Unnaturally Green (28 page)

The mullet perpetrator had, oddly enough, been recommended by Neka Zang, who (to recap) was so pretty it was disgusting. I think my secret reasoning was that if her stylist cut my hair, I would somehow come back from the appointment with Neka’s face. Not only did this not happen, but I had been made to look like a member of the band Whitesnake.

“I don’t get it,” Neka said as she pranced beside me on a treadmill. “She is such a genius. Whenever she cuts my hair she actually makes it
longer
.”

Even though this statement made no sense, I knew better than to question Neka. “Well, even though it looks like a mullet, I guess it does look like a
long
mullet.”

I, too, was on a treadmill, doing my best to imitate Neka’s every gazelle-like move. In the past few weeks we’d become closer friends. She was still intimidating, but since I’d been witnessing her having to actually sweat to look good, things became more tolerable. (I’m such a great friend, I know.)

“Isn’t this so much better than running?” she said, trotting away.

“Definitely,” I replied.

“Are you still feeling bloated?” she asked, waving her arms above her head.

“There is never a moment when I
don’t
feel bloated,” I said, “but I think this will help.”

Another speed bump: as standby, it was impossible to stay in shape. While Libby and I could work out in our dressing room, we never knew if during squat number 99 we’d suddenly get called in by stage management for a last-minute swap. Similarly, if I kicked my own butt at the gym in the afternoon, I feared I wouldn’t later find the energy to scream, sweat, and wail my way through the Songs of Death.

 (Good luck climbing Mount Elphaba when you can barely walk.)

As a compromise, I embraced Neka’s innovative trot technique, a low impact, preserve-your-joints workout invented to guard against the repetitive motion of
Wicked
’s dancing. Soon, we were working out at French Nic’s apartment building on the regular; galloping, planking, or crunching as Nic and Marshall grunted and clanked heavy things in the corner.

After working out, we’d take the elevator to Nic’s apartment funhouse, where the boys would wrestle with Nic’s dog Domi (who looked like a much cuter version of a mop) and the girls would discuss the amount of sodium in Neka’s microwaveable dinner.

As workout buddies, we killed many birds with one stone:

1) I burned some serious homemade brownie calories in a manner that didn’t leave me wrecked.

2) Marshall found manly sanctuary in hanging out with someone not teeming with estrogen.

3) Neka and I admired our respective boyfriends’ rippling muscles, as we ignored the homoerotic overtones.

Soon, more than workout buddies, we two pairs were bona fide “couple friends,” a Fearsome Foursome that double-dated at lunch or on road trips to Napa Valley, where we sipped wine and ate cheese opinionatedly (imbued—by the transitive property— with Nic’s French authority).

Hanging out with Nic and Neka made Marshall and me realize that, in living together, we’d bypassed the simpler pleasures—like double-dating. Now that we were marooned in San Francisco, away from our friends back east, we’d failed to master some of our more basic dating skill-sets. In a sense, our timeline had been scrambled: as a couple, we were eight year-old savants who’d graduated law school—but never learned to fingerpaint.

I explained this to Neka one day as we pranced along, facing each other and holding the treadmill guardrail.

“I don’t know how you guys did it,” said Neka as she did a spin-pivot pattern on the conveyor belt that blew my mind, “moving in together so soon.”

“It’s been a learning curve,” I said.

“Men. Just look at them,” said Neka, nodding over at the boys.

I looked over Neka’s girating body to the weight area, where Marshall and Nic were flexing in a bicep-back-muscle-push-up configuration that was too mysterious to understand.

“They’re so content to move heavy things up and down,” I added.

Through our trotting we delved more deeply into this favored topic of women high on endorphins. Neka, it turned out, had a dating history of adventure and splendor: she’d coupled with musicians, actors, and world travelers, and seemed all the wiser for it.

My dating history was—what’s the word? Pathetic?

I revealed to Neka that, through the years, I had meticulously curated my very own Dating History Museum. At her request, I gave her a quick tour.

“Four gay boyfriends?” said Neka. “Was that, like, depressing?”

I explained to Neka how in the emotional aftermath of finding out your boyfriend was gay, you went through several stages of grief. First you felt relieved (his being gay explained why he wanted to watch your videocassette of
The Wiz
instead of make out). Then you felt pity (the poor kid had to tell his parents he didn’t like boobies). Next you felt excitement (you had a new gay best friend, and maybe it would be like a sitcom!). But, in the end, you were left with lasting resentment—for having endured months of feeling unattractive, and questioning what the heck was wrong with you.

Your only takeaway was the scar, puckered and small, from the pinch of the clothespin as he hung you out to dry.

We talked more as I continued the tour, ending things with a recap of Matt 3.0 and our drawn-out breakup.

“How did you know he was seeing the French girl?” asked Neka.

“I read his Facebook messages.”

(I’m not too proud of that part, of course; but what if I hadn’t? When it comes to catching cheaters, I am a moral relativist.)

