Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (20 page)

I had two simple words to say in the show, and I struggled with how to perform them. What a disaster. Acting did not come naturally to me. Maybe I should have stuck with stirring fake coffee and trying not to attract attention. In any case, I was too shy to ask the directors how to perform my line, so I just said the words as fast as I could and got it over with. “Perhaps I should take some acting classes,” I advised myself.

Besides turmoil over the dialogue, the French maid bit presented another challenge—the quickest, fast changes I had ever experienced or witnessed. In a matter of seconds I had to get out of one costume and into the maid costume, dash on stage, and say my line. Then I had seconds to rush off stage, get out of the maid costume and into another costume, and return to the stage for the next scene. And every costume included a different wig. To save precious time, these transformative miracles had to be performed in the wings as close to my entrance as possible. As such, modesty was not an option. With a team of five dressers poised to strip me down and build me back up, I was like an Indy 500 race car running off stage to take a pit stop where my pit crew descended upon me, fixed me up, and sent me off in record time. I was amazed at and completely dependent upon their skills and “presets.” I held my arms out like a scarecrow while they unzipped, unsnapped, unhooked, and unpinned. One group yanked off the costume, while another disassembled the wig and hat. They’d signal me when to step out of and into shoes and pants or skirts. Shoes were preset directly under the leg holes of rolled-down pants or skirts, so all I had to do was step in, and they’d pull up and zip up the next costume. It was a masterful process.

After the quick change, I would run to the stage, my heart beating wildly, hoping I was fully clothed and that my wig wasn’t too far askew, which it occasionally was. What an adrenaline rush. Missing my entrance meant leaving the star, Gypsy Rose Lee, on stage in a deadly, awkward silence. Talk about pressure to be on time for work! As soon as I opened the set door and walked into her boudoir, I had to act calm, cool, and collected and smoothly deliver my line, “Oui, Madame,” regardless of whether or not my hairpiece was hanging off the side of my head. Actors need to have complete control over their autonomic nervous system.

Our costumes were from the original Broadway production, and I felt like a star simply wearing the same clothing as the talented performers who had donned them before me. As far as I was concerned, it was the next best thing to being on Broadway. Our “Garden of Eden” scene get-up caused me consternation, however, being that it was yet another microscopic bikini. This time it was adorned in cloth apples and leaves, but there was no shield to hide behind. The long, bleach blond wavy wigs we women wore provided more coverage than the entire rest of the outfit put together. I was far too modest for the theatre but was relishing my first opportunity to be seductive nonetheless.

The guys in the “Garden of Eden” scene were also nearly naked—the effect desired—except for a pair of small, nude-colored trunks (that were little more than skimpy underwear) and a stuffed cobra in Mardi Gras colors that wound all the way from one ankle, around the midriff, and ended with the reptile head atop their human head. It was hard not to stare at these young, serpentined, hot bods and easy to see why Eve gave in to temptation and ate the forbidden fruit.

Lesson learned: When signing a theatre contract, one never knew exactly what one might be getting oneself into (the back end of a cow costume) or out of (nearly all manner of clothing). It was painfully obvious I needed to be prepared for anything if I planned to stay in show business. This career was stretching me out of my comfort zone, indeed. Unlike Gypsy Rose Lee, however, I hoped my future shows would be far less revealing.

*******

Shortly after
Gypsy
opened, we returned to the rehearsal hall to begin work on our next show,
No, No, Nanette
. For about ten days, we rehearsed
Nanette
during the day while continuing to perform
Gypsy
at night. It was a busy time of round-the-clock rehearsing and performing. After completing our thirteen-show run of
Gypsy
at the Civic Theatre, we moved to the Starlight Bowl outdoor amphitheater for technical rehearsal, followed by dress rehearsal, and, finally, performances of
No, No, Nanette
.

The Starlight Bowl, located in Balboa Park in San Diego, would be home to the final four shows of our summer season. Balboa Park, which claimed to be “the nation’s largest urban cultural park,” housed fifteen museums, the San Diego Zoo, and many other attractions in addition to the theatre, all set amidst 1,200 acres of lush gardens and beautiful Spanish Revival architecture.

