Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (5 page)

Once the costumes were doled out, a professional photographer set up shop at the studio, and you could pay to have your picture taken. For an additional fee, you could have your photo included in the program book. The cool girls always had their pictures in the book.

The Dallas ladies also sold advertising space above, below, and beside the snapshots of their dolled-up performers. Your image might end up next to an ad for Angelo’s Pump and Pizza, or the Cutting Edge Hair Salon, or the Legal Offices of Steele, Conn, and Lye. I felt sorry for the girls who found themselves smiling radiantly under the Paul Berrer Funeral Home. The juxtaposition of dancing cuties and a funeral parlor promo seemed inappropriate, but it certainly made death look like something to celebrate.

Even though I wasn’t jumping up and down about my costume, I did get my picture taken, sans head cover, but only to stick in my own personal photo album. I didn’t feel worthy of joining the beauties in the book, or think the half-page spread was worth the financial investment, so I passed on Mom’s offer to pay for the spot. Still, I was a bit envious of the girls, enveloped in lace and sequins and ruffles, whose images graced the pages of the prestigious publication along with some sentimentality submitted by their adoring parents. “You’re our little star! Always stay as Sweet as you are! Love always, Grammy, Gramps and Little Brother Johnnie.” Hattie wrote testimonials for some of her favorites, and they were full of equally gushy prose. You knew you had made it to the top if you had a statement written by the hand of Hattie.

When the glossy booklets returned from the printer, I devoured mine like I was reading
People
magazine hot off the press. I scrutinized every word, name, face, and figure. Where did I fit in among all these beautiful, talented girls?

One student, Myrtle Hightop, was a tough act to follow. The text next to her picture claimed, “Myrtle has studied dance for 13 years. She does Ballet, Jazz, Hawaiian, Tap, and Tahitian. She also twirls baton, two batons, flags, hoop, 20 knives, and fire baton. She has 1,500 trophies, 3,000 medals, and 150 beauty titles, and recently passed her Grade III Cecchetti Ballet Exam.” Wow! I was impressed by her bravery. (How many kids are fearless enough to twiddle burning sticks and razor sharp cutlery?) But her bulging collection of prizes seemed a bit far-fetched. I did the math: Fifteen-year-old Myrtle would have to have won an average of 100 trophies, 200 medals, and 10 beauty titles per year since birth. Her story didn’t seem to add up, but to me the program book was the gospel; therefore, it must be true.

The recital was a three-hour marathon of semi-organized chaos, once again held in June at a high school auditorium. Dress rehearsal was scheduled for the night before the show, and my favorite part of the evening was watching the other numbers. I marveled at the precocious six-year-old soloist, a Shirley Temple look-alike, who appeared to have been swallowed by a doily, as she tapped and warbled to “Sweet Georgia Brown.” I snickered at the eldest Waldorf sister, who made funny faces when she danced, mouthing “Ooooh!” and “Ahhh!” like she was judging her own performance.

One of the most memorable acts was the jazz dance by two of the unnaturally pliable cool girls in which one slowly and painstakingly bent over backwards to pick up a handkerchief off the floor with her teeth while the other did a back bend, grabbed her own ankles, and rolled around the stage like a human wheel. Their duet wasn’t complete without the crowd-pleasing back handsprings and back tucks. I, too, never tired of watching them defy gravity.

The tumbling classes were the most boring, even duller than the three-year-olds who were at least funny if someone cried or wet her costume. The tumblers dressed in plain-Jane unitards and then, to music, lined up to do somersaults, straddle rolls, cartwheels, and round-offs across a row of mats. The littlest ones had to have their bottoms pushed to complete their forward rolls. The most talented kids went last and attempted to do handsprings but often ended up landing smack on their behinds, or flying out of control into the wings where the next class was waiting to go on. Sometimes at the end of this dismal display, the whole class would form a human pyramid for its bland finale.

The highlight of the show was Skye’s jazz solo. As the lights dimmed, she appeared, a vision in white. Her plush halter-topped, bell-bottomed pantsuit was studded with rhinestones and perfectly complemented her sparkling, pearly-white smile. She kicked to her ear and leapt like a deer. With a magnificent face and physique and dance skills to match, Skye didn’t need a gimmick to keep the attention of the audience for the entire three-and-a-half-minute song. She was stunning and captivating all on her own.

