Authors: Kristi Lynn Davis
Many shows were still offering free tickets to performers from other shows, so we saw every show we could fit into our schedule: Glen Campbell, Tony Orlando, Andy Williams, Dino (“America’s Piano Showman”),
Pump Boys and Dinettes
, the Osmonds, Jim Stafford, the Oak Ridge Boys, Yakov Smirnoff (a Russian comedian who had a morning show at the Grand Palace before our show each day),
Jennifer in the Morning
, Wayne Newton,
The Lawrence Welk Show
, the Branson Belle showboat dinner show on the river, and more. It was fun to see so many stars I recognized from my childhood. We couldn’t pass up Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede—a musical dinner show in a 35,000 square foot arena in which you ate chicken and ribs with your hands as you watched performers on horseback enact a Civil War-era North versus South competition. Of course, we had to see the popular Branson icon Shoji Tabuchi—an exuberant Japanese violinist who created a name for himself with his musical showmanship, family participation, and overly ornate restrooms.
Sure, all the shows were wholesome and hokey, spewing a hefty dose of family values, patriotism, and Jesus, but there was something soothing about it all the same. Part of me really loved living in a corny hillbilly world where fiddling was fine art, you didn’t think twice about frying your food, and a flannel shirt and overalls were suitable attire for any occasion. Still, I sensed the undercurrent of hatred and intolerance sliding beneath the surface of it all, remnants of the Civil War. This became apparent when one of our castmates was forced to move out of his condo and into another when the owners discovered an African American man was staying in their rental property. Southern hospitality? Yikes. Not for that guy.
Ron and I whooped it up at Silver Dollar City—a country/hillbilly-themed amusement park with rides, country craftsmen, country music and bluegrass shows, kettle corn, and plenty of old-fashioned vittles. We brunched at Big Cedar Lodge, a wilderness luxury resort replete with stuffed animals—a real taxidermy-fest, and gorgeous grounds. We gorged ourselves on home-cooked fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, and thick slices of pie at country cafés with floral tablecloths and gift shops selling apple butter, rock candy, and fake, canned roadkill. I found myself saying “possum” more than usual. Our biggest outing was the fifty-mile trip to Eureka Springs, Arkansas—the quaint Victorian bed and breakfast town famous for its hot springs and charming art galleries and boutiques. We entertained ourselves with all that Branson and the surrounding area had to offer. It was good, clean fun.
********
More amusement was to be had backstage at the theatre. Many of the Rockettes loved to take creative Christmas card photos in costume using the actual stage set. I dressed in my rag doll costume, and Ron borrowed a toy soldier costume from one of the male dancers. How we got away with that, I don’t know. I’m sure it was strictly forbidden. We took pictures on stage next to a set of giant presents so we looked like little toys. Very cute! Some of the other cast members wanted their pictures taken with all the Rockettes for their Christmas cards. We were constantly taking photos and having our photos taken.
One day the gift shop offered an employee discount, so the Rockettes went into a frenzy buying Rockette-related gifts for ourselves, our friends, and family. Many of us bought Rockette dolls, show posters, teddy bears modeled after the “Teddy Bear Nutcracker” characters, and rag dolls that looked exactly like us in our rag doll costumes. Everyone wanted their purchases signed by all the Rockettes, so we were constantly with Sharpie pen in hand signing stuff until our wrists ached.
The Rockettes were also constantly getting gifts. Cast members left all kinds of trinkets and goodies at our spots: chocolate fudge, homemade ornaments, candies. I baked frosted gingerbread soldier cookies and made rag doll ornaments for everyone. Myra Longstern (the director of Rockette Operations) overnighted bagels and cream cheese all the way from New York City. Radio City sent giant gift baskets laden with sweets and treats. The Rockettes would arrive at the theatre and find beribboned boxes on our dressing room chairs—gifts from the Higher Ups at Radio City with red and gold embossed cards wishing the Rockettes a “Merry Christmas.”
Being a Rockette certainly had its perks, and while it was the most widely recognized of my performing accomplishments, it was also the most difficult. Performing precision dance could be used as prisoner of war torture. Repeating the same movements over and over until they were precisely the same as the twenty people next to me (and maintaining that meticulousness show after show) was excruciating. Having to be perfectly on my mark at all times and not a hair to the right, left, downstage, or upstage was an exacting, mentally taxing task. To top that off, it was done under conditions of extreme exhaustion and sleep deprivation.
