Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (57 page)

The Big Dressing Room was basically a long rectangle with a bathroom and a shower room at the far end of it. Running along the entire perimeter of the room, save the doorways, were counter tops with lighted mirrors above them and shoe racks below them. These counters served as our dressing tables. We called our portion of the counter our “spot.” The room was divided in several significant ways. First of all, a large costume rack ran straight down the middle, which prevented us from seeing the girls on the other side of it. Secondly, blocks of dressing spots were separated from each other by either partial walls or the bathroom or shower room door. These separations became important, as each section became its own entity with its own name, atmosphere, and identity.

As you entered, to the immediate right was an L-shaped section lining the corner of the room and dubbed by the girls “Kiddie Corner.” My guess is that the founding sisters were more childish acting, but no one ever told me the origin of the nickname. Kiddie Corner contained five dressing spots, the last of which bordered upon a small partition wall that separated it from the spot to its left.

Past the wall on the left and continuing down that same side of the room ending at the wall by the shower room were six spots decorated with red hot chili pepper lights, called the “Hot Tamale Row.” Many of my best Branson buddies congregated there, all of them known either by their Rockette nicknames or by their last names, like we were on a sports team: Ginny (a.k.a. “Gyne”—as in “gynecologist”), Wanda Squillante (a.k.a. “Squally”), and Jan Safford (a.k.a. “Safford”). The partition wall served as the dividing line between Kiddie Corner and Hot Tamales. The Hot Tamales were known as the fun, talkative, happy subset of the dressing room. They were a crafty group, in general, who engaged in a lot of cross-stitching (or, as we used to say, “cross ball-stitching”—a play on the dance step “cross, ball, change”), except for Kristen, a rebel redhead (a.k.a. “Fathead”—thanks to her massive head of hair). She was the black sheep of the herd, shunning crafts and instead shouting her mantra, “Drink Beer!”

Continuing counterclockwise around the corner on the other side of the shower room door were two isolated dressing spots (sandwiched between the bathroom and shower room doors) that never really had success forming their own identity. They had a few different names while I was there, but none really stuck. They were in a kind of No-Man’s-Land, not close enough to Hot Tamales on one side or to the row on the other side of the bathroom to feel like a part of either. Once, in a great act of empathy and generosity, Hot Tamales tried to annex them. They were too far away to hear the conversations and participate in the fun, however, and ended up retreating back into their own little lonely twosome.

Directly opposite from Hot Tamales, on the other side of the costume rack, were five spots that comprised by far the scariest section of the dressing room. “Death Row,” as it was known, housed the dance captain, who sat on the far end next to the bathroom, as well as the jaded ladies, who had been kicking too long to enjoy it anymore but still wouldn’t quit. These negative Nellies lived to gossip, but couldn’t always do so freely with the dance captain nearby. So they were often seen leaning into one another for secret conversations in hushed tones and whispered words. Death Row was generally somber and deadly silent. They preferred to read quietly with scowls on their faces when not complaining to each other about whatever irked them to death. Their grim perspective cast a pall over that portion of the room. Eventually, the aggrieved dears departed and some “New Age-y” women moved in. With their fresh blood, they made a concerted effort to revive Death Row into a more cheerful space.

When you walked around the Big Dressing Room, you could sense the different energies emanating from each section: from Kiddie Corner’s childish monkey business to the frivolity and camaraderie of Hot Tamales to the gloomy stillness that lingered over Death Row. I felt bad for the innocent girls who were involuntarily sentenced to Death Row and cursed with its cynical legacy. For the most part, I stayed away from the dark side. It was all too easy to get lured into a noxious gripe session.

Last was a single dressing spot nearly the size of two normal spots that was called “The Condo,” because it was so much larger than the other spots. It was the first spot you saw on your left as you entered the room and was sandwiched between the entrance and Death Row with another small partition separating it into its own entity. The Condo always had a waiting list of people who wanted their privacy and a little extra room to spread out. The girls who moved there were happy and The Condo held no negative connotations.

