Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (45 page)

Bob, Tom, Dana, Candy, and I had decided to stay on and see a bit of Australia before heading back home. After visiting the kangaroos, koalas, and Tasmanian devils at the Adelaide zoo, we boarded a train overnight for the thirteen-hour trip to Melbourne. We spent four fantastic days down under sightseeing. And what sights we saw: Aboriginal art exhibits, botanical gardens, theatre performances, and Queen Victoria Market. (I bought a boomerang and a brown leather, outback hat.) I tasted the best coffee and scones
in the world
. I soaked up the distinctive Aussie accent and practiced saying, “G’day, mate!” Dana and I toured three wineries, too.
Hiccup
! Domaine Chandon served their sumptuous champagne alongside baguette slices spread with herb cheese and their own delicious recipe of tapenade (a mix of black olives, anchovies, capers, lemon juice, garlic, and dijon mustard). Yum! This was one “sheila” (woman) who would have loved to spend more time on walkabout, but it was time to head home to Cali and sort out my relationship with Ron, with whom I had been incommunicado since I left Hawaii.

*******

When I arrived at my sister’s place in Los Angeles, I found piles of mail and packages from England. Ron had written me every day we were apart and had decided to move to L.A. right away to live with me. Importing a man from London was a risky move, but I had to see how this love affair would play out. This left me little time to search for an apartment. While I was in New Zealand and Australia, Cindy had been on the lookout for vacancies in her neighborhood. Just before I returned home, she found a studio apartment in the building next door that rented for $595 per month. I took it. My parents had to underwrite the lease, because I no longer had a job. It had been stressful knowing I had nowhere to live when I returned. Previously, I had bunked on my sister’s couch between gigs, but asking her to house me and my boyfriend was not an option. Imposing stinks and being homeless stinks even more.

I moved into my new place just in time to welcome my British beau to America. With only $1,000 in his pocket, no job, and no work visa, Ron seemed to be more of a financial liability than an asset. Of course, I couldn’t see that clearly with all the stars in my eyes. His cash reserves wouldn’t last long, and he couldn’t legally work unless we were married. (What was I thinking? I wasn’t. I was in love.) Plus, I still had $5,000 debt on my credit card, which Ron insisted we clear up ASAP. I had always been worried about how I was going to pay my bills as a dancer who was open to taking nearly any job anywhere. But now, with Ron in the picture, I decided I would not take any gig that would take me away from him for more than two weeks. Otherwise, it would have to be a local job or a job for which he could tag along. With such limited possibilities, I was freaking out about how we were going to make ends meet on my dancer’s income.

Our solution: We’d cut our expenses to a minimum until we knew we’d have earnings. I didn’t own a TV, so no expense there. For entertainment, we borrowed books and magazines from the library, went to free movie screenings, walked the 3rd Street promenade in Santa Monica to see street performers, window shopped, biked, hiked, rollerbladed, and attended free concerts on the Santa Monica pier. To keep fit, keep busy, and meet people, Ron joined a nearby gym. He also invested a few hundred dollars on a massage table and started giving massages. It was hard on him (and me) being an alien in a foreign country, unable to get a job, and knowing not a soul except yours truly. But love conquers all, right?

A month later, dear Anita Mann came through for me yet again with a week-long mission in Miami. She hired me as part of a group to perform a Brazilian samba number for the PBS television special “Concert of the Americas.” This was no ordinary television show. This mega production was hosted by
President Bill Clinton
and
First Lady Hillary
. (It would be my way of serving my country.) The show’s producer was none other than
Quincy Jones
. In addition to the Clintons, the audience members were going to include the leaders of over thirty countries in the western hemisphere, all of whom were gathered in Miami for a free trade summit.

Naturally, for an occasion of such great importance, Anita wanted her
crème de la crème
, A-list dancers. They were the ones she used for the prime television gigs like
The Miss America Pageant
. Lucky for me, many of the A-listers were already booked, and being on the top of the B list (or perhaps just being available), I got to be a part of this amazing, once-in-a-lifetime experience. The A-list dancers were so cool, I could hardly stand it. They all wore sunglasses
inside
buildings and had six packs and buffed arms like all proper Los Angelenos. At first, I didn’t feel worthy of being with these dancers and was so nervous during rehearsals that I kept making mistakes. My lack of confidence was becoming apparent to others, making them think I didn’t deserve to be there either. Plus, I had never sambaed before, and it took some time for me to get the feel of it, but eventually I got my act together. I kept wondering why they didn’t hire real Brazilians to do their native dance instead of hip-hopping Californians.

