Unnaturally Green (11 page)

“Hi!” I said.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh, I’m here for
Wicked.”

“Name.”

“Felicia Ricci?”

He glanced down at his folding table.

“Let me call David.”

In the silence I turned back to the bulletin board, where I spotted a digital clock, ticking down the seconds, and many handouts: company news, a backstage guest policy, a sign about something called the “Birthday Club,” a notice about health and hand washing. There was also what appeared to be a sign-in sheet, with a hanging pencil on a string. On this sheet were thirty-odd names, those of
Wicked
’s cast members—my soon-to-be coworkers. Next to it, pinned in the center, was the same weekly schedule I was clutching in my fist, which David, the stage manager, had forwarded to me in an email. I’d read it over so many times, I nearly had it memorized.

WICKED SAN FRANCISCO

Rehearsal/Performance Schedule | January 11-17, 2010

First Rehearsal: Felicia Ricci

Below the heading were rehearsal dockets for each day, Tuesday through Sunday, with a performance count for that day.

TUES
1/12

Performance #1204

And in the rehearsal column:

Stage Manager’s Office

1:00p-1:30p Orientation w/ David: Felicia Ricci

Wardrobe

1:30p-2:30p Wardrobe Fitting: Felicia Ricci

Vocal Rehearsal Room

2:30p-4:30p Vocals w/ Steve: Felicia Ricci

Hair Room

6:00p-7:00p Fitting: Felicia Ricci

According to the digital clock, I had fifteen seconds until orientation began.

“Felicia,” I heard somebody say. I spun around to see a man of medium build with short, dark hair approaching with his hand extended.

“David Lober, production stage manager.”

I looked at the digital clock. He was almost exactly on time, with four seconds to spare.

“David! Nice to meet you.”

“I see you’ve found our callboard and call sheet.”

I nodded. “I love this illustrated handout about health and hand washing.”

“The call sheet is where you’ll sign in every day. Follow me.”

As I followed David several yards inside and down one flight of stairs, I admired his take on the patterned button-down, tucked conscientiously into his day jeans, which sported a neutral belt. He wore a thin shell necklace, which, from the front, peeked out from his open collar, glistening as it caught the light. It was an outfit for the weekday that hadn’t forgotten the weekend.

When we reached the basement there was a table with a microwave; many disposable utensils, cups, and bowls; hanging papers; and announcement sheets taped to the wall.

“Is the rest of the cast around?” I asked as we turned the corner and headed through the first doorway, to what looked like David’s office.

“Not today. Since Monday is our day off, Tuesday is still kind of like our ‘weekend.’ We don’t usually schedule anything before 7:30 p.m. But for you, we make the exception.”

I laughed like a hyena.

“Lucky me!”

David was already seated at his desk, so instead of doing that thing where you punch someone’s arm, I slapped my own knee, like a banjo player counting off the first bars of her song.

“All right, so here is your folder of materials.”

He handed me a green pocket folder, the exact kind I used to use for homework assignments.

Kindergarten is the best!

“This should give you a pretty good overview of how things are done.”

Each handout boasted
Wicked
’s
logo at the top, while some said
SAN FRANCISCO
in huge letters down the side. One listed our performance schedule (one show every night at 8 p.m., matinees on Wednesday and Sunday at 2 p.m.), while another enumerated nearby pharmacies, public transportation, and suggested “points of interest,” including an Asian Art Museum and something called the Exploratorium.

Next there was a sheet that said,
Individual Track: Felicia Ricci (3F)
.

“Here you’ll see a breakdown of your ensemble track, or part,” David said. “It lists your scenes, the location you enter from, the solo lines you’re responsible for, where you exit, and any notes to take into consideration. Of course, you’ll learn this in the weeks to come, from Kirsten and Allison, our dance captain and her assistant.”

My eyes darted across the page, whose code was indecipherable: horizontal lines of text along a matrix of numbers and shorthand phrases. It read like modern poetry, and/or a transcript of two people playing Battleship:

Thank Goodness, R1 (Prosc. Stairs),
“I hear that she can shed her skin as easily as a snake!”
L2, to Ballroom, L3, book (give to Selma), L3, to Party QC – gondola…

I decided I needed to back things up, and so asked eloquently,

“So, I’ll be, like, rehearsing with just two people—like, on my own?”

“Right. Our dance captains will teach you your material individually. You’ll have a few chances to rehearse with some other cast members, but that comes later. Then it’ll be time for your put-in.”

He explained how a put-in was basically a one-person dress rehearsal—the final step before joining the cast.

“And what about the Elphaba stuff?” I asked.

“Oh, we won’t be getting into Elphaba until after you’ve been put into the ensemble, which will be on…” his voice trailed as he glanced down, “February 5th. Then we’ll rehearse you during the day while you perform at night.”

