Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (56 page)

A secret employee entrance took me past Human Resources and down a maze of stark, white hallways, unmarked doors, storage closets, and freight elevators. My nose could sense the employee cafeteria, with its combination of industrial dishwashing steam, coffee, and overcooked food wafting through the hallway. In general, employees weren’t supposed to take food or supplies from the caf. Somehow our cast was given the green light to munch lunch backstage—but only backstage. A security guard at the exit to the parking lot ensured that employees weren’t stealing anything on the way out. Before I knew better, I took a couple of ham and cheese croissants home one night, but I mended my ways after one of my castmates got busted for pilfering toilet paper.

*******

Opening the unmarked door to the backstage of the theatre, I headed down the hall to sign in. Entering through the stage door was always exciting for me. I felt like I was part of an elite club going through a secret entrance into a magical world, like Alice discovering Wonderland. Backstage was a world of its own, like some remote island where exotic, scantily clad natives performed secret rituals, dances, and customs, and spoke a secret language. “You go, girl! Fierce solo, Diva! Work that feather.” Being allowed backstage was like winning the golden ticket to visit Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.

As a guest, you, too, may have been lucky enough to wander the halls of backstage, view the actual stage, the wings, sets, fast change rooms, and props. But rarely would you be allowed into the dressing rooms. Seldom, on a special occasion, after the cast had cleared out, you may have been given permission to take a look, although that was not encouraged. It was a sacred place where our possessions were not to be seen or touched. It was our home, after all. All visitors had to vacate by half hour call. You would
never
get to be in the dressing room, in the wings, fast change room, or on stage
during
the show unless you were cast or crew or a fly on the wall. And it was the stuff that happened during the show that would really knock your socks off. Only the select few who “break into” show biz get to witness the magic and madness behind the scenes. Perhaps that’s why the term “break into” is used; you have to get past all the closed, locked doors.

The Flamingo’s backstage was dingy. The carpet may have once been a garish, dirt-disguising, colorful hotel pattern but it had become well worn, dirty, and faded by the time my feet graced the floors. The hallway smelled of must, fog machine, stale smoke, coffee, hairspray, and the thick, heavy stage curtain that soaked up the essence of the theatre and its patrons. I was now a part of the history of the hotel, one of a long line of shows and performers to call this place home.

On the immediate left was a stairwell that led down to the stage left entrance to the stage. (Yes, we had to run downstairs to get from the dressing rooms to the stage.) As you continued down the hallway, on the left was a high shelf that housed our soldier hats and hangers for some of the larger costumes, like the showgirl headdresses and the Infanta costumes. On the right were two tiny dressing rooms for the specialty acts, followed by the Big Rockette dressing room, the Green Room, the Small Rockette dressing room, the boys’ dressing room, and the stage managers’ office. At the end of the hallway on the left was the stage right stairwell to enter the stage. Around the corner to the left were the star spot dressing room, the magic act dressing room, the wardrobe department, and the tiny sound booth with a view to the stage.

I headed down the hall to the callboard where there hung the cast list on which we had to sign in for every show under the appropriate date. I usually signed in for both shows at the same time, as I rarely had plans to leave the theatre between shows.

Around half-hour call, backstage at the Flamingo became a hubbub of activity from tech crew, stage management, company manager, dancers, specialty acts, stars, wardrobe, sound and lighting technicians, and dance captains. On special occasions, directors, choreographers, producers, or Radio City visitors might show up, too. Nino Frediani and his unobtrusive Japanese wife arrived as well as magician Tim Cole and his South African spouse and assistant, Jenny-Lynn.

The energy was electric; the buzz of excitement escalated as showtime neared. Girls wearing wig caps and white bath towels flitted through the halls. Dancers stretched in every square foot of available floor space, each girl holding the wall with one hand, her leg pulled over her head with the other, all the while talking away with the other girls. At the last possible minute, the stage door would fling open, and Stacey Moore would be yanked into the hall by his happy, yappy “Mess of Mutts,” an assortment of ten medium to smallish adorable rescue dogs all on leashes he held like a bouquet in one hand.

