Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (7 page)

Surprisingly, Priscilla was not at all fearsome. She was classy, trustworthy, and not interested in having her students compete. She commanded respect, because she treated you respectfully. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and her dancer’s body was thin and toned. Someone said she had danced with the Royal Ballet in London. She could have been royalty herself as posh as she was. Her students were required to have two years of ballet before being allowed to take jazz, which annoyed some people but cut out the riffraff. The atmosphere at Priscilla’s was like a library compared to the three-ring circus at Hattie’s.

It was hard changing studios and starting over after all those years at Hattie’s. I didn’t know the girls at Priscilla’s and was too shy to make many new friends. Accustomed to playing lead roles, I had to start back at the bottom and move up the ranks. On the up side, Priscilla was an extremely wonderful person, and she helped me improve my pirouettes, which had been troubling me for years. Still, I never really got into my groove there.

My momentum seemed to be fizzling out, making it all the more surprising when my mother received a phone call from out of the blue. “Mrs. Davis? This is Priscilla Prescott. I think Kristi has the potential to be a professional dancer, and I am willing to help her if she’s interested.” Mom and I were flattered and floored, knocked down and tickled pink. Nevertheless, I only considered this preposterous idea for a nanosecond. I truly didn’t believe I was that good. Although obsessed with dance throughout my childhood, the thought of doing it for a living had never occurred to me. Dancing professionally seemed like a lark, not a viable vocation. I didn’t know any professional dancers and hadn’t the slightest notion of how to go about becoming one even if I were crazy enough to want to try. Hence, Priscilla’s generous offer, while tremendously appreciated, was rebuffed.

Performing was my soul food and dance was my identity, but I was also an excellent student from an academic family. My parents were stable, scholarly types, and I always assumed I’d follow in their unfancy footsteps. I knew I’d become a college graduate as surely as I knew I’d grow up to be a woman. As valedictorian of my high school class, I was expected to do great things—to lead the people of this nation, earn a Nobel Prize, end world hunger, or discover a cure for cancer. At the very least, I was supposed to do something that would make my parents proud. Something as frivolous as dance, I reckoned, did not fill the bill.

So, with my passion for performing smoldering on the back burner, I ended up a stone’s throw away from home at the University of Michigan where I schizophrenically flip-flopped from engineering to business school to finally settling on a degree in psychology for lack of a better option. Before long, however, I was itching to dance again, so I auditioned for and joined a student-run dance company called Impact Jazz Dance. Little did I know, this one ostensibly minor decision would cause me to meet a young woman who would jazz up my life tremendously and wildly impact my future dance career. Her name was Jenny.

On the surface it seemed that Jenny and I couldn’t have been more different. She was an outspoken, lanky, 5’10”, Bohemian, ultra-feminist, worldly, New York City native, who had apprenticed with the American Ballet Theatre in New York. I was a shy, curvaceous, naïve, Midwestern, Disney-esque, ex-cheerleader, sorority girl trained at a modest local dance school. It seemed we had little in common except our love of dance. She regarded me with slight disdain due to my affiliations with the Greek sorority system and my prior relationship with pom-poms, but I found her fascinating, though a tad intimidating.

As our time at Michigan came to a close, my friends and I ruminated about life after college and began preparing, like the other seniors, to get a job. What on earth was I going to do? Following the herd, I bought the proverbial interview suit: an expensive, conservative, gray wool blazer with knee-length matching skirt, high-collar ruffled blouse, and sensible black pumps. Feeling like a kid pretending to be a frumpy, middle-aged accountant, I attempted to play grown-up and get excited about finding employment, assuming responsibility, and buying a house some day.

I poured over the printout listing job interview opportunities offered by the myriad companies eager to take on Michigan grads. Do I want to be an actuarial? What the heck is an actuarial? How about a headhunter? A marketing assistant? In human resources? Sell insurance? Perhaps I should vie for one of the coveted corporate positions with Proctor and Gamble working to make neon-green dinosaur-shaped fruit roll-ups more profitable? Or apply to be a sales rep for Del Monte fighting over prominent grocery store shelf space for fruit juice and canned peaches? What can one do with a Bachelor’s degree in psychology anyway?

