to see it was basic tap–nothing too complicated. I simply had to keep my sounds clean. We performed in groups of five, and everything seemed to go smoothly for me.

After the tap, we changed into our character shoes and learned a tricky, sharp, military version of “Jingle Bells” with some difficult rhythms, not the standard eight counts per measure. We had to be painfully sharp with our head snaps and steps. “Sharper, Ladies, sharper!” demanded the poker-faced woman who seemed to be in charge. It was a totally new style of dancing for me: ultra precise, almost jerky, like time-lapse photography–little snapshots of poses all linked together. Next, we learned a kickline combination linking arms with the five girls in our group. It was a lot harder kicking with a girl on either side of you hanging on, but I felt pretty good about how I did. No major mistakes. Lastly, one at a time, we were called in to sing our 16 bars of music to live piano accompaniment. Prepared and professional, I was well rehearsed and confident that my singing was entirely passable for what was primarily a dance gig. “Please, God, let me get this job!”

My prayers were answered. I made the callback! About thirty of us were asked to return a few days later and do it all again. I was elated to be invited back, but how I wished they would have hired me after the first audition. What if I screwed up the second time around?

For the callback, I wore my same lucky purple leotard, so they would remember me, and went through the same rigmarole with my best smile on. This time David Nash, the producer of the
Radio City Christmas Spectacular
in Branson, appeared at the end of the audition. “I’d like to tell you ladies a bit about the job. If you become a Rockette, you will perform at the beautiful Grand Palace Theatre and make $1,100 a week. Rehearsals start October 19th in Missouri and the show closes December 23rd…”

The more he told us about the gig, the more I ached to get the job. Listening to what might happen to the lucky few in that room was torture. It was so close I could taste it. The $1,100 a week was unheard of. Being a Rockette would be a dream come true. Everybody knew the Rockettes. They were the Big Time.

Once home, I went about my daily business trying to put the audition out of my mind so as not to drive myself crazy with anticipation. When the phone rang, I wasn’t expecting anyone out of the ordinary. “This is Myra Longstern, head of Rockette Operations.” (“She’s from the Rockettes!” I squealed to myself, recognizing the significance.) “Yes,” I said trying to sound calm, my heart beating clear out of my chest.

“We would like to offer you a job as a Rockette in the
Radio City Christmas Spectacular
in Branson, Missouri.”.

“That’s wonderful,” I responded, consciously trying to lower my voice, which seemed to have dramatically risen in pitch.

“You will be responsible for transportation to Branson. We have arranged for housing near the theatre. You’ll share a two-bedroom condo with another Rockette and split the monthly rent which is $700. Is there someone you’d prefer to room with?”

“I don’t know anyone in the show, but my husband will be coming with me,” I responded.

“Oh,” Ms. Longstern responded coolly, “that presents a housing problem.” She was clearly annoyed at the inconvenience, but being newly married, I wasn’t budging. “If you insist on your husband coming, then I guess you’ll have to be responsible for finding your own housing.” Ms. Longstern was all business and no banter; she wasn’t full of warm fuzzies. “Your contract and information will be Federal Expressed to your home tomorrow. Please sign it, fill out your W-2 forms, and return it to me as soon as possible. Congratulations.”

I took a minute to jump for joy and dance around the kitchen, then phoned my parents to tell them the good news. “I’m a Rockette! I knew I was right for the job. And I’m going back to Branson! Yee-haw!”

The tour guide motioned us forward and continued her monologue as we walked down the hall: “The Rockettes originated in St. Louis, Missouri, back in 1925 as the ‘Missouri Rockets,’ and later became the ‘Roxyettes.’ They debuted in Manhattan at the Music Hall in 1932, their name eventually morphing into ‘Rockettes.’ They were such a sensation that they’ve been a fixture at this spectacular theater ever since.” I could practically give the spiel myself, as I knew this trivia by heart from my extensive Rockette media training. Beginning my Rockette adventures in Missouri was actually fitting since the Rockettes started there, too.  