At five-minute call, I’d go by the stairwell to have a dresser put the feathers in my butt pack and top hat, and then I’d walk down the flight of stairs to the stage. A couple of early-bird Rockettes were already on stage, sitting face to face and feet to feet, both in the Russian splits, legs spread apart at a nearly perfect 180 degree angle, gossiping in hushed tones. Little peacock cliques, mostly in pairs and trios, swarmed in, stretched, and caught up on the day’s events.

At “Places!” call, the stage filled with the rest of the flock, all yakking while kicking to warm up. It was hard to believe that, after working together six days a week, the girls could still fill up every second with chatter, but we could. Why do married couples run out of things to say to each other, but girlfriends don’t ever have enough time to share everything that is on their minds? The noise often reached a deafening level; our two stage managers constantly reprimanded us for talking on stage, but it was a losing battle.

Once the overture started and the announcement came over the loudspeakers in English and Japanese about “No flash photography,” we all lined up side by side across the width of the stage behind the long, heavy sign that read, “THE ROCKETTES.” Our bodies were hidden from the waist up, so all the audience could see when the curtain opened was the sign and twenty sets of gorgeous gams, poised to dance. Still whispering to each other, we stood there, arms linked behind without touching any body part of the girls next to us, our right feet beveled against our left ankles, our lower bodies remaining perfectly still, even though our mouths were going a mile a minute. Only at the very last moment when the sign was lifted into the rafters, revealing us in our bikinis and feathers, did we finally stop gabbing and start smiling, as we flapped downstage. It’s a wonder we were (mostly) able to keep our mouths shut during the dance. We always had so much to say.

Slowly but surely, I gained control over my show and got used to the routine, the stage, the traffic patterns, the costume changes, and the timing between numbers. I ended up setting a bathroom break between “Bolero” and “Soldiers.” Whether I had to go or not, I would try so I didn’t end up jumping and kicking with a full bladder during “Diamonds.” Plus, I didn’t want to alter my routine for fear of the superstitious retributions. I always went down to the stage at the same point in the music before each number. I always put on my red cheeks for “Soldiers” as soon as I got off the stage from “Bolero” so I wouldn’t forget them. I got a drink from the water fountain on my way to “Diamonds.” Entertainers may possibly be one of the most superstitious groups of people in the world.

Between shows, most of the cast members, including myself, would throw on sweats, baseball caps, and flip-flops or slippers and bring back dinner from the caf or relax in the Green Room or dressing room. Occasionally, I’d take off my wig cap and let my hair down to breathe, but I never took off my false eyelashes until after the second show was over. If I had to run to the box office to buy a ticket for someone, or to meet someone between shows, I always felt conspicuous in my garish makeup. But Vegas is about the only place in the world where you can blend in despite looking that scary. Our small Green Room was nothing fancy but, with a refrigerator, a microwave, two couches, chairs, a coffee table, a TV, and some bookshelves, it was a homey enough place to hang out.

At fifteen-minute call, I would prepare for the second show. I’d touch up my lipstick and powder and get my Opening costume on. Fifteen-minute call was also the time we celebrated cast birthdays. Our cast took birthdays so seriously, we actually had a “Cake Marshall”—a Rockette in charge of buying the cakes and cards for everyone. I’m not sure where the money to pay for all these goodies came from, but I think it was our generous producer, Richard Martini of KL Management Inc., who footed the bill. With a cast of over thirty and fifty-two weeks in a year, there was a new cake about every other week. One cake would just be getting eaten up when the next cake would arrive. My thirty-first birthday happened less than a month after joining the show. I was shocked to arrive at the theatre and see my dressing room spot filled with gifts, many from girls I barely knew. It made me feel very loved and welcomed.

Women are notorious shoppers, ultra caring, and easily guilted, so we felt we had to buy every Rockette a present for her birthday. The gift expense got so outrageous that I started to break out in a cold sweat whenever someone mentioned the word “birthday.” Hence, I helped kick-start the “Group Gift Initiative” in which we all chipped in from $2 to $5 and got one fairly nice gift for the birthday girl without breaking our individual banks. My favorite group gift was my idea for our ice cream fanatic, Leslie. The entire Big Dressing Room pitched in and bought her a pint of every flavor of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream our grocery store sold (about fifteen kinds). Leslie was thrilled.