I shuffled back a few more sheets, to one with thirty little photos, labeled with each cast member’s name and his or her role in the company. As I skimmed, I saw one labeled
Teal Wicks – Elphaba
, then two rows up,
Vicki Noon – Standby for Elphaba
.

“I have one other question,” I said. “And I don’t mean to jump the gun here—but what’s a standby? I see here it says ‘Standby for Elphaba.’ Is that like an understudy? Are there two Elphaba understudies?”

“Right. Vicki is our standby, so she is basically our first understudy to Elphaba, taking over for Teal whenever she’s out. When Vicki is not on as Elphaba, she doesn’t perform in the show, in any ensemble track. She ‘stands by.’ You, on the other hand, are our Elphaba
understudy
, which means you’re in the ensemble, and you’ll go on for Elphaba when both Teal and Vicki are out.”

“Ah, I see. Cool.”

My throat caught. I wasn’t sure why. This was good news, right? With two people covering the role, being understudy meant much less pressure—because I might not ever have to play Elphaba. I mean, what were the odds? Plus, I’d get to be in the ensemble each night, as part of the company.

David rose to lead me on my first backstage tour. Outside his office we veered to the right, past the folding tables with their Styrofoam and plastic artifacts, then rounded the bend to a long hallway, where there was a wall of peoples’ faces. Each photo had been mounted inside clipart frames that read,

I left my heart (and brains and courage) in San Francisco

“These are cast members who have left the company since it opened over two years ago,” David said.

I spotted a photo of Eden Espinosa in the center, a legendary former Elphaba. She was making a cartoony “frowny” face and waving at the camera.

“Eden Espinosa performed here in San Francisco?” I asked.

“She was our Elphaba in the Los Angeles company, which is technically the same company you’re now a part of.”

“Right. Forgot about that.”

“From Los Angeles to San Francisco. Quite a group.”

I looked at David and smiled, noting his glimmer of sentimentality, no matter how understated.

We continued down the hallway, wandering past a series of dressing room doors, on which there were laminated signs with actor and character names that I recognized from the bios and headshots I’d seen on
Wicked
’s website. In passing, these signs began to spell out
Wicked
’s story—
Madame Morrible
and
Nessarose
in the first hallway, an alcove for
Boq
,
The Wizard
,
Fiyero
and
Doctor Dillamond
. They were names I had once known as an audience member, then later as an actor studying her script, and which I’d soon know in the flesh—as a
peer
.

At the end of the hallway were the ensemble dressing rooms. We peeked into the girls’. It was modestly sized and carpeted, with a center partition dividing the room into three sections. Exposed pipe peeked from the office tile ceiling, and wrapping around the border of the room were mirrors and vanity light bulbs on a dimmer, with one long, built-in table stretching along the wall. This table was subdivided into stations, with a chair placed every few feet. Above the mirror were names of the cast members who had claimed that slice of real estate.

Littering the stations were trinkets and accessories, windows into each girl’s personality. At one, a mini bonsai fountain, at another, a makeup trunk so large it looked like luggage. Photos, postcards, and post-its were stuck here and there—evidence of life, paused for now—restarting in a moment’s time. A city, deserted.

I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d know what all of it meant, how it all worked—when staring at this room would feel less like piecing together some Indiana Jones-type mystery, and more like the simple, mundane routine of going to work.

When I’d feel like one of
them
.

A part of
Wicked
.

“Next, we went upstairs, to check out the wings.”

It was my dinner break, and I’d called my mom to debrief her on the events of the day so far. I was sitting in the bathtub, the only place in my hotel room that got cell service, where I’d fashioned a back cushion from a rolled-up sweatshirt.

“What are ‘the wings?’”

I explained to my mom how the “wings” immediately surrounded the stage. It was where actors hung out right before they walked on, stagehands rearranged the set, and dressers did quick changes.

“Did you get to go onstage?” asked my mother.

“Yep! I walked all the way across.”

I told my mom how the stage was not black like you might imagine, but the color of wood, and riddled with metal tracks for set pieces, little speaker monitors that play the orchestra audio for the actors, and panels that sprayed special effect smoke, fog, and wind.

“That’s amazing,” said my mother.

By her coaxing, soon I had launched into a Backstage Tour “Greatest Hits,” if you will, which I shall obviously transcribe here for your reading pleasure.

Presenting,

Backstage Tour Greatest Hits!

Brought to you by Felicia’s Interior Monologue

1)
It takes a lot of crap to put on a show.

The vast array of objects I came across on my tour felt like clues which, when assembled, told their own version of
Wicked
—that of its other life, unseen. Part wonderland, part Home Depot, part teacher lounge, the environment was impossible to categorize.