A Little Bit Wicked (10 page)

“Kristin, shush!”
Ashley poked my arm and pointed to the top bunk. Protruding from the rumpled Flintstones sheet was Brad’s foot.

Luckily, it was not possible for me to feel any sicker than I already did.

Shamefaced and wilted, I gathered the rest of my things, and Ashley carried my bag down to the street where Dad was waiting with the car. I spent the next four weeks at my parents’ house, and I’ll spare you the details other than to say that the Health Department called and said something about a greasy midtown barbecue joint. After a month
in my mom’s tender loving care, I was ready to return to New York, weak and emaciated, but desperate to get back to work in the show. I’d heard nothing from Denny. Ashley said he’d moved uptown. I called Brad and left a message, apologizing profusely, blaming the morphine, the heat, the three hundred coiled yards of Dante’s
Inferno
in my lower intestine. I got a message back saying that Brad wanted the four of us to sit down and talk.

“Why do I have to be part of this?” Denny groused. “I don’t even live there anymore.”

“Nice work, Kristin,” said Ashley. “You got us kicked out of the apartment.”

But when we all gathered at Café Lalo, Brad said it was okay. No hard feelings.

I guess he figured there really wasn’t enough room in that narrow closet; he’d decided to come out. Wanted me and Ashley and Denny to be the first to know. And apparently he forgave me for dissing the Flintstones. I still get a Christmas card from him every year.

I cringe when I hear that stupid crack about how you can never be too thin or too rich. That’s crap. I’ve seen people get eaten alive by the wrong kind of riches, and when I looked in the mirror in my dressing room backstage at the Sullivan Playhouse, the specter looking back at me was way,
way
too thin. Despite everything my mother tried to do to help me, my weight had wasted to a skeletal eight-six pounds. Try to put clothes on that. I’m sure everyone who saw me thought I was anorexic, which didn’t inspire a lot of confidence at auditions. My contract with
The Fantasticks
ended, and they invited me to extend it, bless their hearts, but I’d been doing readings and workshops for a revival of
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum
with Nathan Lane for over a year. It had been indicated to me that I was the director’s first choice for the Broadway cast. But when I showed up for
the final callback, the powers that be took one look at my Auschwitz fabu-look and…
ixnay
. They went with another girl. They told me I could understudy if I wanted, but screw that. Not that I thought I was above being standby. I had no problem with that. But after working on the role for a year—a role I really wanted, working with Nathan friggin’ Lane, whom I was crazy about—I was too hurt and disappointed to sit there with my ravaged stomach, watching someone else do it. Fair is fair. She got the part, and that’s how it bounces, but when I eventually saw the show, she was doing all my shtick from the workshops, and what made all this even more unbearable was not being able to tell Denny.

After the big summit with the freshly outed Brad, Denny went off on another tour, and I didn’t hear from him for two months. We’d hardly gone two
days
without talking since we’d met. I felt like half my ribs were missing. Since he’d become part of the family over the years, Denny was included in our Thanksgiving dinner plans. Dad was taking us all to a semi-swanky place called the Landmark Tavern. Stony silence laid heavily on the table, while Denny and I sulked and Mom and Dad wondered why anyone would be serving pheasant instead of turkey on Thanksgiving.

“To heck with this,” Dad finally said, and we trudged up the bitter-cold street to a decidedly unswanky little diner in Milford Plaza, where we ordered turkey with traditional fixings.

“This is more like it,” said Mom. “But you all know the tradition. Before we eat, we have to go around the table and say what we’re thankful for.”

I don’t remember what the first few people said, but when it came around to me, I felt overwhelmed with emotion.

“I’m—I’m thankful for my friend—the b-best f-friend anybody could ever have…”

I was bawling too hard to say any more, but the next moment Denny was on his feet hugging me, and I kept saying I was sorry, and
he kept saying, no,
I’m
sorry. We made up in the sloppiest scene this side of a ninth-grade girls’ slumber party and pledged to never fight again. It was all very movie-of-the-week, but we were both completely sincere. It’s one thing to face misfortune with your friends, quite another to face it alone.