The Little Dressing Room was down the hall from the Big Dressing Room on the opposite side of the Green Room. It took on the name “Bellevue,” after the famous insane asylum, which was supposedly indicative of the mental state of the dancers who were admitted there. It developed an entirely different atmosphere than the Big Dressing Room, acting almost like a small, exclusive club. Bellevue contained one row of seven dressing spots, and you knew if you lived there that you would have no privacy and had better get along with all the others. Because of its library-like atmosphere, you could actually read there uninterrupted. On the down side, it was a confined space with poor ventilation and no bathroom.

Moving to Bellevue was a big commitment that required careful advance consideration not only due to the aforementioned features, but also because you were expected to help host several events throughout the year. Bellevue became a haunted house at Halloween and held regular “Popcorn and Kool-Aid Nights” as well as bake sales to raise extra cash to buy community items for the dressing room (a coffee maker or an ab roller, for instance). When one Bellevuean got engaged, her wedding shower was held in Bellevue between shows. Her cake was like none I’ve ever seen. Leave it to Vegas to have an adult bakery specializing in anatomically correct genitalia desserts. It was so real looking, I could hardly eat it. Bellevue was also home to the “Stinky Sock Contest,” a kooky game in which participating Rockettes would keep their soldier socks unwashed for weeks. Once sufficiently ripe, the socks were judged to determine whose were the stinkiest. One had to be really brave or really crazy to be a judge, but some people were just that bonkers.

Mona McDonald (a.k.a. “Mac”) and Rhoda Mado (a.k.a. “Jado”—a play on the word “jaded”) were the unofficial masterminds of Bellevue. They were in their terribly late thirties and had been Rockettes for about seven years. Having both recently been put on the Roster, and therefore guaranteed work as long as they wanted it without needing to audition, they claimed their status and seniority and weren’t going to be pushed around by anyone. Mac was a Midwestern, blond Barbie doll almost exactly my height, so we often danced next to each other in line-up. She was so flexible a pretzel would be jealous and could hold her leg suspended in the 6:00 position by her ear for days. In the past, she had made a good living dancing with a male partner on cruise ships. Mac served as the Bellevue cruise director of sorts, planning all kinds of events and activities.

Jado was a brunette, Jersey girl with a thick accent and an infectious laugh. She had battled it out in New York and survived being a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall, so she must have been tough as nails. She had even performed in 42nd Street on Broadway the first time it came out. Jado was the foremost Gossip Queen of the cast and kept in close and frequent communication with her contacts in New York so as to always be up on the latest talk or “T.” “What’s the T?” she’d always say, a twinkle in her eye. If the Rockettes had their own CIA, Jado was surely a lead member. Gathering information and spreading it around on a need-to-know basis was her forte. If you wanted to know what was going down, Jado was your woman. She was in cahoots with the men’s dance captain, who also had connections and good “dish.” I’ve never been good at dishing the dirt and have always been last to hear the latest scuttlebutt, but luckily for me, this time I was friends with Leslie, and she was friends with Jado, so I got the “T” earlier than usual. The only person to get remotely close to rivaling Jado for info was Fathead. Fathead was excellent in sussing out the Vegas dish, but couldn’t come close to touching Jado when it came to the inside intelligence from Radio City in New York. “Ya gotta have contacts, Girls.” Jado was also a strong competitor in the Stinky Sock Contest, her socks coming about as close to smelling like vinegar as anyone’s could.

Mac and Jado, a strong united front to be both feared and respected, were also founding members of the F. of I. (Fear of Intimacy) Club. Although both had no shortage of suitors over the course of their lifetimes, neither Mac nor Jado pursued marriage at that time. Their biological clocks may have been ticking, but they both chose to remain single due to their so-called “fear of intimacy.” Over the course of the run, many other Rockettes joined the F. of I. Club, but once officially hitched, they were required to resign their membership pins. It was the odd Rockette who didn’t have a man clambering for her affection, but not everyone was ready to commit to the old ball and chain.