I thanked myself profusely for making this journey to Radio City. I deserved this moment of glory. Rockette life hadn’t exactly been a piece of cake. I had survived pain and ecstasy, blood, sweat, and tears. Becoming a Rockette was like joining an exclusive sorority. The whole experience, especially initially, felt somewhat like hazing. After surviving the grueling initiation requirements, I felt bonded into Rockette sisterhood. My induction into Rockette-dom had been more harrowing than my college sorority initiation in which I had to strip down to my skivvies, don a toga, and prance around with flaming torches. Well, that’s what my husband guessed happened. I, of course, am sworn to secrecy.

Act 3, Scene 2

Branson

Others may have felt they were being sent to Siberia, but I had fond memories of Buddy and Branson and was thrilled to go back with the Rockettes. Plus, my husband and I were ready to travel again and see something new and different. More importantly, we were down to our last dollar, so this gig was a godsend. We had been nickel and dime-ing our way along with odd jobs since he moved from London to Los Angeles. This job could get us back on our feet.

After the initial excitement wore off, I got down to business and began searching for housing. I hadn’t a clue how to find a suitable place long distance, especially one that would take such a short-term rental. Thankfully, after a few, unsuccessful weeks of apartment hunting, I received a phone call from Ms. Longstern, “There is an available two-bedroom condo adjacent to the condos the other Rockettes are staying in. Are you interested?” We gladly took it, although we didn’t need the extra room and were concerned about the price. 

The dollar signs I had been seeing were quickly fading away. We still had to pay $650 a month rent on our apartment in L.A. and now we had another $700 a month that we would be paying for the housing in Branson. My $1,100 per week paychecks would be quickly spent. Also, the first month’s rent on our condo plus a security deposit would be due upon arrival before we ever received any money from Radio City. Things were going to be tight until those first few paychecks started coming in. My cruise ship roommate, Candy, ended up needing a place to sublet for a few months. Since we trusted her with our home, we let her stay for a mere $250 a month. Every little bit helped.

Having decided to drive to Branson so we’d have a car at our disposal, I checked out travel books from the library and eagerly planned our itinerary for the trip across country. Despite some concern whether or not my eight-year-old car would make the trip, we really wanted the freedom of having our own car there. So we decided to take the risk but allowed several days of extra travel time in case of a breakdown.

On October 13, with a packed car, we drove out of the smog and onto old Route 66 eastbound for Branson, Missouri. We took the reverse path of the famous rhythm and blues standard “(Get Your Kicks on) Route 66,” traveling through or near San Bernardino; Barstow; Kingman; Winona; Flagstaff, Arizona; Gallup, New Mexico; Amarillo; Oklahoma City; Joplin, Missouri; and finally “St. Louie.” I sang the cheerful song as we passed through San Bernardino to the east of Los Angeles.

With little money to spare, we counted our pennies on the trip. Knowing that it would take a few weeks before I’d get my first paycheck, we couldn’t splurge on expensive hotels. Hence, we spent our first night at a youth hostel in Flagstaff—a quaint town on the outskirts of the Grand Canyon. The second day we made our way to the red rocks of Sedona, Arizona (famous for its mystical vortexes), for a hike among Indian cliff dwellings, followed by two nights in Santa Fe, where we stayed for free with friends, drank margaritas, and ate Tex-Mex. Our next stop was Oklahoma City for a visit to the Cowboy Hall of Fame and an enormous steak dinner. Although worried about gaining weight on the trip, I still couldn’t pass up the opportunity to sample some of the best cow carcass in the country. We hopped back in the car and didn’t stop driving until two a.m. when we stopped for the night at a hotel on the outskirts of Branson. With plenty of time to spare, we had reached our final destination, our car still intact and running. I breathed a sigh of relief and fell soundly asleep. 

The next morning we drove into Branson, enjoying the striking fall colors of the Ozarks along the way. Heading down the familiar Highway 76 through the heart of town and past all the theatres, I noticed that a lot of the same stars were still there from my first visit with Buddy Ebsen. When I had been here with Buddy, however, I was thoroughly excited and had normal, healthy stage fright. This time I had a queasy stomach and the uneasiness that comes with self-doubt, insecurity, and not knowing what to expect. I was worried about not being good enough. Dancing with Buddy was small potatoes compared to what was coming. He was the star of that show. We were the stars of this show.