Celebrating birthdays became a part of our regular routine, so much so that, over time, we got so jaded that half the time we’d yell the “Happy Birthday” song from our dressing tables and never actually get up. When we got to the part in the song where you name the birthday boy or girl, we’d all look at each other, as we refreshed our mascara, and ask, “Whose birthday is it?” With cake constantly available and my muscles adequately stretched from the first show, my second show warm-up evolved into two knee lifts, two high kicks, and a few bites of cake. Then I was sugared up and ready to do the show all over again.

The show finished around midnight. I’d rinse off in the dressing room shower and scrub off my make-up if I was going home or tame it down a few notches if I was going out on the town. Sometimes I’d join friends for drinks (loved those $1 margaritas at the Hard Rock Cafe), dancing, bowling, sushi, or birthday celebrations. Parties started around 12:30 a.m. (goodbye parties, Halloween pumpkin-carving parties, Christmas parties). When those of us in the cast were participating in a fundraising show for Golden Rainbow—an organization “dedicated to providing housing and direct financial assistance to people living with HIV/AIDS in Southern Nevada”—we had middle-of-the-night rehearsals. Late night was also a nice time to go grocery shopping because the stores were less busy. After-hours activities and socializing made sense because it was hard to go right to sleep while still wound up, our blood pumping from performing.

On average, I went to bed at three in the morning and woke up around noon. Having to be anywhere before noon the next day was torture. Entertainers are in their own little time zone. The Rockettes knew that calling each other before noon was taboo because we’d probably be deep in slumber. My apartment groundskeeper, however, did not get the memo. “Stop that racket! Don’t you know people are trying to sleep around here?” I wanted to shout out the window. “The nerve of him mowing the lawn at ten a.m.!” Even doing lunch with friends was a chore. Far better was to schedule a rendezvous around two p.m. or later.

My beauty rest was Essential with a capital “E.” If I didn’t get my full nine hours of peaceful slumber, my body ached and I was miserable. After my put-in rehearsals were over and I had adjusted to the show, I tried to resume my previous workout regimen, but my body would not have it. Extra physical activity left me with no energy for the show. On my day off each week, I made attempts at hiking or mountain biking or snow skiing, but my body wanted to be a couch potato. My first month in the show, I was so sore and tired all the time I didn’t know how I was going to survive my six-month contract. I had so much to squeeze into my precious, one day off that I couldn’t possibly do chores and errands, and socialize, and spend time with my husband, and make room for rest in that tiny amount of time.

Eventually, our wonderful producer brought in a yoga teacher to give us on-stage classes on Wednesdays before the first show. Yoga helped me to relax and stay flexible, but maintaining my health for the long haul was a challenge. Like final exam time in college, during a short-running show, you can burn the candle at both ends, pull all-nighters, push through the pain while surviving solely on junk food and a good caffeine buzz, and then collapse when it’s all over. That approach doesn’t work so well with a long-running show. I felt like I was running a perpetual marathon.

*******

Being my first truly long run, working at the Flamingo was unlike any gig I’d had before, and not only because I had to pace myself to stay in the race. The show, a bus and truck tour whose final stop was an indefinite stay in Las Vegas, had already been running there for a year. The cast had settled into their dressing rooms and made them home, the result of which created an interesting backstage dynamic. Learning and getting comfortable with the show was one challenge; acclimating to the hodge-podge of personalities, backstage protocol, and dressing room politics was another.

As might happen in a town where people tend to associate only with those living on the right side of the tracks, the layout of the dressing rooms and the characters associated within created divisions that necessitated certain alliances and obligations. First and foremost, there were two distinctly different Rockette dressing rooms: “the Big Dressing Room,” which housed eighteen women, and “the Little Dressing Room,” which housed seven. I was involuntarily placed by Raoul, who held jurisdiction over matters related to who sits where, in the Big Dressing Room.