My traditional Brazilian Samba costume made me feel even more self-conscious, because it was the teensiest-weensiest bikini I’d ever worn or even seen. The bikini bottoms were cut just about as low as they could go in the front, and there was virtually no material in the back. I kept begging the wardrobe people for more feathers to cover my nearly naked, goose-pimpled rear. Eventually, I guess the costumers concluded it wasn’t quite respectable to be boogying our bare buns in front of so many prominent world leaders, and they added some extra, strategically placed quills. We also wore a massive feather headpiece and backpack. While our colorful, substantial crown plumage and practically nude body was perfect party attire for Carnival in Rio, I simply felt like a giant bird with a plucked belly.

When we arrived at the venue in Miami, you’d better believe security was tight: metal detectors, bomb-sniffing dogs, and secret servicemen in dark suits, sunglasses, and earphones (Just like in the movies!) everywhere you looked. Of course, we had special I.D. badges to wear around our necks. Had someone chosen to blow up that theatre, they could have rid the world of half its leaders in one go. Talk about killing thirty birds with one stone. I was a little nervous about the reason for all the security, but I had a job to do, and I was more insecure about wearing that microscopic costume on national television. 

It wasn’t until our dress rehearsal at the venue that we found out who was performing in the show. This star-studded event included Maria Conchita Alonso, Dr. Maya Angelou, Paul Anka, Celia Cruz, Sheila E, Mallory Freeman, Daisy Fuentes, Pat Morita, Tito Puente, Michael Douglas, Liza Minelli, Jimmy Smits, and Bebe and Cece Wynan, as well as singers, musicians, and colorfully dressed folk dancers from the participating countries in North, Central, and South America. What an incredible lineup. I don’t know who was more famous—the entertainers on stage or the audience members. While we were standing around waiting to rehearse, Liza came over to talk to our troupe. Just the fact that she took time to acknowledge us was astounding. Then again, she was acting in the best tradition of theatre people, who are used to that cast family rapport.

Anita had worked with this TV producer before and, in traditional TV style, was rushing to finish choreographing our opening entrance two hours before dress rehearsal. She was a last-minute miracle worker, but it put the pressure on us dancers to be quick studies. Our rehearsal went so late, it was eating into our dinner hour, and one of the girls was getting angry. Beautiful, thin, and talented, she looked like she never had a weight problem in her life, but she had learned to keep svelte by not eating or drinking any calories after 7 p.m. She ate whatever she wanted during the day, but after 7:00 her mouth was closed for business. And she was committed: she would have actually skipped dinner had we been released after her self-imposed curfew. That’s dedication. My hotel roommate was an intriguing, gorgeous gal, too, who was so cool, she could have given a person frostbite. She dated a handsome, young Haitian politician and dreamed of being the First Lady of Haiti—aspirations much like Eva Perón’s. As cool as my fellow dancers were, they finally warmed up to me, but it was all I could do to keep up with them.

The show went off without a hitch; I successfully shook my tail feathers for the President of the United States of America! I just wished there would’ve been a few more feathers on my tail. President Clinton didn’t seem to mind.

Afterwards, a group of us went to town to celebrate, Miami style. “Let’s go dancing!” the cool people decided. “At a gay bar!” This seemed to make sense, since our guys were all gay. I had never been to a gay bar, but being in a serious relationship, I liked the idea of going to a place where the men wouldn’t hit on me. Well, the people there sure were friendly. As predicted, the gay men steered clear, but (surprise!) I did not anticipate getting propositioned by a heterosexual couple. I politely declined (three’s a crowd) but took their offer as a compliment. One club employee bent over backwards to be hospitable to all the patrons; he’d take the shirt off his back for you. Turns out he’d also take the pants off his legs and did so on stage to the delight of patrons. Some people thought he deserved more that a pat on the back for his efforts, and he willingly let them display their affection.

In addition to being approachable, this club went above and beyond to provide the highest standard of cleanliness. Instead of the measly “Employees must wash their hands” signs in the lavatories, they actually provided a
shower
. To assure patrons the employees were rinsing off, they even placed the shower on the second floor balcony in full view. Not a single germ or speck of dirt could have survived that man’s exemplary sponging practice. Even the women’s restroom was so spotless that men felt comfortable using the stalls for private make-out sessions. Holy cannoli! I couldn’t wait to high-tail it outta there, my legs crossed in search of an empty restroom. That bar was far too clean and friendly for me. Salsa dancing in South Beach was much more my pace. 