The condos we were going to be living in were situated around a golf course about a half mile from the theatre. We begged the receptionist at the country club to let us into our condo early, but, unfortunately, she didn’t know where we were supposed to be staying. Because we had arrived so far ahead of schedule, there were no Radio City people around yet to give us any information. We had no choice but to tighten our belts and shell out the cash, or, safer yet, the credit card, and get a cheap hotel.

After checking into our hotel, we drove to find the recently built Grand Palace Theatre where I would be performing. It was a 4,000-seat, breathtaking, white, old-southern-plantation-style, monster of a theatre with columns framing the entrance. I got a rush just looking at it. Inside, we climbed the expansive, spiral staircase leading to the second-floor administrative offices in search of the manager to see if we could find a job for Ron. The man in charge was so kind. Without batting an eye, he hired him to help decorate the theatre for Christmas and then usher for my show once it opened. We were relieved to have the extra bit of income, and the job would give hubby something to do. He also gave us free tickets to see the show
Patsy Cline
, which was finishing up its run there. We couldn’t believe our good fortune and the generous hospitality. We felt so welcomed. That night, as we sat in the front row, I couldn’t help thinking that I would be on that very stage in a few weeks. A chill ran through my body. I had a lot to learn and experience before then.

*******

A couple days later, the condos were ready, and we finally moved in. The two-bedroom units were fairly new and tastefully decorated. The master bath even had an oversized Jacuzzi tub, which I was sure I would need after kicking all day. The kitchen was large and fully stocked with dishes. There was even a clubhouse with an indoor, heated pool. We were happy, to say the least. This was absolute luxury compared to our digs in Los Angeles. We grabbed our swimsuits and headed to the clubhouse for a swim and a look around, then hopped back in the car and took a trip out to find the grocery store so we could load up on all the food and supplies we would need. 

I pored over my packet of rehearsal information, which had been left at the front desk by the Radio City staff, like I was receiving my secret assignment from the C.I.A. The rehearsal hall was all the way back in Springfield, so we would be carpooling in vans for the forty-five-minute drive. There was nowhere to buy food quickly on our lunch breaks, so we needed to pack lunches. We were expected to be dressed, warmed up, and ready to kick at ten a.m. sharp. Our rehearsal schedule showed Sundays off, but that was about it. We’d rehearse daily from ten until five with an hour for lunch. I was anxious to get started but scared at the same time.

The following day, one of the new Rockettes pulled up in the van at eight-thirty a.m. with eight other Rockettes. Apparently, my acquaintance from
The Flintstones Show
had gotten axed, as I expected, after she failed to bring her tap shoes to the audition, so I didn’t know a soul. I said a quiet, “Hello,” and climbed in with my overstuffed dance bag. They all knew at least one other person, because they had at least met their roommates. 

I glanced around and immediately was intimidated by everyone. They were all so pretty and, obviously, talented. My teeth clenched and my head began to throb as I thought about the day ahead. We made small talk on the ride through the hills and into town, talking about mutual show biz friends and how they knew each other. I gazed out the window trying not to get car sick, my knuckles white as they gripped the handle of my bag.

At the rehearsal hall, we met up with the rest of the line-up. There were squeaks and squeals as old friends were reunited. About eight girls were returning Rockettes. Some had performed in Branson the previous year, which was the first year the show opened there. Some had done the New York show. They had already survived a Christmas show and lived to tell about it. I wished I knew what I was doing like they did, although they all seemed on edge, too.

The veterans were easy to spot, because they all came in carrying Rockette dance bags and wearing Rockette T-shirts, sweatshirts, or show jackets. I couldn’t wait to order my show jacket and join the club. All the Broadway kids had show jackets from
Le Mis
or
Cats
or
Miss Saigon
or whatever show they had been in. To me, having a show jacket meant you had made it.

A number of the girls were still finishing their run of
Will Rogers Follies
starring Pat Boone, right there in Branson. They’d rehearse with the Rockettes during the day and perform at night.
Will Rogers Follies
was a perfect show from which to steal Rockettes, as the dancers required for that show were tall, leggy tappers, too. Many of the girls had done that show or
42nd Street
or both.

