Unnaturally Green (24 page)

Because, at the stroke of 7:30 p.m. until moments before I would walk onstage, all privacy and solitude were surrendered. On cue, makeup designer Joe would bustle in to slather me in green, closely followed by wig supervisor Mark, who would pin my hair in loops, while Kathleen would dart around, somehow everywhere at once, appearing over my shoulder at the exact moment I needed to ask her a question (“Hey, Kathleen, could you save my prop lunch so I can eat it at intermission?”).

At 7:45 p.m., stage manager David would appear along with conductor Bryan, hunching over me as they gave a few lightning-quick notes they’d forgotten to mention—while I nodded and smiled, feeling sweat forming under my armpits, above my green-tinted lip, and in my mid-back reservoir.

At 7:58 p.m., it was on with my black braided wig and Act I costume, heavy and made of wool, while Joe patted on translucent powder and sprayed my hands with fixative.

It wasn’t until 8:07 p.m.—when the show actually started—that I’d be left alone.

At that moment I’d gaze in the mirror, hardly able to recognize the person staring back.

Nice to meet you, Elphaba.

The audio from the show’s opening number would start to play, and I’d sing along—just as I’d seen Eden do when I first trailed her—taking those final moments to reawaken my voice, all the while trying not to worry about the challenges that lay ahead.

Like any mountain climb, I had to think of it as one foot in front of the other—
right foot, left foot
, through the dressing room door, around the bend,
right foot, left foot
, through the hanging fabric into the wings, crossing upstage to stage right, where I’d find my suitcase, pre-set for my grand Act I entrance.

I’d it pick up, cross to center,
right foot, left foot,
behind the mechanized door, where the stagehand was set to open it, precisely on cue, directly after Glinda’s line…

Left brain, go!

Swing suitcase for momentum, run downstage, try not to overshoot. End center. Gaze out at Shiz University in wonder, feeling hopeful, like this new experience is full of possibility. When you hear the students start to sing, begin counting off for choreographed step sequence. Step left, right, left, turn, get cut off by crowd of people who scatter. Feel the sting of their reactions, show it in the way your body halts. Turn stage right for fainting girl. Pull yourself together. Start second step sequence, halted by upstage crowd, turn over shoulder, get startled by Boq. Upon seeing him, freeze like a statue; stamp foot to startle him. Indicate with left arm that he can pass. Cross down right and look off at fourth wall.

Upon hearing Glinda’s soprano trill, turn to look.  Feel the gaze of all the students. Speak first line, be sure to pace it right (not too slow). Yell, slam suitcase, charge left and confront students (keeping glasses on). Speak line about Nessarose (be sure not to rush or mumble this one). Get stopped by Father, led across stage by right arm. Reach for box; pull away hand as he snaps cover down. Cross and lean over Nessa, handing back box (do not sound self-pitying or speak line while moving box).

Reposition wheelchair more downstage during Madame Morrible’s entrance. Raise hand when prompted, wait your turn. Regard Galinda, forming early opinions of her voice, her manner, her outfit. Grow impatient, raise hand again while wheeling Nessa downstage. Approach Morrible, stop when she screams. Temper sting with a joke (keep it dry). Lunge at Galinda. Consult with Nessa. Face Morrible. Feel the stakes rising. Try to stop Morrible. Feel the frustration of being dismissed.

Then explode!

Feel the relief of having Nessa by your side, and the regret of having lost control. Approach Morrible with caution. Cross right, back to Nessa, kneel by her wheelchair. Rise as Morrible approaches, cross down, take her hand. Feel stunned when she mentions the Wizard. Try to process everything as Morrible exits, turn and wave goodbye to Nessa. Hear the chords that lead into “The Wizard and I.” Turn downstage to face audience in time to sing. 

Start more hushed, breathe, remember to visualize everything you and Bryan discussed. Pick up suitcase and cross left, as if to exit. Get stopped by your next phrase. Put down suitcase (you can speak lyrics here), play out, pick up suitcase on low G, be sure to support with breath as you cross upstage and get stopped by crowd of students. Cross left after them, reclaiming your pride. Cross down, picturing Father, Nessa, all of Oz. Cross left, prop suitcase up, place it down to sit. Look at hands; stand. Back up, left of suitcase, then cross back down.

