Unnaturally Green (20 page)

“It gets to be…a lot.”

“I can imagine,” I said, with a nervous smile—even though, for all my rehearsing, I could
not
imagine. Nothing could prepare me for the actual
feeling
of going onstage, in front of thousands, in my newly greened skin.

Just then, a petite woman with brown wavy hair and apple cheeks walked in. Her name was Kathleen and she was Elphaba’s dresser.

“Are you excited for your put-in?” she said in my direction as she pieced through the garment rack behind me, taking quick inventory of that evening’s costumes.

“In a sense,” I said.

“We’ll be getting to know each other real soon,” she said as she headed to the door, scooping up the black witch’s hat that had been placed over an orange traffic cone.

Through the dressing room monitor I heard the “places” call, and watched as the wig guy carefully positioned Eden’s two microphones under her wig—an extra one for backup—inching them out onto her forehead. Soon Kathleen was back, helping Eden with her wool blazer, handing off her prop glasses.

Then, one by one, the crew left the room.

“Have a great show,” they each said.

“Want me to duck out?” I asked, unsure if I would be imposing on Eden’s final moments.

“Nah, you can stay. Just don’t mind me.”

At this, she let loose a deafening vocal siren that soared from the top of her range all the way down to the bottom. This, too, she did with absolute calm—while looking in the mirror and placing her wireframe glasses on the bright green bridge of her nose.

Together we heard the preshow announcement and the orchestra’s overture, signaling the show’s beginning.

The
Wicked
cogs had been set in motion.

“Do you, uh, ever get nervous?” I said.

Eden smiled. “Me? No.” She sprayed what looked like vocal spray into her mouth. “It’s something else. Hard to explain.”

Through the speakers Glinda’s soprano floated above the orchestra, while Eden busted out even more strange inhuman vowels. As time marched on, I suddenly felt myself sweating, as if
I
were somehow the one going on.

If it’s this bad now…

The opening number was drawing to a close, but still Eden remained firmly planted; fishing in her blazer pockets, dusting off the wool fabric. As the ensemble concluded the number—belting the word “wicked” one, two, three times, like a harmonious fog horn—Eden, without warning, opened her mouth and sang along to the final blast, belting out the highest note I had ever heard coming from anyone.

“
WIIIIICKEEEEEEEED
!
”

Then, after a brief pause:

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

I followed her through the dressing room door.

Tonight, I would cast a blind eye on my 3F track and faithfully and obsessively observe everything Eden did, like a German shepherd, or Glenn Close in
Fatal Attraction
.

Watching someone do something you didn’t understand was like listening to a group of people speak rapid-fire in a foreign language. From conjugated verbs to idiomatic phrases, I needed to crack the code behind Eden’s performances—taking note of where she set her vocal spray, in what order she pulled on her knee pads, the exact manner she would drape her prop knapsack over her shoulder. Everything mundane was spellbinding.

In between scenes, Eden offered me little tips here and there, narrating what she was doing and why. Meanwhile, Kathleen performed all sorts of magical quick changes, handing off her water bottle or a bunch of props, while the wig guy would fuss with the Elphaba wig (pinning it into its various hairstyles and configurations) and the makeup guy appeared out of nowhere to retouch her makeup, re-sponge her hands, or dab a tiny paintbrush onto her nose.

Watching all this confirmed that in the world of mega professional theater, everything was laid out for you—pre-positioned just-so to make life easy. In high school, college, or other non-professional productions, nine times out of ten you were in charge of your own makeup, hair, quick changes, and props—the silent tasks that, together, doubled the work of performing a role. To me, it was the difference between cooking a meal on your own, or starring in a Food Network show. When you cooked for yourself, it was a labor of love—but then it took longer, and at what cost? A burnt morsel here, some heavy seasoning there. But on TV, your ingredients were prepared for you by invisible helpers—finely chopped and sorted into cute little ceramic bowls, while you got to cook for everybody with ease and authority.

The point is: it helps to have help.

Onstage, Elphaba was one person. Offstage, she was a team. She was makeup retouches, water bottles, swatches of wool, knee pads. Endurance. Stamina. Focus. Calculations and preparations. It was all so cohesive. One missed cue, broken zipper, or misplaced prop could snowball into who knows how big a derailment.

