A Little Bit Wicked (21 page)

New York, New York
May 2008

I
t’s a beautiful day on the Upper West Side, and my cooter is predicting continued spring sunshine with a 10 percent chance of late-evening precipitation.

One of the loveliest things about living in Manhattan is seeing three people I know on every block. Sometimes it takes us a moment to remember which show we did together, but then it’s hugs and remembrances. Theatre is like a barbershop that way, I guess. Full of unfinished conversations. Grandpa used to sweep the customer’s shoulders with a wooden-handled brush, whisk away the barber smock and say, “To be continued.” Show people part and come together again with that same ease.

Every once in a while, I’ll see someone and shriek her name in the middle of the street, and it’s not actually her. That can be embarrassing. Worse yet is when I see someone I don’t feel like talking to and I dodge into a doorway. I always feel horrible about it later and obsess
over whether the person saw me give him or her the slip. (Even worse is when the
other
person dodges into a doorway.)

I see a friend and her teenage daughter peering into a shop window, and I call to them.

“Joy! Isabelle!”

They don’t dodge. Hugs all around.

“Come to Starbucks,” says Isabelle. “Allison’s waiting for us. She’s going to have a spaz attack when she sees you.”

As we walk up the street, Joy can’t resist the mandatory love-life pulse check.

“What’s up with the battling sunfish? Is Chenorkin on-again or off-again?”

“Off-again,” I tell her. “He’s being a putz.”

She sighs something about wanting to slap the both of us upside our heads.

“How’s Griz?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.

“He’s taken up home winemaking. We’re going to France this fall for our twenty-fifth anniversary, and it seemed like a good idea to start drinking now.”

“Congratulations.” I squeeze her hand. “Twenty-five years with the same person. I want to know what that feels like.”

“I know you do, sweetie,” says Joy. “But I’ll give you my standard line: it’s not possible to be married to the same person for twenty-five years because it is not possible to
be
the same person for twenty-five years. My old man and I are lucky. We keep falling in love with each other’s inner stranger.”

“But how is that done?”

“We make each other laugh. That’s essential. We work well in the sack. And we’re both willing to do what it takes to be married. We’re willing to compromise. Marriage as an institution doesn’t fare well in the hands of perfectionists. Life’s too short.”

“So the key to longevity is a mutual willingness to lower your standards?”

“Exactly!” Joy holds out her hand. “Five cents, please.”

When we arrive at Starbucks, Isabelle pulls the door open and spots her friend, and I can see the history between them as they rush to hug each other. Allison Rihn, it turns out, is one of the zillion aspiring actors in New York, and she does have a little bit of a spaz attack when she sees me, but she handles it like a pro. She’s six feet tall, willowy, and blonde. Her face is wonderfully quirky. She’s different. She’ll have to look a little harder to find what fits, but she’ll work. When we come to the front of the line, I order my soy chai latte and hand over a Starbucks card personalized for me by a friend. The barista looks at it and laughs.

“Hey, ‘Taylor, the Latte Boy.’ That’s a song about Starbucks,” he explains.

“Yes, I think I heard that.” I tuck a few bucks in the tip jar, enjoying the fresh giggles from Allison and Isabelle.

“Allison, you should watch for Susan Stroman auditions,” I tell her as we settle in at our table. “She’s always casting your look. And the dancers love her. She’s so inspiring, you’ll want to follow her off the edge of a cliff. I mean, if Susan says, ‘Dance,’ it wouldn’t matter if you had no feet. You’d get up and dance on the bloody stumps.”

Allison finds this statement not one bit over-the-top, so I know she’s going to fit in nicely here. Rummaging her purse for a pen and paper, she judiciously jots down Susan’s name, eager to learn, hungry to grow as the conversation dwells and circles around all things theatrical. I love engaging in energized conversation with the new blood on Broadway. I want to take them by the hand and lead them through the turnstiles, the way I was adopted by my
Animal Crackers
cohorts and so many others. Our lattes last through a quick coverage of the basics:

Cool Aunt Kristin’s Advice for Young Actors

• It’s been said a thousand times, and it’s true: if there’s anything else you could be happy doing, you should do it.
  
• Run with the big dogs or stay on the porch with the puppies, but
  let your ambition be about who you want to be, not what you want to get.
  
• Awards are on the outside. Rewards are on the inside. That means rewards don’t have to be dusted.
  
• Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
  
• Never,
  never
  forget the fun factor.
  

“Good advice for theatre and life,” Joy concurs.

As Allison and Isabelle depart for an afternoon of shopping, I ponder that fun factor.

“Joy, let me ask you…
hypothetically
…if a woman in her late thirties is being pursued by a guy is in his mid twenties—”

“I’d better hypothetically hear every gory detail.”

“He’s smart.
So
cute. Kind of like a young Manfred Mann. If Manfred Mann was funny. And had a gym membership.”

“Well, speaking in the abstract, a smart, funny forty-five-year-old man is hot, while a smart, funny twenty-five-year-old man is just getting warmed up. But for the purposes of practical application…” Joy considers it for a moment, then shrugs. “
Eph’phatha.
”

“What?”

“It’s Aramaic. Means ‘be open.’ In the Bible, Jesus put mud in a deaf man’s ear and said, ‘
Eph’phatha
’ and the guy was healed.”

“
Eph’phatha
. I like it.” The word fits nicely between my tongue and hard palate. “I asked him to be my date for the Tony’s.”

“Mr. Hypothetical?”

“No, Joy, I meant Jesus. He’s wearing Armani and Birkenstocks.”

“Funny girl.” She dips a finger in Isabelle’s cup, and flicks an ice cube at me.