For the most part, the Dallas crew was busy dealing with the technical aspects of the show, like sound and lighting, so the army of overly made-up, restless children was corralled and shouted orders to by a bevy of stage mothers. During the actual performance, the menagerie was contained in the band room until it was time to perform. The kids who were in only one dance and waited, in costume, staring at trombones and tubas for several hours, were nearly out of their minds with boredom or stage fright by the time they saw the audience.

Many of us were in multiple dances, and a select group of kids had to change costumes so fast the stress could have given a five-year-old gray hair. Several minutes into the show, the door to the “dressing room” flung open and a flurry of crazed volunteer moms flew in dragging girls by the hand and yanking off their costumes en route. The children stood gasping for air as they were manipulated like puppets: their next outfits were thrown on, shoes were changed, hats were pinned, and hair was fixed. “Go! Go! Go!” screeched the dressers in panicked voices as they pushed the performers back on stage without a second to spare.

The music wasn’t audible in our crowded holding spot; consequently, we had no way to ascertain which number was currently on. We were completely reliant upon the helpers to retrieve us when it was our turn to perform. After sitting for what seemed like an eternity, a frantic adult came bursting in and yelled, “Military March, you’re on!” and my classmates and I cautiously ran out the door, our tap shoes sliding across the slippery linoleum floor. We were herded through hallways and hushed as we entered the dark, backstage area.

Waiting in the wings, I caught a glimpse of the girls smiling on stage. In a few minutes, I would leave the safety of the sidelines and step into the sacred zone of entertainment. My heart pounded; my body buzzed with nervous energy. Excited to finally take my place in front of the crowd, I was also terrified of making a mistake.

But once I hit the stage, adrenaline rushed through my veins. Wearing makeup and costumes and dancing for applause was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I belonged in that theatre. It felt right. Nothing short of being in love would ever make my heart race like it did when I performed.

All year long, we rehearsed and prepared for that night, that one chance to get it right and win the approval of the audience. Our entrance was spectacular: three perfect military time steps, turn, and lunge. I couldn’t have been happier. At least I was delighted until we formed two straight lines, one of which queued up directly behind me. Where my head was when I started to change formations eight counts before the rest of the class I don’t know, but it certainly wasn’t focused on the show at the Southeast High School Auditorium. I flapped around toward the back curtain, but no one was following me. Then the blunder registered. Oh, God! What have I done? My face flushed and my tear ducts swelled. With a forced smile, I finished the number, devastated. After the show, I could see the look of empathy on my mother’s face. I cried and cried. But my gaffe didn’t stop me from wanting to keep on dancing.

*******

When I was thirteen, Skye realized her dream of creating a serious ballet company in residence, the New York City Ballet of the Detroit suburbs, so to speak, which she christened the “Southeast Ballet Theatre.” No doubt she intentionally and strategically spelled theatre with an “re” instead of an “er,” thereby lending an air of foreign superiority to the title and making it instantly known that this was a major dance force with which to be reckoned. This fledgling troupe was intended to be as rigorous and intense as a real professional ballet company. That other Dolly Dinkle tap and jazz fluff paid the bills at the Dallas School of Dance, but the Southeast Ballet Theatre was now Skye’s true passion and artistic mission.

Company placement was to be determined by audition. In order to avoid scaring away dancers from other schools, the evaluation was held offsite in a public recreational center. Having never auditioned before, I was plagued with anxiety. But I desperately wanted to be in that company.

On the big day, I donned my pink tights and my black, sleeveless leotard. I twisted my ponytail into a tidy bun secured with an extensive selection of hairpins and ensnared in a light-brown, cafeteria-style hair net, to prevent any rebel strands from escaping. My hair was tugged back so tightly I appeared as slant-eyed as a woman with a Hollywood face lift. For the final touch, I shellacked my head with a can of Aquanet, the cheapest and most powerful, impenetrable hair spray known to womankind. Aquanet was the secret weapon of ballerinas and old ladies alike. With their coifs doused in the mixture, grannies could walk two miles to church in a windstorm and still arrive looking as if they’d just left the beauty salon. Ballerinas could spin like a tornado; their hair remained unshaken and as perfect as when they’d entered the room. I discovered, in my overzealous application of the magic potion, that one too many sprays of Aquanet turned a hairdo into a helmet.