The thought of choosing any of these careers gave me a splitting headache and put me into a gloomy funk. For the entire week following graduation, I cried. I loved my social life at school with my sorority sisters and the zany, outgoing, artistic, talented friends I’d met through Impact Jazz. My life had been full to the brim with activities, events, and parties. Every day offered a new and exciting adventure. What do I have to look forward to now? A boring, predictable existence where my sole purpose in life is to make money? Settling down with the sensible folk? My stimulating student lifestyle had come to a screeching halt. I was the proud owner of a top-rate education but had no idea what I was going to do with it.

To make matters worse, I pondered the imminent end of my performing days and distressed over whom I would be if no longer a dancer. I couldn’t think of anything else that made me special, that separated me from the rest of the population, that gave me worth. Terrified of losing myself if I quit dancing, I spiraled into a deep, dark pit of despair. When Jenny asked, “Kristi, what are you going to do after graduation?” I stared blankly into space. “Move to New York to become a professional dancer with me,” she commanded. Faced with seemingly dire career options, I actually considered her offer.

Jenny was abandoning her major—mathematics; she realized her true love was dance. Manhattan was her hometown, and she could always live with her parents if worse came to worse. What did she have to lose? More importantly, what did I have to lose? I hadn’t the foggiest idea what would be in store for me if I flippantly threw away my stuffy business suit and college education for a sexy leotard and dance class. Was it wise to turn my back on the relatively safe, comfortable, practical world of nine-to-five and venture into the wild unknown of show business? Would I be heading blindly into a Bermuda Triangle of thespians, likely to mysteriously disappear with the other reckless showbiz wannabes, never to be seen on stage again? What should I do?

With a seemingly useless Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology and no clue where my life was heading, I took a month-long, soul-searching backpacking trip through Europe. Discovering a world full of fascinating people, places, and experiences, I was impassioned, inspired, and couldn’t wait to see what the next day would entail. I felt so alive and wanted that spirit of adventure to stick with me forever. When I returned home I had my answer: “God, I’m a dancer. A dancer dances!”

Priscilla was right: I
was
good enough to be a professional, I admitted to myself, as I shifted to a more comfortable position in my airplane seat. The clues had been there all along. I never did take Priscilla up on her offer, opting for college instead. But what if I had? How might my life have turned out differently? Regardless, I made it. Even though I didn’t attend a prestigious conservatory of dance or some phenomenal university known for its musical theatre program. Even though I didn’t apprentice with the American Ballet Theatre or study under the tutelage of a world-renowned instructor. On the contrary, the core of my dance schooling came from Dolly Dinkle studios, and it was pretty good training, as it turns out. After all, I managed to milk all my childhood dance lessons enough to create a pretty healthy career and recoup my parents’ sizable investment. 

The pilot’s voice on the intercom jolted me back to the present. “Flight attendants, prepare for landing.” Giving an imaginary salute to all my dance teachers, I opened my eyes just as the island of Manhattan was coming into view. New York City: the birthplace of my showbiz career and now, it appeared, the final resting place as well. I had come full circle, and this symbolic sense of completion was not lost on me.

After disembarking, I forged my way through the hustle and bustle of JFK and grabbed a cab to my dear old college friend Jenny’s house in Astoria, Queens, where I’d be staying. “Hot enough for ya, today?” I said, trying to make cheerful small talk with the foreign cabbie. “That sun’s been brutal all week,” he replied shaking his head. I recalled the hot July day that had greeted me when I first came to New York fresh out of college.

The streets of Astoria were familiar, but I felt like an entirely different person than I did during my maiden voyage to Queens. It was hard to believe fifteen years had passed since my first professional dance gig in this most infamous of cities. So much has happened to New York, and so much has happened to me, I marveled, since that fateful summer in 1987 when I began my journey into show business.