The food was not great, so the dinner aspect of the day was a dud, but it was our best Thanksgiving ever. In fact, that would be the title of the movie-of-the-week:
Hallmark Presents the Best Thanksgiving Ever,
with Brenda Blethyn and Albert Finney playing my parents. If it was a horror movie, it would be called
Thanksgiving of the Living Dead
. If it was a musical,
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Virulent Intestinal Parasite
. (Since
Hipsy-Boo!
is already taken.)

As much as I loved being Luisa #41, I didn’t understand the message of
The Fantasticks
until years later. It’s no more or less profound than the simple idea that the ebb and flow of life eventually makes all things even. We move apart, we come together again. We’re wounded, we heal. That show is such a gem. Toward the end, the two young people come stumbling back to each other. Luisa takes one look at the battered and bedraggled Matt and says, “What happened to you?” And he replies, “The world happened to me.”

We made it through that winter and through another year of auditions, tours, and trials, and as the world happened to us, we started happening back. In 1996, less than four years after that first New York audition, Denny was working his way up the corporate ladder, and I was cast in my first Broadway show. And it wasn’t a musical.

Scapin,
Bill Irwin’s brilliantly physical modern adaptation of Molière’s
Les Fourberies de Scapin
(“The Rascalities of Scapin”) was a high-traffic farce filled with errors and redemptions, much like real life. Always a heart being broken, a feather getting ruffled, a hole begging to be stepped in. As a musical-theatre and then opera-performance major in college, I’d spent not much time on the classics and no time at all on the neoclassics. The commedia dell’arte school of clowning
around was a total news flash for me. I wanted to know everything about it and dove into my own private study, reading everything I could get my hands on—Molière, Voltaire, Shakespeare, Goldoni. People tried to tell me I wouldn’t understand it, but that stuff just clicks for me. Maybe because of my opera background. Or maybe I was just born in the wrong century—or at least the wrong decade. I’m a Ziegfeld girl, not a
Rent
chick, and I’m enchanted with the idea that artists such as Mozart and Molière, who in their own time were considered utterly vulgar, are now considered highbrow. It’s that ebb and flow El Gallo talked about.

Everything about this play appealed to me, including Scapin’s optimistic spin on things. In the face of all life’s nose-tweaking “rascalities,” he gamely declares, “Ah! Sir, life is full of troubles, and we should always be prepared for them…scoldings, insults, kicks, blows, and horse whipping. I always thank my destiny for whatever I do not receive.”

Clearly, Scapin never had a lower-intestinal parasite.

I
t’s a Rodgers and Hammerstein moment in the hypercolorful
Pushing Daisies
universe. The orchestra swells, the camera swoops in from the towering alps to my Julie Andrews twirl.
The hills are alive
…and then a pigeon craps on my face. This is how life works for hapless—but never hopeless!—Olive Snook, whose unrequited love and general enthusiasm sometimes compel her to burst into song. I knew from the moment Dannielle handed me the
Pushing Daisies
pilot script that Olive and I were made for each other.

“You must read this carefully,” Dannielle told me. “And then you have a huge decision to make.”

One of life’s little jawbreakers.

I’d been workshopping a Broadway musical redux of Mel Brooks’s
Young Frankenstein
. I loved the pilot script, but who turns down an opportunity to work with Mel Brooks? Bryan Fuller’s first show,
Won
derfalls
was—well, it was a wonder, and the script in my hand was even more captivating. They’re calling it a “dramedy,” which is a word I hate, but there’s really no word existing that adequately describes the strawberry-rhubarb combination of whimsy, mayhem, and emotion. Audiences have literally not seen anything like it because every frame is processed with this new Lustre technology, which through some sort of tweaky-freaky magic makes red into
love
and blue into
longing
and yellow into
hilarious
. Everything from Ned the Pie Maker’s lips to the matching pattern on Olive’s pj’s and wallpaper is saturated with the color
wow
. The eyes of the two eccentric aunts (though there are only three eyes between them) are luminous and expressive. Skin looks more sensitive. Digby the celluloid dog is warmer and furrier than the real-life puppy curled up at your feet. Visually, the show is a modern marvel, and Bryan Fuller has created quirky characters, giving us amazing mouthfuls of dialogue.