Satisfied that my hair wasn’t going anywhere, I headed over to the Recreational Center. The place was drab, dreary, and deserted. I was about an hour early, so I decided to use the extra time to warm up. Stretching turned out to be a redundant gesture, however, as my nervousness made my muscles as loose and limp as a strand of cooked spaghetti. The other dance hopefuls started straggling in, and soon the entire studio reeked of Aquanet. (A whiff of the miracle solution transports me right back to my childhood dance days.) As the bewitching hour neared, I finally pulled out my pointe shoes, which I hadn’t wanted strangling my toes any longer than was necessary. In my jittery state, I tried several times before tying the laces properly. After adjusting the seams on my tights to ensure that they were running straight up the backs of my legs, I was ready. There was no turning back now.

The audition was run as if we were complete strangers to Skye, even though every one of the ballerinas trying out was from the Dallas School. Skye referred to us not by name but by the specific number each of us had been given to pin onto our leotards. The atmosphere throughout the evaluation was somber, quiet, and tense; the minutes ticked by like I was waiting for water to boil. But throughout the experience I controlled my nerves enough to concentrate and pick up the ballet combinations. What a pleasant relief when the afternoon was finally over.

A few days later, a formal acceptance notice arrived in the mail: “CONGRATULATIONS! You have been selected to be a member of the SOUTHEAST BALLET THEATRE, as a Major Dancer. As you know, it is a new company, and with your help we plan on making it the finest company in the Mid-West.” Not only had I been accepted into the “SBT,” but I had also been selected for the Major Company, while the “minor” dancers were relegated to the Apprentice Company. Lest anyone forget their status, each subdivision had its own required uniform: The Major Dancers donned royal blue leotards while the Apprentices wore pale blue. Naturally, pink tights, pointe shoes, and a waistband made of quarter-inch elastic (used as an indicator of hip misalignment) were mandatory for everyone. Dressed accordingly, we rehearsed each and every Wednesday night for three hours. The attendance policy was strict: A measly two absences were allowed per year.

I arrived promptly, properly dressed, and a bit apprehensive for the initial meeting of the Southeast Ballet Theatre, for the first order of business was the dreaded “weigh-in.” The ballerinas lined up like cattle being sized for market value, except in this case, bigger was not better. Skye stood, clipboard in hand, recording the official pounds and ounces of each dancer, measuring their worth by weight, or lack thereof. My five-foot-seven-inch frame housed a ninety-four-pound weakling. Even though I was skinny and passed inspection, standing on that scale to have my tonnage assessed was nerve-wracking, embarrassing, and felt like an invasion of my privacy.

With the amplitude of each dancer duly noted, we began work on our first annual production of the world’s most pervasive ballet, that Christmas-time favorite with a title that makes every man shiver: The Nutcracker. I was familiar with the ballet, as my mother once took me to downtown Detroit to see a professional rendition. I didn’t understand why the little girl, Clara, would want an ugly, nut-crushing soldier toy for Christmas instead of a pretty baby doll, but few ballet stories did make sense to me. I relied heavily on the written explanation in the program book.

Skye cast me in the “Waltz of the Flowers,” the grand, climactic number performed by the “corps de ballet” (a.k.a. the “ensemble”). In the dance, we did a lot of chasing each other around in circles. The cascade of floral tulle was quite lovely to watch, but the stampede of wooden toe shoes resulted in unwanted knocking sounds masking Tchaikovsky’s famous score. Silencing our steps was a skill in and of itself.

I longingly watched as other dancers were chosen for the passionate Spanish dance, the strenuous, gymnastic, Russian dance, and the exotic Arabian dance where supple girls bent their bodies in ways nature never intended. My special role was one of six “flutes” in the Danse des Mirlitons. It didn’t have the spice, sultriness, or shock value of the other dances, but I loved the section where we crossed arms, held hands, and piqued as a synchronized unit. As is the prerogative of the artistic director, Skye gave herself the sweetest part of all, the Sugar Plum Fairy. During rehearsal one night, a journalist from the
Suburban Press and Guide
took photos; of all the fascinating performers, only two other flutes and I were immortalized in the newspaper.