Act 1, Scene 1

Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple

It’s a miracle that I ever set foot in New York to begin with. Growing up in suburban southeast Michigan, with parents farm-raised in Iowa, I wasn’t exactly familiar with the Big City. I was so terrified of the place, in fact, that when my father traveled there once for a business trip, I truly feared for his life. When Dad boasted that he had gone to see
A Chorus Line
on Broadway, I couldn’t believe he would risk leaving his hotel room any more than was absolutely necessary. I thanked God he returned home without having been mugged or worse. My family rarely even ventured to nearby Detroit, at the time dubbed “the murder capital of America,” as my mother didn’t want to put us in danger. Coming from risk-averse progenitors and a Waspy upbringing, New York City was sure to be a culture shock.

Consequently, I headed off to the Big Apple for a trial week to see if I really wanted to make the move. Like Frank Sinatra sang in the famous tune “New York, New York,” I, too, figured, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.” Jenny had generously invited me to stay with her in Astoria, Queens, wherever that was. Her old-fashioned apartment building with the squeaky stairs and interior dark wood features seemed so vintage New York. I was enthralled by her hippie, artsy, street-smart fashion and decorating style.

In addition to providing a couch for me to crash on, Jenny offered free consulting services as well. “The first thing we need to do is look in
Backstage
to find you an audition,” she ordered, holding up that week’s paper.
Backstage
, I learned, was the most indispensable periodical known to entertainers. This Granddaddy of weekly publications listed all kinds of auditions for singers, actors, dancers, and musicians. Even the Broadway auditions were listed there!

We scoured the pages and finally found what Jenny determined to be a suitable match: “Here’s a tap dance show in Switzerland, and the audition is tomorrow. It’s perfect,” she exclaimed triumphantly. As a kid, I had taken tap lessons for about six years, but it had been just about that long since my last hoofing session. “I haven’t tapped in forever, Jen. I don’t even own tap shoes anymore,” I argued. But Jenny was not about to take “no” for an answer. “Big deal. You can buy tap shoes and take a tap class before the audition to get a little practice in. Did you bring a headshot?” “You mean one of those close-up photos of your face like actors have? No. I don’t have one,” I responded, wondering if this crazy experiment was a waste of time. “We’ll type up a resume for you. You can explain that you were just in town visiting and not planning to audition until you saw the notice. Make up some excuse. You’ll be fine.”

I wasn’t so sure, but I was determined to do the audition anyway. For despite feeling extremely nervous and doubtful, I was exhilarated by the challenge and the remote possibility of getting the job. It was like my chance at winning the lottery, and I couldn’t win if I didn’t play the game. Jenny helped me construct my resume. Filling an entire eight-by-eleven-inch page was a challenge. We included every bit of dance training I’d had plus the college performances and high school musicals I’d done, hoping my amateur achievements would sound professional. Now what I really needed was some of Jenny’s ovaries-to-the-wall personality to rub off on me so I could pull off this charade.

The next day, mustering up every ounce of courage I had, I rode the subway into Manhattan with Jenny for the big day. She went off to work, and I was left to fend for myself with nothing but a map and directions to Capezios, the world-famous dance supply store on Broadway and 51st Street, where I was supposed to buy a pair of tap shoes. Afterwards, if all went as planned, I would have just enough time to get to Steps, one of New York’s most popular dance studios, on Broadway and 74th, to take a tap class before making my way down to Broadway Dance Center on 45th Street and 5th Avenue for the audition.

After getting my bearings, I began walking up Broadway. Just seeing the name on the street sign made me tingle with anticipation. BROADWAY! Soon I spotted Capezios on the second floor of the building ahead of me. Once inside, I was overwhelmed by all the colorful dance paraphernalia and the knowledge that the professional Broadway dancers buy their shoes and tights there. I was treading upon the very floor that my idols had walked before me. But there was little time to stand in awe and drool over all the magnificent dancewear. I was on a mission and time was of the essence. With the help of an experienced salesperson, I finally chose beige character shoes with two-inch heels and waited impatiently for the taps to be put on.