The girls chatted quietly in the hallway, as they changed into their dance gear and warmed up. There was light conversation, but I could feel the tension, as people readied themselves and started to concentrate on the task ahead. I could sense the mind shift from the small talk on the van ride to the expectation of the rigid drilling to come. This wasn’t going to be a light-hearted day of jovial kicking and tapping with friends. This was going to be military boot camp with drill sergeants watching the new recruits’ every move. It was intimidating. I wanted to do well not only to make it through this show, but to remain a Rockette for years to come. There was a lot at stake. That guarantee of several months’ worth of work at the end of every year was a big boon to a dancer. I didn’t want to jeopardize that opportunity by messing up my first contract; otherwise, it might be my last.

A skinny young woman with a serious countenance stepped out of the rehearsal hall and said, “Ladies, we will begin with tap, but we need to take a line-up first, so we need you in stocking feet. Bring all of your belongings with you.” Then someone opened the rehearsal hall doors and we made our way in. All chatting ceased and the mood became professional, intense, and focused. 

The hall had hardwood floors, brick walls, and mirrors on one end. Two large dolly carts were holding giant alphabet blocks like the miniature version I had as a kid for building towers. I saw boxes of giant foil wreaths, xylophones, and sticks—all props we’d be using in the show. The director, her assistants, the stage manager, and his assistants sat at tables along the front of the hall with their thick notebooks full of choreography and formation notes with X’s and O’s like a football chart. They were prepared with enough provisions—including coffee, water, and other drinks, cans of nuts, and bowls of hard candy and gum—to get them through the day if not a major catastrophe. The musical director sat in the corner at the baby grand piano, a drummer and his drum kit by his side. All eyes were on us as we entered the room. 

Our director, Linda Haberman, was thin, short-haired, and androgynously attired in shades of black. Her voice was low and authoritative with an I-don’t-have-time-for-mistakes-so-get-it-right-the-first-time attitude. Her stern demeanor made it clear that she meant business. While she scared the heck out of us, she also commanded our highest respect, because she knew what she was doing, didn’t waste time, and got the job done. She made us want to do our best. We did not want to displease her. A former Fosse dancer, she could really cut a rug, and when she demonstrated, we were in awe. She acted embarrassed and annoyed when someone mentioned that the entire cast had just watched the video of her dancing with Ben Vereen in
Pippin
.

Linda had a talented, thirty-something, male assistant, Dennis, who beautifully demonstrated the choreography. Having performed in
La Cage Aux Folles
on Broadway, he had plenty of practice dancing like a woman and could almost do it better than we could, much to our chagrin. He was at Linda’s beck and call and tried to act tough and serious, but I could tell he was sweet and a softy inside.

Then there was Julie—the tall, thin, red-headed woman who had ushered us in. She was another assistant to Linda and was also our dance captain and one of our swings. Having been a Rockette for years, she was an excellent teacher and mother hen to her little flock of Rockettes.

Those three comprised the core creative team with whom we had most contact. There was also a music director, stage manager, assistant stage managers, and company manager, but Linda’s team ruled the roost at rehearsals. The entire staff was serious about getting the show up to snuff. Apparently, there was a time when the Rockettes were not thought of too highly. Other professional dancers questioned their ability and looked down on them as lacking talent, being able to do nothing more than tap and kick. (What’s not to like about great tapping and kicking?) This team was on a mission to change that image and return the Rockettes to their former glory. Their jobs were at stake, too. Teaching all that material, training all those new Rockettes, and getting the girls to gel perfectly before opening night was a daunting task. We had three weeks to look like a team and to learn to dance precisely in unison. The creative staff had a big job to do, and the Rockettes were expected to be no less than perfect in acting out their orders.

The first order of business was determining the all-important “lineup,” which refers to the order in which the girls stand in the kickline. The order was critical, because the Rockettes were supposed to look like clones of each other. The great trick to making the Rockettes look the same height was to place the tallest ladies in the center with heights gradually decreasing to either side of center, the shortest ladies dancing at the ends of the line.