Grab suitcase, cross upstage (don’t overshoot) while noticing a vision of your future up and to the center, hovering above the audience. Stay locked on image, while placing suitcase on moving set piece. Cross down and step on gear wheel portion of stage, describing your vision. Cross left on “celebration” (you can speak some of this), end down center. Place hands on chest, back up while singing until you hit the circular markers. Plant and sing, spreading arms from side to side. Run downstage on “melt,” until front and center.

Spread arms. Hold last note, raise arms to either side, throw them down. End with arms over your head.

Or, from a different point of view:

Right brain, go!

Running, running…Didn’t an Elphaba once run off the stage and land in the orchestra pit? Wow, the audience is applauding. I wonder if they think I’m Eden Espinosa. Foot cramp! Have to remember to tell Kathleen to put extra insoles in these boots. The Orpheum sure is big. I think they turned up the air conditioning tonight, it feels cooler out here, even though my wrists are sweating more than usual. I bet Joe will have to retouch the green before the school dance and—

Music cue already?!

 Don’t mess up these steps like you did your first week. It’s left, right, left, hold…or is it the other way around? Too late. Why is it all those times I saw Teal and Eden do this opening it looked like a piece of cake? Oh, look, it’s Alyssa, fainting. I remember when I used to do that part in the ensemble, right after the quick change, when my wig was barely on straight, and the bubbles from the opening number made the floor so slippery that I almost crashed into Teal. Oh, look, it’s Etai. Better scare him. Ugh, I hate the way I do that. What’s with my weird witch’s claw and freaky face? Gotta rethink that one. Hey, look, it’s the floor. Hey, look, it’s Penelope. She calls me “Frishé” and that makes me feel cool.

Get ready for your first line, Fel…Should I clear my throat? This air conditioning is drying me out. Of course you can’t clear your throat, you moron. My voice sounds weird right now, like an adolescent boy. Ugh, I hate the way I talk. Why didn’t the audience laugh there? Gotta yell now, but I’m worried about my voice. That was lackluster. Obviously David will give me a note about not being angry enough. Should I grab Kehau’s book like Teal used to do? Nah, I’ll just keep my distance. Oh, look, Tim is holding my arm. His face looks stubbly today. Hey, look, it’s Deedee. I saw her in
Miss Saigon
once. She’s the best Nessa ever and doesn’t have to wear a wig, which at first I thought was lucky, but then I was like, yeah, except she has to wash her hair every time she has a performance.

Gift box snap! Pulling my hand away feels so Vaudevillian!

Time to lean in to Deedee. I love how you can murmur onstage to the other actors and the sound designer will turn your microphone down. What should I say to her? Uh, I’ll just stay in character…even though I wish I could say something hilarious, like I used to do with Kevin while Madame Morrible entered. Oh, look, there’s Jody. Better keep an ear out for cues, don’t want to miss your line. Time it out, roll the chair.

Libby is talking! She’s on for Glinda! I nearly forgot! Look at her. I wonder if I could lift her over my head. I bet if I trained for five to ten weeks I totally could. Okay, don’t make this next blocking look phony, even though it’s choreographed. Get ready for the big scream. Save your voice! Too late. Ouch, my throat. Crap.

Why do I feel so dry? Did I forget to spray? I won’t be able to head offstage before singing! What is happening!!! PANIC!!!

Okay, don’t panic.

Kneel…talk to Deedee, try not to be all awkward and like, “I don’t know what to say to you when we improvise.” Here’s Jody, and I guess we’re downstage now. Oh God, I hate this part, when the song starts, and I know “The Wizard and I” is coming. Plus, I’m so far downstage. I can practically feel the audience’s sight vectors piercing my skin. What the hell is a “sight vector?”

Bye, Nessa. Bye, everybody else onstage.

Hello, first Song of Death.

Okay, energize these notes with breath…Get out those phrases that hang in your passagio….Just ease them out. What does “making good” mean? Remember your vocal coaching! Remember that being onstage is actually less scary than getting coached by Bryan. You can do this. Ouch! Cramp! Stupid over-pronated arches!

 Why do I sound like ass? I hope my head voice on “degreenify” comes out okay.

Sitting on suitcase….Sitting on suitcase. At least my foot stopped cramping. Time for the “unlimited” section. It sucks, but you’ve gotta do it. Back up carefully. I hope the suitcase doesn’t fall with a loud
boom
like it did during my put-in. See the vision of your future! Don’t riff up on second “unlimited.” Crossing…Get ready for the finale…Don’t crack, don’t crack, don’t crack…Big breath! Back up to center.