To make absolute certain that we didn’t let our guard down and our perfectionism slip, our dance captain Julie sat in the house with a notepad and tape recorder noting any mistakes she could find. She gave notes every single show. “Move your left pinky finger one-half-inch higher.” “Your kicks are a millisecond slower than everyone else’s.” “You were a millimeter too close to the girl next to you.” “Your smile was too big.” “Your smile wasn’t big enough.” Mistakes were not tolerated. Error was not an option. The quest for perfection was taken to such an extreme that I sometimes felt paralyzed with the fear of doing it wrong. This took Type A to a whole new level. The stress was draining and took some of the joy out of performing. I was relieved when our run was done, and I had successfully made it through the season without any giant goofs beyond the one “MERRY CHRISTTAS” blunder. As much as I hated the pressure to be perfect, I also wanted the show to be fantastic. I wanted to work hard, have the cast be amazing, and impress the audience. The show was a high-class production with extremely talented performers.
So it was with mixed feelings that I left the Rockettes, the Grand Palace, and Branson. It was December 23, and we had completed our seventy-two shows for that season. We had experienced such a whirlwind of emotions, excitement, fame, and fantasy. We had worked so hard and performed so well. Our show had received rave reviews not only from our audiences but from the head honchos at Radio City as well. “You ladies were more polished than the New York Rockettes!” they said. Our fabulous director Linda and her cohorts had accomplished their mission and whipped us into shape. I felt on top of the world and deflated at the same time, similar to the let-down I felt as a kid when the hoopla of Christmas was over. My stardom was over. For the time being, anyway. But I did finally have a
Radio City Christmas Spectacular
show jacket! And I had earned the right to wear it.
As a Rockette, I had definitely gotten my kicks, but it was time to return to Route 66. Ron and I loaded up the car and made that long (but hip) California trip.
The corridors of Radio City were filled with framed photographs of famous entertainers who had played the Music Hall. There were also oodles of pictures of the Rockettes from over the years. I searched each one, until I finally stumbled upon more recent photographs containing a few of the older gals I actually knew personally. I gasped excitedly as I recognized some of the ladies I had met while dancing in Las Vegas. Ahhhh, Vegas. Now that was a trip. They say “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” and for good reason. Okay, so I didn’t do the whole New York Rockette thing. But I wouldn’t have given up my Rockette days in Vegas for the best poker hand in the world.
Act 3, Scene 3
Vegas
I resumed life with my husband in our tiny studio apartment in Los Angeles. With no upcoming shows on the horizon, I jumped right back into subbing in
The Flintstones Show
at Universal Studios Hollywood. Since we only had one car, and I needed it, Ron searched for a job he could walk to from our place. The nearby Honda dealership needed car salesmen and presto! He was hired. I also decided to try more movie extra/background work for some easy cash until I could get into a legitimate show. All I had to do was take my photos to the offices of Central Casting—the nation’s largest extras casting company—and sign up.
Except for star spotting and free food, being an extra kind of stunk. The long days (sometimes as long as fifteen hours) of mostly sitting around waiting were so wearisome that the all I gained from the experience was weight from visiting craft services so often. The extras spent the majority of the day lounging about, waiting to see what would appear next on the snack table. “Cheetohs and Tootsie Pops!” Everyone made a mad dash towards the latest junk food addition—the highlight of our day. The holding rooms were often cold with terrible lighting and inadequate seating, so I learned to take a sweatsuit to keep warm and a flashlight for reading to pass the time. Folding beach chairs were popular among the regulars, who had gotten tired of having to park their behinds on the hard floor for hours on end. The extras were a strange breed; and I learned to either keep to myself or carefully screen before striking up a conversation. Most of the call times were ungodly early, and the work was especially irritating when I had to drive to a remote location for, say, a 6 a.m. call. Oftentimes, I was required to lug my entire closet along so that wardrobe could pick out something suitable for me to wear. Add in the fact that I’d be unlikely to ever find myself in the movie, and I had myself a pretty miserable job. Still, it beat temping.
The highlight of my extra career was being chosen to be a flight attendant in a scene at Los Angeles International Airport for the hit movie
Jerry Maguire
, starring Tom Cruise, Cuba Gooding Jr., Renée Zellweger, and Kelly Preston. I got to wear a real costume and have my hair french-braided in the hair and makeup trailer while Kelly Preston sat next to me getting her hair styled. I didn’t even realize it was her until she walked onto the set all made up and started making out with Tom Cruise (for the scene). As extras, we underlings were strictly forbidden to talk to the movie stars unless first spoken to by them. It was a mistake worthy of getting us fired on the spot. When filming
Jerry McGuire
, I stood within a few feet of Tom Cruise at one point. He didn’t utter a peep in my direction, but it was all I could do to not gasp aloud at his superstar presence. His handsome costar, Cuba Gooding Jr., however, did single me out for some small talk. He was cheerful and chatty and made me feel like a fellow human being instead of a lowly untouchable. I was also an extra on the 1996 movie
Mad Dog
Time
(a.k.a.
Trigger Happ
y) with Jeff Goldblum, Gabriel Byrne, and Ellen Barkin. Jeff was friendly and talkative with all the extras in an attempt to recruit new students to his acting school.