Moving from the rehearsal hall to the theatre was exciting not only due to the lovely change of venue, but also because we got our own dressing tables and could settle in and make the place feel like home. The phrase “home is where you hang your hat” could never be more true than for performers whose gypsy lifestyle forces them to become adept at making wherever-they-are-at-the-moment feel like home. In a flurry, the mirrors above our dressing tables were taped with photos of friends, family, lovers, and pictures of ourselves in other shows. We could even leave a few non-valuable items there; I left my Gumby slippers, a water bottle, a coffee mug, and some makeup.

Performers also make whomever-they-are-working-with-at-the-time feel like instant family. If you look at performers’ photo albums, every photo shows them with their arms around people in big bear hugs grinning from ear to ear like they are best friends. In reality, they may have only met the people the day before. An actor can be sent on assignment to Boondocks, Idaho, to perform with a group of completely unfamiliar cast members. “Okay,” she (or he) says, “This will be my family for the next four months, and this will be my home.” The assimilation happens that quickly.

Upon relocating to the theatre, my first mission was to run to the box office to reserve tickets for my friends and family and purchase a souvenir show shirt for myself. So exciting! The shirt became the uniform I’d wear to the theatre on show nights.

With tickets and the latest show shirts in my possession, I was ready to focus on the task at hand: tech rehearsal—the time when the crew, lighting designers, and sound engineers work their magic. Prior to this, I had no clue about tech crew and little contact with them. For some reason, during this particular rehearsal week, I suddenly noticed these men (and women) in black roaming about backstage. They weren’t hunting aliens like Will Smith’s
Men in Black
, but they did seem to be awfully busy doing something important. So self-absorbed and in my own little world was I that I couldn’t have identified our stage manager in a line up or accurately described what a stage manager does. Did I think the show could just run itself? All I knew was the men in black were the ones who screamed at you during tech rehearsal when you were about to be killed by a heavy set piece zooming in like a locomotive.

Tech rehearsals tested my patience like waiting in a long, slow-moving line at the grocery store check-out counter. They consisted of endless hours standing around under the searing stage lights while the lighting designer and director worked out all the lighting cues as we proceeded through the show “cue to cue.” The incessant glare of lights in my eyes gave me a migraine, which I learned to counteract somewhat by wearing a baseball cap. The process became so dull that it was nearly impossible not to whisper and joke around with the other actors; we were all entertainers, for goodness sake. To the delight of the cast, a dancer overrun with ants in his pants might finally break out into a Michael Jackson impression doing the moonwalk and grabbing his crotch. We would all bust up laughing until the director shouted, “Stand still and be quiet, please!” It was like kindergarten when the teacher tells the whole class to sit and wait quietly, but after a while the kids have to say something or do something goofy, because they can’t stand all the silence and boredom.

Tech rehearsal was also a likely time for injuries, because some directors required us to dance full out until the next change in lighting. Then we’d stop and stand there for so long that our muscles would tighten up, especially on cold days. After waiting forever for the lighting to be worked out, the director would have us resume dancing at performance level once again, but our muscles would still be in a deep freeze or completely asleep.

The schedule was particularly grueling, because we were there for several “ten-out-of-twelves”—ten hours out of a twelve hour day. It wasn’t as bad being outside, but when you do this inside in a dark theatre, you begin to feel like a mole stuck deep underground. Moles, of course, seem perfectly happy with this arrangement, but I needed sunlight and fresh air once in a while.