When I saw the finished first episode, I said, “Oh, it’s so
good
! It’s so innovative! It’s so different! It’s—it’s—it’s never going to last.”

But so far so good.

It’s a joy to go to work each day as part of this terrific ensemble. Ned is played by Lee Pace, a Southern gentleman from Spring, Texas. This says it all about Lee and me: he bought his dad a meat grinder for Christmas and couldn’t wait to tell me all about it. Who else was he going to share that with but a fellow down-homer? Nobody. Anna Friel came over from London, bringing with her a fabulous sense of style and her adorable daughter Gracie, who is crazy for Maddie, my little Maltese. They’re together so much, I swear, she’s got this dog barking with a British accent. Chi McBride has been around the block and doesn’t put up with any crap. I learn just watching him work. He loves his job, basketball, and his new baby.

The two aunts are played by drop-dead-gorgeous Ellen Greene and Swoosie Kurtz. My mom and I both loved Swoosie when she was on
Sisters,
and it meant a lot to me that she was the one who handed
me my Tony. When they told me she might be on this show, I told Dannielle, “If they get Swoosie, I’m in.” I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to work with her. Ellen Greene is a complete whack-a-noodle and an amazing actress—a huge Broadway icon with the sweetest, most generous spirit. And she can make a German chocolate cake that looks as if it came from a bakery. I know this because the writers and cast often get together during hiatus to eat, gab, and watch
America’s Next Top Model
. (I swear, we’re not catty. Much.) We’re a happy troupe.

One of the most deliciously different elements of
Pushing Daisies
has been the opportunity for Ellen Greene and me to sing on the show. It’s something audiences aren’t used to seeing, so it was a risk, but the buzz seems to indicate that people want more, so Bryan asked me to make a list of songs that Olive might sing. I went him one better and asked my music director to sit down with me at the piano for an hour to record a few tracks that might spark Bryan’s imagination. (It doesn’t take much.) The piano we sat down at is at John Kilgore Sound, an intimate recording studio in the Film Center Building. The place is as New York as it gets, an art deco icon designed by the architect Ely Jacques Kahn, who’s secretary, Ayn Rand, spent her lunch hours working on her novel
The Fountainhead
. You can feel the history of the place in the wood grain.

I adjust the microphone in front of me. “Hi, Bryan Fuller. Say hi, Andrew.”

“Hi, Bryan. It’s Andrew Lippa.”

“The Genius.”

And I’m not teasing. He truly is. Lippa is the man who produces my concerts, conducts the orchestra, plays piano, and chimes in as needed, much to the delight of the crowd. If this were a French neoclassic, he’d be Cyrano, crafting these wonderful songs that come out of my mouth. If this were
Phantom of the Opera,
he’d be my Angel of Music, only not with the Halloween costume face.

“We are in the recording studio and this is the first option for Olive. And, Bryan, these are just options. Songs I feel Olive could do.”

Lippa and I are offering Bryan about a dozen pieces to choose from. A few old standards like “Someone to Watch over Me” and “Till There Was You,” plus a few contemporary pieces.

“Okay, Bryan, just go with me here,” I tell him. “Just think about it.”

Lippa lays down the familiar piano ramp into Lionel Richie’s “Hello” and I give it an Olive Snook spin. Anything goes. Last season Bryan had Ellen Greene and I do a little bit of a They Might Be Giants ditty called “Birdhouse in Your Soul.” If the suits could handle that, they can handle anything. (And it was a major thrill for me to sing with Ellen.)