The menial background work and drudgery of theme park dancing were starting to drag me down, so I was elated to finally get cast in a real musical—
Evita
. My beloved Don and Bonnie Ward from the Starlight Bowl summer stock were the directors. We took the show on the road for a small tour from Glendale to Thousand Oaks, California, and then out of state to Phoenix, Arizona. It was the most intense and emotional musical I had ever done, and I was thrilled to break out of my comfort zone and into deeper theatrical territory.
But the real bonanza happened shortly after
Evita
ended, about six months after leaving Branson, when I received a phone call from my Rockette friend Jan. She and several of the other Branson Rockettes were now performing in
The Great Radio City Spectacular
at the Flamingo Hilton in Las Vegas. “Kristi, I’ve got the inside scoop that one of the girls is going to give her two-week notice soon, because she’s pregnant. We want you out here. Call Radio City right away and let them know you’re available.” Whenever there was even a hint of someone leaving, the girls back at the Flamingo wasted no time in taking matters into their own hands. They wanted a girl they could get along with, spend hours rehearsing with, share their most intimate dressing room secrets with, and dance next to twelve shows a week without wanting to kill her. I had been selected as a suitable candidate. It was my duty to go. I mustered up my courage and called Myra Longstern to tell her I was available if any spots opened up in Vegas.
Having a direct line to Radio City made me feel powerful. I could hardly believe I had the ability to personally call the most famous of dance troupes in one of the most famous theatres in the world and request a job. And they would actually accept my call! Not that they would necessarily give me the job, but since I now had a working relationship with the head of Rockette Operations, such a request was well within acceptable conduct. It was not in my nature to be so bold in asking for what I wanted, but Ron and I wanted to leave L.A. It stressed us out—the crime, the traffic, the gangs, the mud slides, the brush fires, the riots, the earthquakes, the smog. This opportunity could be our ticket out.
I had initiated Operation Vegas and continued my campaign by sending letters to Radio City reminding them that I was ready to work. With such a large pool of Rockettes, I knew I had to be in Myra’s face and in her memory when the time came to find a replacement. I had to be the first one she thought of, the easy way out. After all, who wouldn’t want a simple solution to her problem? No hassle searching. Kristi to the rescue.
Sometimes you get the job because you fit the costume and your friend begged the stage manager. Sometimes you get the job because you are available at the right time. After three weeks of advertising myself to Radio City through phone calls and snail mail, the golden call from Myra came in. “We have a spot for you in Vegas. You have to sign a six-month contract and after that you can stay on as long as you want, but we ask for four-weeks’ notice if you decide to leave. You’ll be making $1,200 a week, with two shows a night and Fridays off. We need you there in two days.”
I was elated and terrified at the same time. Two days to completely move to an entirely new state? I pleaded for more time. “Be here in five days, and that’s my final offer,” Myra compromised. In show biz, you don’t always get time to ease into gigantic life changes. One day you could be in L.A., down to your last dollar, slurping Ramen noodles for every meal, and the next day you could be whisked off to Vegas to make $1,200 a week indefinitely. Your home is where your top hat is, and you need to be able to pack up your life and leave town at the drop of a hat if you want to survive.
Such was now the case. So, with little warning, we began to box up our belongings and prepare for our next adventure. Luckily, we were on a month-to-month lease for our apartment so we wouldn’t be losing out on too much rent. I called my Vegas connections with the good news, and Jan came to the rescue and offered to let us stay with her until we found an apartment.
What about our little, blue Ford Escort with eighty-thousand miles on it? Old Not-So-Faithful probably wouldn’t make the trip across the desert. She was falling apart one piece at a time. I envisioned us stranded on an endless stretch of sand, under the scorching sun, crawling on our stomachs, my arms outstretched toward what was, alas, only a mirage, and uttering my last dying word, “Water!” Even if we didn’t break down in No-Man’s Land, we might very well sizzle up driving through Death Valley with no air conditioning. My air conditioner was long gone—a faint memory. There were no gas stations, Denny’s, or 7-Elevens for ninety miles. No Slurpies to quench our thirst. We could perish on the four-and-a-half-hour trip across the parched desert and become fodder for rattlesnakes and vultures. No doubt about it, we’d have to get a new car. The next day, Ron quickly scored us a two-year lease deal on a sporty, white Honda from his dealership. I looked good in it. My old beater was fine for a theme park dancer, but I needed something sophisticated and sexy to match my spectacular show on the Las Vegas Strip. I could feel my luck starting to change.
Ron loaded the U-Haul we’d rented, while my sister helped me clean the apartment. Cindy and I cried and cried. Leaving Cindy was by far the worst part about leaving Los Angeles. At least I’d have Ron and several Branson friends there, but I really didn’t know them all that well.