This had been one memorable trip to Miami. How could I possibly top it? Here’s how: After returning to Los Angeles, Ron and I decided to get married! And a few months later, we did.

We sailed through our dressing room tour and bid bon voyage to the real Rockette. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me, but we’d be forever bonded as part of an entertainment legacy, a select group of glamour gals who knew how to kick high and be spectacular. Once I became a Rockette, I truly felt I’d made it in show business. I was
somebody
. Of course, I had been somebody all along, but it was a good feeling—something no one could ever take away from me. “How that one little audition changed my life,” I realized. One tiny decision, one baby step had opened the floodgates to adventure and prosperity. Likewise, simply taking the cruise ship gig had landed me with a husband, and eventually two beautiful children!
Life can transform in an instant.
Joining the Rockettes launched me into another ocean of blessings and lessons that charted a new, even more fabulous course for my future.

Act 3, Scene 1

The Audition

It was another hot, smoggy, summer day in Los Angeles, and my studio apartment had no air conditioning. I kept the windows open hoping for a breeze, but mostly I let in more noise and air pollution. Santa Monica Boulevard bustled with activity, including the neighborhood drug trafficker and his customers my sister had been spying on from her second-story apartment, kitty-corner from my place. Having Cindy nearby gave me a sense of security, although we rarely saw each other. Usually I kept quiet with the windows closed, so the Jehovah’s Witnesses and overly aggressive, door-to-door salespeople didn’t think I was home, but today the heat was just too stifling.

I swallowed a breath of stale air and perused the classifieds section of the new
Backstage West
(the California version of New York City’s
Backstage
) hoping for a show that would start in the fall after
South Pacific
, the musical I was currently in, ended. With pen in hand, I searched for some enticing, or at least some non-offensive, ad to circle. I was prepared to settle for “Actress needed for independent student film. No pay, some meals, no nudity.” At least it would be a legitimate acting gig to put on my resume and to give me more acting experience. And free dinner would be nice. Then I recalled how my sister’s boyfriend—an aspiring filmmaker who maxed out his credit cards to produce his own independent film—fed his actors junk food like pizza. Not worth it. I put my pen back behind my ear.

I flipped the pages dreading the thought of having to return to theme park dancing if I didn’t find a “real” gig. Theme park shows were considered entry-level positions; many people were thankful to have the work but secretly (or openly) hoped to move on. One really shouldn’t knock it, however. Many performers made a decent living for years through the steady work of places like Universal Studios, Disney, Six Flags, and Hershey Park. Some shows were high-quality productions and certainly good performance venues on which to cut one’s teeth. They were also more repetitious than prestigious–not jobs we generally bragged about. Even if they started out strong, eventually they morphed into mind-numbing assignments we tolerated only for the financial security they offered.

After Ron moved to L.A., I was desperate for income and had been lucky to land a job at Universal Studios Hollywood working on and off as a replacement performer for
The Flintstones Show
–a surprisingly delightful, well-choreographed, thirty-minute, mini-musical based on the popular, 1960s caveman cartoon starring characters Fred Flintstone, his wife Wilma, and dog Dino plus pals Betty and Barney Rubble.

At first, I was very low on the sub list, meaning about five other people had to turn down the work before I’d get asked. I could have easily been bitter about my status, but I knew that nothing was written in stone. Whenever I did work, I made sure my performances totally rocked, and, as a result, I eventually got promoted to first sub. In spite of my ranking on the totem pole, I always got plenty of calls and made a lot of extra dough. It was my bread and butter between gigs. Never rocking the boat and always dancing my best with a good attitude and work ethic paid off not only in terms of moving me up the sub list, but also in impressing the
Flintstones
choreographer, who eventually cast me in a tour of
South Pacific
—a real, honest-to-goodness musical that I
could
brag about (especially because our leading man, playing the role of Emile de Becque, was none other than two-time Grammy award winning vocalist Jack Jones—the original crooner of “The Love Boat” theme song).