In general, the girls in Bellevue were the older, more seasoned, been-around-the-block Rockettes, and they were particular about with whom they wished to cohabit. As such, it was imperative that they keep tabs on everyone’s potential comings and goings so as to be the first to know when one of the Rockettes planned to quit her job. Jado’s super-sleuth skills came in especially handy in this regard. At the first buzz of a departure, Jado and Mac secretly discussed which girls they deemed worthy of joining the esteemed ranks of the Little Dressing Room. That lucky person then received a hush-hush visit during the show to meet them at a certain time and place away from other listening ears. “So and So is leaving the show, and we want you to move to Bellevue. Think about it, and let us know ASAP. And don’t say a word about this to anyone else.”

By the time someone in Bellevue gave notice and her spot opened up, the Bellevueans had already been secretly lobbying for weeks in advance for a certain person to move in. It was a serious, clandestine affair involving Raoul, who made the final decision regarding seating assignments. As soon as one of their top picks agreed to move in, Mac and Jado dashed off to the wardrobe room to secure first dibs on the spot for their chosen lady.

Finding your niche in the dressing room was a big deal, because the location of your spot and the neighbors surrounding it could mean the difference between loving, tolerating, or downright disliking your job. This realization became apparent to everyone, not just the wily Bellevueans. It was, therefore, crucial to be in the loop when it came to hearsay about who was leaving, in case her exit would affect who would be sitting next to you. For instance, what if rumor had it that Lucy was quitting the show, thereby leaving her spot in Bellevue up for grabs, and Squally who sat next to you desired to be in the Little Dressing Room? That would leave the spot next to you open. One of two things could happen: 1.) If any of your current castmates heard that Squally’s spot was probably going to be available if Lucy left, they might wish to leave wherever they were sitting and take the spot by you; or 2.) The new girl would be automatically placed there. If you were afraid of a wild card person sitting next to you and wanted to be in control of who your neighbor was going to be (especially if you didn’t know the new girl at all), you needed to quietly convince someone you knew you got along well with to move into Hot Tamales. Then you had to get her to okay it with Raoul and stake a claim before anyone else did or before the new girl moved to Vegas.

Hence the importance of befriending the cast Gossip Queens, especially Jado and Fathead, because they nearly always had the scoop before anyone else. They and their spies continually bugged dressing rooms for inside information on anyone remotely considering vacating. In addition, Jado regularly phoned her NYC Rockette contacts to suss out what was going down and who might be the next replacement sent to Vegas. The new girls got stuck wherever there was an opening and had to make the best of it.

Likewise, in those instances when
you
yourself weren’t happy where you were sitting and contemplated moving to another section, your antennae had to be up and running at all times, so that you could pick up any signal that one of the girls might be giving notice. Then you had to race to get to Raoul before anyone else. Herein lay the importance of getting on the Queen Bee’s good side; he could blurt a big fat, “No way, Jose!” to your request to relocate. After all, it required moving all your costumes to another location as well as teaching a new dresser about all your costume changes. If Raoul was in a bad mood or didn’t like you, he could make your life difficult backstage. He not only overruled seating assignments but also okayed or denied requests for costume changes and repairs. So if you desperately wished to move to Bellevue, you had better start bowing down to and buttering up not only Mac and Jado but Raoul.

The other tricky part to such an ordeal was that you didn’t want your dressing room section to know too far ahead of time, because leaving was like being a traitor. “You don’t want to sit with us anymore?” When changes were made, it was sometimes in a big flurry and uproar with hard feelings. Having someone leave your section could feel like she’d personally slapped you across the face, ripped your heart out, thrown it on the floor, and stomped on it. Or you could just shrug your shoulders and peacefully let the person go. Other shows I’ve done prevented that whole dressing room problem from ever happening by arranging girls in alphabetical order or, as in the Branson Rockettes, by your lineup on stage. Raoul’s tolerance for our spot-shifting shenanigans was unnecessarily generous. It would have been within his right to lay down the law and make us sit and stay put wherever he wanted.