“Okay. Here’s another one, Bryan. We’re just throwing ’em down.”

We dig into Lippa’s beautiful arrangement of “Boy,” a song that kisses unrequited love on the forehead and puts it to bed. Lippa volunteers that the piano solo at the opening could be cut, but I tell him to lay it down here just because, hey—nobody lays it down like Lippa.

I first heard of Andrew Lippa when Denny, Ashley, and I were cohabiting in one of our many Midtown sublets. Denny came home from a tour feeling pretty flush and said, “Anywhere you want to go. On me.” Dangerous thing to say to starving artists.

“There’s this little show playing across the street,” I said. “I don’t know anything about it, but I’m dying of curiosity.”

For several weeks, I’d been watching people come and go from
john & jen,
and on the way out, they definitely seemed…changed. Denny and I went and sat through this astonishing little show. Two
actors, piano, cello, and percussion. The staging could not have been simpler. Nothing distracted from the music, which ends up telling the richly complex story of a woman, her brother who dies in Vietnam, and the brother’s namesake, her son. After the final curtain, I floated out the door thinking,
I have to know Andrew Lippa.

A year later (or maybe two years, I don’t know—ask Denny) I was doing
Scapin
by night, rehearsing and workshopping
Steel Pier
by day. I have to digress here and tell you that this was the first time I woke up with the room spinning. I’d never heard of Ménière’s disease. Had no idea what was wrong with me. This wonderful man I was dating at the time, Marc Kudisch, came in and found me on the bathroom floor.

“Don’t touch me,” I whimpered. “If I try to move…I have to hurl.”

Marc Kudisch and I were working together in
Steel Pier,
and I can’t begin to tell you how important this show was to me. From the moment I first heard about this show about a dance marathon by Kander and Ebb—Kander and Ebb, for crying out loud, Kander and Ebb!—well, everybody was buzz buzz buzz about it. Susan Stroman, the choreographer, brought me in to audition with the chorus, and all I saw was miles and miles of nothin’ but legs. The top of my head barely cleared the nipple region in that lineup. But there’s a rottenly yummy little character in the show who—
tra-LA!
—sings opera. Kander and Ebb called me in to sing and read for them, scrapped the song they’d originally written for the character, and created a number for me. (Kiss my grits, tall girls.) And then Marc Kudisch, my second First Great Love, also got cast. In what universe does
that
ever happen? Heaven! We were back in the rehearsal space at good old 890 Broadway, and everything was going swimmingly. The show was bound for Broadway, and this performance was for potential backers.

“Perfect,” I moaned into my hands, shivering on the bathroom floor.

Marc paced the hallway outside the door, talking on the phone to
the director, Scott Ellis, whom I loved and respected. I was so grateful (and still am) to this man who cast me in my first Broadway musical; the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint him.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, but she’s really sick,” Marc told him. “She
is
trying, but she can’t even—I’m telling you, she can’t even stand up without barfing.”

I’m going to be okay now,
I told myself sternly.
Suck it up, Roller Girl. Just open your eyes and be okay.

Marc came in and knelt beside me. “Kristin. You’ve got to pull it together.”

“I know. I am. I’m…I’m…yeah.”

On the way to the theater, the cab had to pull over so I could throw up in the street. Huddled on the floor in the dressing room, I begged God to help me. Susan Stroman came in and asked if I was okay.

“No.”

“Well. You need to get okay. Real quick.”

She wasn’t being mean. Dancers are tough, that’s all. My partner, Jim Newman, basically held me up through the show.

“We won’t spin,” he whispered in my ear. “We’ll just take it step by step.”

After the show, there were notes, but I told the director he had a choice: I could do notes today or a show tomorrow. He told me to go home, and Marc walked me out to help me get a cab, but I told him, “No, you have to go back in for notes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go. I’ll see you at home.”