In the busy season, each cast performed six shows a day. I was sometimes crazy enough to accept a double-shift—twelve shows in a row. Holed up in the dark theatre for so many hours, I ached to see the light of day. It was weird repeating the same show over and over and over, back to back to back, like a television rerun marathon. After doing it too many times, I’d get so tired and confused, I’d forget how many shows I’d completed and where I was in the current show. “Have we done the second number already, or was that the last show I’m remembering?” It was like factory work—going through the motions, pumping out identical products. I’d end up either sick or injured—usually a foot problem due to the “raked” (sloped on an angle) stage and unsupportive footwear. It was truly an exercise in mind over matter. If I were lucky, some funny cast member would make me laugh or accidentally goof up or lose a wig or something to help me get through the day.

Being a big corporation, Universal Studios was like no other place I had worked as an entertainer. We went through training with human resources to learn all the rules and regulations, were issued ID badges, had a special parking lot and employee entrance, and received discounts at the gift store and snack bars, as well as several free passes to the park. It was kind of a kid’s dream living at an amusement park every day. Still, I had no intention of allowing theme park dancing to become the pinnacle of my career. If I had to keep repeating
The Flintstones Show
a dozen times a day, my health and sanity would surely be on the rocks.

An ad title in the bottom right-hand corner of
Backstage West
caught my attention: “Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular Cast Auditions.” The announcement read:

Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular at the Grand Palace in Branson, Mo. will be holding Auditions August 21-23 at the Debbie Reynolds Studio, 6514 Lankershim Blvd. Call backs will be Aug. 24 by appointment. Sign in one hour prior to call. Casting breakdown as follows. Rehearsals begin on or about October 20. Show runs Nov. 10-Dec. 23. Bring two copies of updated photo and resume. ROCKETTES: August 21, 10 a.m. Must be proficient in tap, jazz, ballet, and be between 5’5 ½”–5’9” in stocking feet (no exceptions). Bring tap and jazz shoes with heels. Vocal audition may be required. Bring Broadway uptempo music.

I was in disbelief. Radio City is auditioning for Rockettes?
The
Rockettes? The notice shocked and surprised me as I didn’t even know the Rockettes held auditions. I thought they were still using the same dancers they started with back in the 1930s. Well, maybe not in the thirties, but it was pretty common knowledge in the dance community that no one left the Rockettes unless they died or lost a leg. “Why were they auditioning?”

The announcement stated that the Rockettes had another Christmas show in Branson, Missouri, and needed an entirely new cast. Were the Rockettes being franchised like a McDonald’s hamburger joint? Radio City was also looking for Santa, dancers, children, singers, and people over eighteen years of age and under 4’6” in height to play elves and special characters. But I didn’t care about any of that. “I wanna be a Rockette,” I proclaimed to myself. I was 5’8”, had great legs, and could kick to my forehead. I was perfect for the part.

When the audition day finally arrived, I threw my dance bag in my little Ford Escort. The audition was at ten a.m., but we were supposed to sign in by nine. It usually took me forty-five minutes to get to the Debbie Reynolds Studios (named after Debbie Reynolds of
Singin’ in the Rain
fame) in North Hollywood, but even the psychic hotline couldn’t predict with any accuracy how long it would take anyone to get anywhere in L.A. traffic, so I left at 7:45 a.m. to allow a little extra time. I was familiar with the route as Universal Studios was less than two miles away, but I had my Thomas Brothers Guide in my car in case of detours or in the event that my car should break down. Thomas Brothers Guide—a thick spiral-bound book—was the most detailed and revered map of Los Angeles. Everyone had one. An entertainer without a Thomas Brothers Guide was like a hiker without a compass. It was one of my most crucial possessions.

The trip to Debbie Reynolds was uneventful. Consequently, I arrived about an hour and a half early, a bit earlier than I preferred. While I had plenty of time to collect myself, prepare, relax, breathe, and not feel rushed, I never wanted to arrive too much before an audition because I’d get bored, overstretched, and freaked out analyzing the competition.

The surrounding neighborhood was sketchy at best, but it was by far my favorite studio and the most like the old New York studios I was used to. I felt at home in that well-worn, slightly musty, hardwood floor setting with all the old movie posters lining the walls, many of them starring Debbie Reynolds herself. I much preferred it to the stark, sleek, modern, hip-hop studios that had sprung up to attract the MTV dancers. Thank goodness this was an environment in which I felt comfortable.