Tech rehearsals were also by far the most dangerous point in the theatrical process. The entire theatre should have been wrapped in yellow police caution tape. If we did venture into the danger zone, it would have behooved us to wear a hard hat with a miner’s lamp attached and steel-toed shoes and preferably flame-retardant clothing. Backstage, there were black cables running everywhere underfoot. They were supposed to be taped down and marked with glow tape (tape that glows in the dark), but inevitably someone would trip over a wayward cord while running to make an entrance. Stairs were also supposed to be marked with glow tape so that when the lights were off backstage we’d be able to see the edge and avoid tumbling down to our death or, worse, embarrassment. Glow tape was our friend! Even scarier, sometimes “pyro” (pyrotechnics) was used for special effect, so we needed to be prepared to “stop, drop, and roll” to put ourselves out should we get too close to open flames.

The most hazardous safety issues, however, commonly involved the set pieces and overhead drops flying in and out at rapid pace. These scene changes could be so perilous for those in their path that the backstage “choreography” became every bit as important as the on-stage choreography. If we didn’t know where to be and where not to be backstage at every moment in the show, we could get bowled over by a massive set piece or have a seven-hundred-pound drop dropped on our head. We had to be alert and have our heads up at all times. We hoped, should we find ourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, that the crew would yell or push us out of the way in time, but it was really our responsibility to steer clear. This was the first time it dawned on me that tech rehearsals could mean the end of my life if I weren’t vigilant and careful.

Back to the show:
No, No, Nanette
was a 1920s, glitzy, cheesy, tap dance extravaganza first performed on Broadway in 1925 and famous for the songs “Tea for Two” and “I Want to Be Happy.” The show features Nanette, a young lady who wants to go to Atlantic City to indulge her wild side but is told “No, No, Nanette!” by her companions in an annoying attempt to keep her wholesome and respectable. (Kind of reminded me of how my Midwestern friends implored me not to move to kooky California.) It’s a crazy comedy of romantic entanglements and misunderstandings all set in that silly, early twentieth-century musical theatre world where everyone acts like a doofus.

Lucky for me, this was a huge dance show with a chorus of eleven guys and eleven girls. It was so sugary sweet and sappy it made your teeth ache to watch it. The
Los Angeles Times
said that while the show technically had a plot, it was really about “spangles and beads, tap dancing, dancing through hoops (literally), dancing on beach balls and glorious candy store colors that drape its chorus from hats to spats and be-ribboned feet.” An accurate assessment.

I especially loved the exuberant group tapping in “I Want to Be Happy” and the soft-shoe partner dancing with frilly parasols in “Tea for Two.” In one number, called “Peach on the Beach,” we all dressed in old-fashioned, colorful bathing suits, and some of the girls had to walk atop giant wooden beach balls. That was one balancing act I’m glad I wasn’t chosen for, because I certainly didn’t have the balls to do it, and I wanted to stay injury free for the three remaining shows.

My biggest headache was “Two Many Rings Around Rosie”—a song about how having too many boyfriends will “never get Rosie a (wedding) ring.” In this number, we danced with giant hula-hoop-like hoops to represent the ring theme. The hoops weren’t my problem, however. It was the blasted hat toss. Although never very good at Frisbee, I was somehow chosen to Frisbee-toss a barber-shop-quartet-style hat to one of the leading men all the way across the entire length of the stage. The rest of his choreography involved the hat, so it was imperative that he catch it. Talk about a pressure position! Every night, I’d wind up and watch that hat fly across the stage, praying to the theatre gods to let it land somewhere within his reach. Sometimes it would arc over the orchestra pit threatening to decapitate the conductor. (He was such a pro and so focused on the music that he never skipped a beat. Whether he was ducking for an airborne chapeau or being buzzed by a bumble bee, his baton kept the orchestra playing in perfect time. My hat was off to him.) Amazingly, I never once missed my intended target, but my nerves were on edge every show.

“Two Many Rings Around Rosie” seemed to be the directors’ downfall as well. They re-choreographed it over and over and over. We finally had to quit and go with what we had because the show was opening, and we were out of rehearsal time. The directors weren’t getting what they wanted and were frustrated. So was I; I had a hissy fit every time the number was changed. What’s the lesson? Don’t marry the choreography. Expect changes up until and sometimes after opening night. Even directors and choreographers have writer’s block, so to speak. It doesn’t pay to get all worked up over it.