“Am I crazy?”

“Yes, but I love that about you.” She raises her latte in a toast. “Here’s mud in your ear.”

After a warm hug, we part ways, and I head up the street toward home, hoofing it instead of hailing a cab. I need to soak in all the
Manhattan I can before I leave for L.A., where I’ll spend the summer living on the same coast as Mr. Writer and a host of hypotheticals.

In the first season of
Pushing Daisies
, Chad Gomez Creasey and Dara Resnik Creasey wrote a wonderful episode entitled “Bitches.” (The dog kind!) Olive Snook and Ned the Pie Maker have shared a kiss that means everything to her and confusion to him, so he says something mean and breaks her heart. As they close down the Pie Hole for the night, Ned is stiff, but Olive is done struggling with it and simply says, “See you tomorrow.”

“Olive?” says Ned.

“I’m still here.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. And I’m sorry I said our saliva wasn’t compatible.”

“I’m a big girl,” says Olive. “I’ll be okay.”

It felt good to speak those words.
I’m a big girl. I’ll be okay.
With each take, I felt it becoming more and more true. Before Olive leaves, she tells Ned something she could have just as well been telling me: “I hope you two make it work. I really do. And if you can’t make it work, I hope it doesn’t take forever to figure that out. I just want you to be happy.”

She squeezes Ned’s hand as she walks out the door, and the narrator says something about the different forms love can take, each one precious in its own way.

I want to love somebody now.
Lippa’s lyrics drift down the back of my mind.
Is it you? Is it me?

The song ends in a tantalizing nonresolve, poised on the dominant chord instead of coming to rest on the obvious tonic, the musical equivalent of
to be continued,
the thrilling and terrifying act of asking a question. Maybe the answer is in L.A., maybe not, but whatever happens next, I’ll be open to the love and happiness God wants for each of us.

Life’s too short. I’m not.

W
hen I’m a grand old dame of the stage, I might get around to writing a proper “tell-all” autobiography. Right now, I’m offering this completely biased “tell-a-little” slice of life, which reflects my personal recollections and opinions and not the opinions of Simon & Schuster, ABC, Sony Classical, or any of the other wonderful organizations I’ve been privileged to work for. To make this book more of a tea party and less of a Wagnerian night at the opera, it was necessary to composite some events, conversations, and people. Some names have been changed in the interest of diplomacy and to protect my privacy. If you’re not mentioned in these pages, please don’t think that means I didn’t appreciate your presence, friendship, or contribution. I’m probably saving you for the magnum opus.

Roll the Thank-You Cam!

Thanks to my family for loving and accepting me always. (And for
continually upping that fun factor!) Mom and Dad, you gave me faith in Him, belief in myself, and the best life I can imagine. Mark, you’re the man. Betsye, you’re the
W-O-M-A-N
—more than my sister-in-law, you’re my soul sister, best friend, and matchless shopping buddy. Zach and Emily, you’re just plain adorable. Aunts, uncles, and cousins—love ya! To my dear friends Denny, Erin, Regina, and Anne, thank you for listening to me and for allowing me to listen to you. I’m grateful to all my teachers, good and bad, but I’m forever indebted to
my person,
Florence Birdwell at Oklahoma City University, who taught me to sing and be strong.

I deeply appreciate the encouragement and insight of my manager, Dannielle Thomas; my agent Tony Lipp and all my agents at CAA; and my publicists, Jill Fritzo (of the East) and Megan Proffitt (of the West). Thanks to James Adams. (I know you’re not supposed to be friends with your lawyer, but I am.) And to Melody Young, my business manager, for her valiant (though ultimately futile) efforts to keep a lid on my shopping. I’m also very grateful to Mark Gompertz, who came to me with the idea to do this book, and to Michelle Howry, who expertly guided it from thought bubble to bookshelf.

Special thanks to Aaron Sorkin for reminding me to let the emotion come through. Come what may, A-so, you have my gratitude, respect, and love always.

When Simon and Schuster talked to me about writing a book, they said it was because they thought I was a person of interest. I couldn’t find myself less interesting or more dorky, so I knew I had to find a ghost writer, aka Casper, aka my vessel to help me say what I wanted to say clearly and honestly.

I met with many people. Because I am a God person, I believe Joni Rodgers was plopped into my lap on purpose. She has become a member of my family, someone I trust implicitly, and a woman I revere
because of all she’s gone through. She is so good at words, but there aren’t words in the English dictionary for me to say how much I love her and thank her for her hard work. She never missed a deadline, she laughed at my jokes even when they weren’t funny and she came with her great assistant/daughter who is now like a little sister. Joni, you survived cancer to give other people the gift of words. Thank you for giving me mine.

Kristin Chenoweth
June 2008

A Note from the Memoir Guru

Thanks to Kirby Kim and Kirsten Neuhaus at Vigliano Associates and to my literary agent, Wendy Sherman. Gratitude and love to Gary for keeping the Houston home fires burning while I was sucked into the Hollywood vortex, to my son, Malachi, for steady laughs, and to my daughter, Jerusha, the best research assistant anyone ever grew. J’ru, your hard work and hipster insights made this book (and the story of my life) many metaphors and a Gucci bag better. Huge thanks to Aaron Sorkin for invaluable research assistance and creative insights, in addition to the long-suffering good humor and ridiculous courage it took for him to participate in this project. (Peace be with you, Studs Mulligan.)

Most of all, I’d like to thank Kristin Chenoweth for inviting me into her life and allowing me to be her book Sherpa. Her astonishing generosity, boundless energy, and shining spirit made it a delight from cover to cover.

Joni Rodgers
July 2008