Nervous as usual walking into an audition, I found the sign-in sheet but decided to wait to sign my name until I made sure I wasn’t going to be in the first group. Audition numbers are typically handed out according to your order on the sign-in sheet. Usually, if you are one of the first five people to sign in, you will be in the first group to dance at the audition. It stinks to dance first, because you have to pick up the choreo faster than anyone else does. An extra thirty seconds of practice time can mean life or death—the difference between knowing what you are doing and not having a clue, food on the table or starvation, and, in this case, fame or obscurity. Alternatively, when you don’t dance first, you generally get to watch the groups ahead of you, thereby giving you more time to memorize the steps. You aren’t always allowed to dance on the sidelines as you wait, but you can watch and possibly “mark it” in miniature.

Also, the first few groups set the standard for judging. The casting crew don’t really know how high to mark you based on the abilities of the group. They will probably score you a little too low to leave room for really spectacular performers, and then realize the rest of the group is at about the same level. By the end, however, they’ve forgotten how good you were, and your score doesn’t really tell the whole story or reflect your relative talent. The only benefit of going first is that you get it over with first. Even the casting people joke about how you got the raw end of the deal by being in the first group. Everyone feels sorry for you and the others who auditioned with you. No, I definitely did not want to be in the first group.

I looked around for anyone I might know and wondered where all the dancers were. It didn’t seem too crowded, but I was pretty early. I eyeballed the competition wondering how much better the other girls were. Finally, I spotted a girl I knew from Universal Studios. She was a tall, beautiful brunette and much younger than I. We exchanged greetings, but I didn’t know her well and preferred to keep to myself so I could get my mind focused on the audition.

It was time to hit the ladies room to change into my lucky purple audition leotard and tan tights. Knowing that a simple leotard and tan tights were the standard Broadway audition dress code, I figured this attire would probably apply to the Rockettes as well. The high-cut leotard and nude stockings would show off my legs the best anyway. There were a lot of people in black, as it is the most slimming, but nobody else was wearing bright purple. “Perfect!” I knew I would stand out.

I put sweats on over my dance clothes to keep my muscles warm and then touched up my make-up. It was a bit louder than what I would normally wear on the street, but not as obnoxious as what I’d wear on stage. My hair was slicked back in a ponytail with bobby pins securing the smaller strands. I gave my entire head a good, strong shellacking of hairspray. The last thing I wanted was to have bits of hair flying in my eyes and distracting me. It wasn’t the most flattering hairdo, but I knew it would stay put and look neat and professional. Other girls wore cute, puffy, stylish hairdos, while mine was plastered to my head. I safety-pinned my bra straps to my leotard, because I hated bra straps sticking out during an audition. Tacky.

My dance bag was stuffed full. I double-checked all the supplies I might need: water bottle in case I got a coughing fit and couldn’t sing, tissue in case of a runny nose that would send snot flying while doing turns, hairspray, and extra hairpins, Band-Aids in case my shoes gave me a blister, more safety pins in case my bra disobeyed, and Advil for a stress headache. I popped a couple of Advil as a preventative measure and moved the tissue and water bottle to an easy-to-reach position in my bag.

Girls lined the narrow halls, stretching and chatting nervously. Squeezing among them, I claimed a small spot and sat down to locate my headshot and resume, which I set on top of my bag along with my sheet music. Then I stood and slowly unfolded my legs up to my head one at a time, working until I could comfortably kick to my forehead and do the splits in all directions. I had to be very limber for this audition. After fifteen people had signed in, I felt safe to put my name on the audition list.

As ten o’clock neared, a female assistant passed out audition numbers and collected our headshots and resumes. “Come on in, Ladies, and bring all your belongings, please.” We gathered in the big studio D and the doors were shut behind us. There were only about forty girls auditioning. I thought there would be hundreds. I was sure in New York there would have been lines out the door. The fewer people, the better chance I have of getting the job, I reasoned.

“We will be measuring first, so please remove your shoes and form a line by the wall,” the assistant ordered. One at a time, in our stocking feet, we stood flat-footed, back up against the measuring stick. A girl ahead of me was ousted for being too short. She had tried wearing three-inch heels to boost her height, but when the shoes came off, she was toast. “No one under 5’5 1/2” allowed. No exceptions.” Did she really think the casting people would fall for such a trick? The height requirement was strict, at least on the short end of the stick. I measured in at about 5’7”. “That can’t be right,” I said. “I’ve been 5’8” forever.” “No, you are 5’7”,” the assistant countered curtly. What possessed me to argue about it? After all, I was well within the zone, so it really didn’t matter. “Keep your mouth shut, Kristi,” I reminded myself silently. I had passed the first test.