I realized that being a professional didn’t mean being wholly self-sufficient. When I would play Elphaba (should the day come), I would be able to rely on others.

And others would rely on me.

Eden dashed onstage. Staying within my tunnel, I turned to watch her from my post in the wings. All at once I saw her, so vividly, as Elphaba—the young student, overlooked by her family, still hopeful for the future—of her calling to “make good,” as it said in the
Wicked
script. From song to song, her vocal acrobatics unfolded before me. Soon she was in the home stretch of Act I, a juggernaut of scene-after-scene, with only 20 seconds offstage for a quick costume change—all leading up to the Act I finale.

Crouching on an offstage staircase in the most downstage wing, I peered out at the action. From my position, I couldn’t see the audience—only the performers—and if I really let go, I almost felt like I was among them.

Like I was Elphaba Thropp, brave and uncompromising.

David 8:40 PM hello there – come backstage – she is not sure she is going to stay in. we will know more soon

A week and a half later—my very first day as standby—and the Big Day had arrived, nothing like I’d imagined it.

I hustled through the wings, skin smeared in green, moments away from my Elphaba debut—a mid-Act I swap, right before “Defying Gravity.”

Every image whizzed by, like scenery past a runaway train—with green-tinted windows. Though surrounded by people, I felt so inconsolably alone, trying to ignore the chatter of voices in my head. I needed to release myself from the stronghold of self-doubt and become someone else entirely. To become—

Without warning, Eden appeared, and I launched myself onto the stage, a wind-up toy giving its first mechanical lurch.

Oh God, what is happening.

Soon I was staring off into the blackness, blinded by the lights, staggered by the shock of being inside what felt like someone else’s skin. But, somehow, I was talking, walking, and singing, my right brain puppeteering my marionette strings so that, by some invisible force, I was able to perform.

My gaze swept over the Orpheum Theater, and in its place I began to imagine the Emerald City—its buildings, its streets, its people. I felt my right brain move me, to and fro, in and out of reality, until I was nearing the finale.

Why did it have to be mid-show, right before “Defying Gravity?”

The most treacherous Song of Death!

Just breathe.

As its climax approached, I stood dead center, gripping Glinda’s hand while we sang in unison, bidding each other farewell. Our palms slid past one another as I started to back up, running through the pre-flying sequence in my head.

Broom left…satchel right…upstage cross…

Gripping my broom, I turned my back to the audience and groped for the satchel’s clasp with sweaty fingers.

C’mon!

The stubborn thing wouldn’t open. I kept ducking upstage and to the left, wondering if I should just head back anyway.

I was running out of time.

Finally, the satchel came undone and I bolted back. Holding my broom, as I charged forward I was suddenly stopped—dead in my tracks. Again, I tried to walk, but I was stuck.

I looked down to see it: my broom had gotten caught between two set pieces, a barrier stretching horizontally across the tiny space I was supposed to walk through. I tried to rotate the broom so it was vertical, but the flood of music and threat of missing my cue kept my body propelling forward, my hips pressing squarely onto the long broom handle.

C’mon!

I was locked at a standstill—a bicyclist who’d made a wrong turn down a one-way street—but still I kept pushing, riding against the traffic, looking for a way to veer around it. The music was racing, and if my right brain didn’t tell me to do something, the entire show would grind to a halt.

I smashed my body forward.

Thwack!

The broom snapped in half, its pieces—handle and straw head—landing on the stage with two pathetic little
thuds
.

(YOUNGER READERS: EARMUFFS!)

“Fuck!” I said through a gasp, praying for the love of all that was family-friendly that my microphone had been turned off.

No time to think.

Right brain, go!

I scrambled for the head of the broom, leaving the handle on the ground, and stepped back for takeoff. Before I knew what was happening, I was soaring above the stage, clenching my butt and waving the half-broom—like a defiant cleaning lady brandishing her dustpan brush.

I was floating, clenching, wailing to the sweet high heavens, which at that moment felt close enough to touch—or, even better, clean. Half-broom in hand, sweat pouring down my face, I knew I looked ridiculous. But I didn’t care.

Elphaba didn’t care. She was free, she was flying, she was never looking back—or down, for that matter.

Holy crap, it’s a long way down.

ACT TWO
.
OVER THE RAINBOW

GREEN

/grin/
adjective