During my snoop, at the very top I’d found a day-old message from somebody named Pauline:

“i shiver when i think of last night outrageous sexiness
,
”
it said, at which point I considered that the only thing worse than a sexual overture to your boyfriend is when said overture is rendered without punctuation.

“Ouch,” said Neka. “Sorry, girl.”

We trotted for a few more minutes, and Neka followed up with the question I’d been wondering for months.

“So, how did you know you were ready to date again?”

I looked over at Marshall, who was doing an overhead press with an amount of weight equivalent to a small horse.

Post-heartbreak, I was sure no man would stand a fighting chance. But Marshall had revised everything I’d been taught to think about guys—how they acted, how they treated you. How they looked in aprons.

From there, it had been a whirlwind few months. I’d become a professional actress. I’d moved to San Francisco. I’d played my dream role, many times over. I’d tumbled headfirst into an exhilarating romance.

I thought about Elphaba, and all that I knew about her so far.

She’s brave, and sticks her neck out
.

“I didn’t know,” I said. “I just had to wait and see.”

It was the truth. You can never know if you’re ready. You just have to walk out onto the ledge, and pray that you don’t fall.

18. FOUR SHOWS IN TWO DAYS,
OR, IT ALL COMES CRASHING DOWN

Email from Felicia to Esa.

Hey there, Esa! 

I really appreciate your support and am so glad you're liking the blog. I do, indeed, know that I'll be going on for all four weekend performances on May 22 and 23 (a Saturday and Sunday), so if you'd like to catch me doing Elphaba, then would be a great time to stop by.

Anyway, thanks for writing, and take care--

All best,

Felicia

A
s luck would have it, Eden scheduled two vacation days at the end of May. As soon as I heard the news I emailed, texted, g-chatted, and e-carrier-pigeoned everybody on the planet, who within minutes wrote back to say they’d booked their train, plane, and theater tickets.

This was great news.

It was also mildly troubling.

Wicked
’s summer calendar, you see, meant there were matinee and evening performances on
both
Saturday and Sunday—adding up to four shows in two days. The rest of the cast had been able to adapt to this more grueling schedule, but I’d only done a two-show day once during my first week. I’d have to tackle a four-show weekend as Elphaba cold turkey.

In the weeks leading up to May 22, I went into rehearsal overdrive, revisiting the Songs of Death, over and over. Breathing, belting, clenching. Banana-ing. 

A couple of weeks after the news broke, I called my mother to talk plans. It was Tuesday, so I tried my Grandma Yola’s house, where my mom paid weekly visits. When there was no answer, I tried my mom’s cell.

“Hi, Feleesh!”

“Hey, Mamacita!”

We discussed the upcoming visit—when their flight would get in, where they’d be staying.

“We’re so excited for this, we can hardly wait,” my mom said.

I explained that I’d been practicing nonstop, hoping to impress our friends and family. I didn’t explain, however, just how nervous I was.

“Are you at Grandma’s house?” I asked.

“No, actually, I’m at the hospital.”

“The hospital?”

“Yes, Grandma was having trouble breathing the other night, so we admitted her over the weekend.”

Next, I heard the sound of my grandmother in the background. “Who are you talking to?” she yelled.

“It’s Felicia, Ma! Hang on a second.”

The phone cut away. I examined my fingernails as I waited, painted the iridescent
Wicked
-issued green that I’d been wearing now for eight weeks straight.

“Why don’t you tell your grandmother about your upcoming weekend,” my mom finally said. “I know she’d love to hear about it.”

She handed over the phone.

“Gram!”

“Hi, sweetie!” Yola’s voice blared, as if it needed to project to the other coast all on its own.

“I’m sorry to hear you’re in the hospital. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, fine. Your mother tells me you’re doing terrific. She saw you in a video, she said?”

“Ha, yeah. She exaggerates. Anyway, I found out I get to play Elphaba four times next weekend!”

“No kidding!”

Somehow, I felt okay telling her: “I’m really, really nervous.”

“Oh, you’ll do fantastic. I told everyone at the hospital that you’re in
Wicked
and how famous you are.”

“You are my publicist.”

“I’m your grandmother. I’m allowed to brag!”

“I know, Gram.”

There was a pause.

“I wish I could visit,” I said. “It stinks that I’m so far away.”

“You know I would come there if I could,” Grandma Yola said. “I haven’t missed any one of your shows. Not one!”

“I know, Grandma. But it’s okay!”

“It just looks like I won’t be able to this time.”

“Don’t even worry about it for a second,” I said, meaning it. “I’m sure there will be many more shows for you to see.”

Yola and I chatted a bit more about the drab San Francisco weather, my hunky boyfriend (“your mother showed me a picture!”), and how I’d pay her many visits in the coming fall. Then we said goodbye, that I’d call again next week, and that we loved each other very much.