Towing the new Honda on a trailer behind the U-haul, we set off to Las Vegas. Heading east on highway 215 through San Bernardino, we could see ourselves driving right out of the smog, which sat like a slathering of light-brown chocolate frosting atop the San Bernardino mountains. I hadn’t realized how disgusting the air really was until we drove out of it. I took a breath of the fresh air and sensed the new life that lay ahead.
We approached Vegas from the northwest down a long stretch of deserted desert highway. The pink and purple sun setting in the mountains was breathtaking and alluring just like the infamous neon lights of the Strip. We were drawn into Las Vegas—“the meadows” long since dried up—like so many others desperately seeking their fortune, the big jackpot win that would change their lives, perhaps their only chance.
The wind stirred up dust devils—tiny tornadoes of sand and dirt—and actual tumbleweeds rolled across the road. Cowboys rode on horseback, their tiny ranches giving way to cookie-cutter, terra cotta housing developments ever pushing farther out from the center of the city. This was a booming community; some said thousands of people a month were moving in to work at all the new casinos being built and to enjoy the relatively low cost of living compared to California. Schools weren’t being built fast enough to keep up with the influx.
We drove past Mt. Charleston, about thirty miles from downtown, a tiny alpine village similar to those in the Colorado Rocky Mountains, where you could ski in the winter and horseback ride or hike the rest of the year. I never knew Vegas had snow let alone a ski resort nearby. Even closer to town, just west of Northwest Vegas where Jan’s home was, we passed the magnificent Red Rock Canyon where people mountain biked, hiked, and discovered remains of buried Mafia hits.
It was July third, the heart of the summer. McCarran Airport registered one hundred thirty-two degrees on the tarmac. It was a hot, dry heat, which Las Vegans say is more tolerable than a humid one hundred thirty-two degree day. Whatever the case, humidity or not, it was stifling. We were thankful for our reliable, new, white car with air conditioning.
We arrived at Jan’s house at dinner time. She had already left for the theatre, but we found a note on the table telling us where to put our stuff, as well as hotdogs, corn on the cob, and watermelon that Jan had prepared for us to eat. What a great friend. After shoving food down my throat, I began rummaging through my suitcases for a sundress and sandals. My dress was wrinkled, but it would have to do. Lara, the dance captain, wanted me at the theatre to watch the show and get a tour of backstage. I phoned backstage at the Flamingo and talked to Lara, who gave me directions to the casino.
Off I set, in my new Honda, heading for the lights of the Strip. I didn’t have a map, but with such huge landmarks as the high-rise needle of the Stratosphere, the pyramids of the Luxor, the monstrous MGM Grand, and Caesars Palace, I knew I would find my way eventually and without too much difficulty. Approaching the Flamingo, I noticed the large neon sign advertising the “World Famous Rockettes starring in
The Great Radio City Spectacular
and featuring Susan Anton.” I got a chill looking at the picture of a line-up of Rockettes. I was going to be “starring” on the Vegas Strip like so many famous performers before me: Sammy Davis Jr., Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Wayne Newton, Liza Minnelli.
I parked around back in the employee parking lot and entered the casino recalling that familiar smell of smoke and alcohol and the sound of the coins falling out of the slot machines. The whole atmosphere had disgusted me when I first came to Vegas six years earlier with my mother, but I wasn’t so shocked by the debauchery this time. In fact, I was excited, especially seeing our show posters hanging everywhere in the casino. I found the theatre and the inconspicuous door to the right of the theatre near the deli counter, just as Lara had instructed. As I stood mesmerized by the flashing lights, the clanking of coins, and the intoxicating nicotine wafting through the air, the secret passageway door opened. Out peeked Lara—a brunette, slightly shorter than I, who looked to be in her mid thirties. Her face looked sweet and kind, and the voice that came out of it sounded like a New York City cab driver. She was obviously a Jersey girl. I recalled the accent from my days in Celebration Magnifico.
We climbed the stairs and walked through stark, white tiled hallways—secret employee tunnels running through the casino—until we reached the backstage door. She called the girls out of their dressing rooms and, as it was near show time, five girls in wig caps and show make-up filtered out in various stages of undress. I got quick hugs and squeals of recognition from the Branson girls I had danced with, and then it was down to business.
“Take your line-up, please,” ordered Lara. The girls quickly fell into place in a horizontal line, shoulder to shoulder. Lara eyeballed me and then the line. I took off my shoes and was shoved between two girls. “Now, Kristi and Mona switch. Now Mona switch with Trisha. Hmm. Switch back again.” Lara debated with herself. After a few more manipulations and changes, Mona and I stood back-to-back to see which girl was a hair taller than the other, and I was finally given a spot in the line-up. The girls were dismissed. As they scattered to their dressing rooms, they muttered their approval or disdain of the new line-up, assessing how my placement would affect their show. “Shoot! This means I have to do the mirror section of Diamonds,” grumbled Trisha.