BIG HIGH NOTES! BIG HIGH NOTES! POP OUT THAT TOP NOTE! YEAH! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ BOUT!!! Now run, run, run, while singing, run, stop, hit more high notes. MORE HIGH NOTES! Don’t pinch on “team!” You got it! C’mon! Just a few more! The Wizard aaaa naaaa! APPLAUD ME! APPLAUD ME, DAMMIT!!!

16. STANDING BY, PLAYING HOUSE

April 12, 2010. Felicia’s Blog.

Let's get one thing straight: I love my job. 

Let's get one other thing straight: sometimes it is boring.  But that's okay.  Lots of things that are awesome can also be boring, like the Discovery Channel, or any novel by Victor Hugo.

On days when I'm not performing, I have the privilege to wile away my hours in a shared dressing room with the impossibly delightful Libby Servais, our Glinda standby.  But that's not the only thing we share!  We also share laughter, tickles, secrets, rainbows, bunnies!

In all seriousness, much of being a standby consists of inventing ways to amuse oneself, while staving off the sting of existential uncertainty.  Some of Libby's and my recent standby activity brainchildren include: (1) Buy complementary Snuggies and/or Slankets to lounge around in, and (2) wear in ironic glamour photo shoots; (3) Learn guitar; (4) Shampoo, comb, and style the blonde Jessica Simpson hair piece Libby inexplicably owns in order to (5) wear it in ironic glamour photo shoots; (6) Learn French (I have so far completed one beginner lesson with Rosetta Stone!); (7) Draft a handwritten letter to Vanilla Ice and see if he writes back; (8) Work out to Jane Fonda and/or other aerobics videos that were shot in the 70s so that we look fierce in our (9) ironic glamour photo shoots; (10) Play lots and lots of board games…

A
week or so after I’d first arrived, the
Wicked
cast celebrated its one-year anniversary of performing in San Francisco. There was a swanky nightclub party and everything, with thumping music and pigs-in-a-blanket-pushing waitresses in skimpy outfits and mini tilted hats. Etai and I, freshly off the proverbial boat, did our best to mingle amongst the cast, oozing charm. All told we were one step closer than strangers and many steps shy of being friends. But we had fun, stuffing our faces and taking awkward Facebook photos. At one point I found myself sitting next to Teal Wicks, our Elphaba at the time, who had distractingly toned arm muscles. Worried that I’d ask for an autograph on a cocktail napkin or squeeze her upper arm, I soon slinked away to the buffet, where I reunited with Etai and loaded up on chicken skewers.

Several days after the party, David Stone, one of
Wicked
’s lead producers, called a company-wide meeting, mandatory for all cast members. Floating on the wind of our one-year triumph, were our wings about to get clipped?

Was it a reprimand? Were we—gasp!—closing? Would the show suddenly be performed by shadow puppets? In my mind, questions abounded.

At the scheduled hour, we all assembled on the empty stage. I sat cross-legged next to Etai, proud to be among the newest cast members of
Wicked
. Front and center stood David Stone, with freshly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly pressed polo shirt—decidedly different-looking than I’d been imagining him as one of the mysterious bearded fates of
Wicked
.

Maybe this is just his day disguise,
I thought.

The verdict?

Wicked
San Francisco would be closing—though not until September. David fielded a quick Q and A about what this would mean for us, and soon we dispersed, the date burned into our minds.

September 5.

It was weird to know our company’s expiration date after I’d only just arrived and signed my contract.

To sort things out, Etai and I talked everything over at his apartment while watching
War of the Worlds
and, obviously, massaging each other’s shoulders.

“At least it’s not some mystery,” said Etai, as he started thumping along my spine with violent karate chops.

“Ow!” I yelled.

“Oh, come on, it feels good!”

“Ow!”

“I mean, eight months is a long time—but not long enough to settle.”

“Tru-u-u-u-u-u-ue,” I said, through the chopping. “Wo-o-o-ould you qu-i-i-i-it that for o-o-o-o-o-one se-e-e-e-e-c-o-o-o-o-ond.”

“Okay, but it’s good for you.”

Shaking off the pain, I submitted that we should just think of
Wicked
as an eight-month vacation. “It will give me an excuse never to unpack my stuff.”