He left me leaning against the wall, and as soon as he disappeared through the stage door, I knew it was a mistake. Some time went by in a blurry mess of nausea, whirling cobblestones, more begging God,
Please, please help me
.

“Miss? Do you need help?” A man in a tweed coat touched my elbow.

“Please,” I said, sounding very Blanche DuBois depending on the kindness of strangers. “I need a cab.”

He hailed a taxi, poured me into it, paid the driver, and wished me well. Because that’s how New Yorkers are. People answer each other’s prayers a million times a day in this city. The next morning, feeling significantly better, I said to Marc Kudisch, “Wow. That was weird. Thank goodness that’s over.” Famous last words.

Anyway. Life goes on.

So—
Steel Pier
. Broadway. It was a great show. Screw what the
New York Times
had to say about it. The lousy review (“Party’s Over, Chum. Just Keep Dancing”) plotzed all over the great Kander and Ebb and the leading players and didn’t even mention me.

“Kristin, you’re the only person I know who bitches about being left out of a bad review,” Marc chided. “You should be thanking your lucky stars.”

The show didn’t run long, but talk on the street about it was good, and I think this is how my name came up in conversations about a workshop opportunity at the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center, an extraordinary facility in Waterford, Connecticut, where they gather an ensemble, get a show on its feet, and at the end of the week bring people up from New York to see it.

“The show’s called
Wild Party,
” my agent told me. “Written by a guy named Lippa.”

“What else has he done?”

He mentioned a few things, including a little show called
john & jen
.

“I don’t know who he is,” I said, “but I gotta do it.”

Arriving at the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center, I had a bit of a
Private Benjamin
moment. This place is not like a theater, it’s like summer camp, and I’ve never been a big camper. It’s not that I have a problem with nature; it’s just that so much of it is outside. I like my nature with a little Plexiglas. The kitchen served nothing but carbs.
There was nothing but a narrow bed and small desk in the room. Bathrooms were shared. The first night, I spent a few hours slapping at bugs, then went and slept in my car. I woke up cold and cranky, thinking,
What am I doing here? Forty-eight hours ago, I was on Broadway.

And then I met Lippa. Huge blue eyes. The blunt brown haircut, precious heart, and skinny legs of a schoolboy. He spoke with utter clarity—I loved his speech and admired his faith. Because Marc Kudisch had become important in my life, I was eager to learn about Judaism, and Lippa and I had many thought-provoking conversations about it. He’d written a terrific song for my character, a comedic role that goes deep at the end. Hearing his music the first day of rehearsal, I felt as if I were in church.

Early one morning toward the end of the week, I sat by the water and said, “Thank you, God, for bringing me to this place, to this person.”

A bright green bug landed on my shin, and I didn’t even bother to slap at it.

Over the next year, the opportunities got better, which made the choices harder. (Not that I’m complaining!) In the spring of 1998, I played mean Nurse Nancy in
A New Brain
at Lincoln Center, and the director invited me to join a revival of
Annie Get Your Gun,
headed for Broadway later that year. The sassy supporting role of Winnie offered opportunities to sing, dance, and participate in a knife-throwing act, and if that’s not enough to whip the stick out of your mouth, Bernadette Peters (cue the angel chorus) had signed on to star. The show was a guaranteed Broadway smash.

Meanwhile, I’d been hearing rumblings of another revival show:
You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown
. In its original incarnation in 1967, the musical, based on the
Peanuts
comic strip by Charles Schulz, was a big off-Broadway hit. But in 1971, they took it to Broadway, and it
went over like a burp in church. That version became a favorite high school musical with its low-budget set and the big “Suppertime” number for the talented kid. Michael Mayer was planning to workshop and revamp the show completely with the addition of new music by (cue that angel chorus again) Andrew Lippa. Of course, the objective was Broadway, but there was no guarantee this thing was going to make it past Toledo.