Purchase in hand, I quickly made my way to Steps. Being located on the third floor of the building, I had to cram into a creaky old elevator for the ride up. The heavy wrought-iron door opened, and I timidly stepped out. Immediately, my eyes became transfixed on the teachers’ headshots papering the walls. It was a who’s who of famous dancers. Anne Reinking’s picture was there! I remembered her from that 1979 movie musical
All That Jazz
, which I absolutely adored. In the movie, Reinking did all this cool, sexy Fosse-style jazz dancing that I often tried to imitate. Already my day’s quota of stimulation was nearly reached.

I found myself becoming intimidated by Steps with its famous teachers, throngs of exquisite students, and multiple studios running several types of dance classes simultaneously. It took extreme willpower to make myself stay, let alone walk to the front desk and pay my drop-in fee. There was no backing out now. I put on my spanking new tap shoes and bravely took the ninety-minute tap lesson, my only test drive before the real race. Although my performance wasn’t my best ever, I made it to the finish line nonetheless. I just hoped that this brief warm-up session would be enough to dust the spider webs off my long-dormant feet.

Highly aware of the clock ticking down, my anxiety escalated as audition time drew near. I pried myself away from the relative safety of Steps and scurried south through the buzz of busy Broadway to Broadway Dance Center. My heartbeat quickened, and I felt infused with energy on my way to who-knows-what-might-happen? Now this was an adventure. The closer I got to Broadway Dance Center, the more my adrenaline kicked in. Time seemed to stand still with my heightened awareness of the momentousness of the occasion, as if every cell in my body knew this was the start of something life changing. Finding the place without a problem, I took a deep breath and walked in.

“If you’re here for the audition, sign in please,” instructed a toned dancer who must have been an assistant of sorts. Hand trembling, I signed my name on the paper, then looked for a spot to sit down. The lobby was already filled with dancers stretching and chatting with their friends. I scoped the competition. Skinny, beautiful, extremely flexible. What did I expect? A bunch of overweight ogres who couldn’t touch their toes? And they all knew each other. What the heck was I doing here? I felt more nervous and insecure with each passing second. Squelching that negative voice in my head before its devilish derision derailed me, I invoked my inner cheerleader. “Get a hold of yourself, Kristi. You have nothing to lose. It’s just for fun. The outcome doesn’t matter. At least you’re doing something exciting. You can do it.”

After what seemed like an eternity, the moment finally arrived when we were called to audition. “As you hand in your headshot and resume, you will be given a number to pin onto your leotard, and then you may head into the studio,” instructed the assistant. “I just flew into town and don’t have my headshots finished yet, but here is my resume,” I babbled nervously as I made my way to the front of the line. “That’s fine,” the assistant replied. Jenny was right. It worked. I was in!

There was no time to celebrate, I soon realized, as I watched the boldest dancers quickly claim the best spots in the front of the room leaving the rest of us to scramble for any leftover space within view of the choreographer. Once the room had filled to capacity, everyone automatically spread out and shuffled about so that they could see themselves in the mirror. Every woman for herself! By the time I figured out what was happening, I was lucky to secure a spot where I could barely catch a glimpse of my right arm in the mirror. Oh well. At least I had staked my territory. Now all I had to do was stay focused for the next few hours. I just hoped the tapping wasn’t too far above my ability level, or I was going to look like a complete imbecile. “Who cares? You are never going to see these people again anyway,” I consoled myself bringing out my imaginary pom-poms for one final, silent “Rah! Rah!”

The choreographer began teaching the dance combination: a smiley, cheesy, fairly easy tap number that suited my training perfectly. “I can do this! No problem,” I realized, delighted and relieved. My confidence rose, and I laid on the charm. When the audition was over, I was on the high of highs. I was so proud of myself for going through with it and knew I had run my best race. It didn’t matter whether I made the cut or not. Those other dancers who had frightened me so weren’t that much better than I was after all.

Lo and behold, after a few days, I received the good news: I got the gig! Maybe I do have enough talent to be a dancer, I conceded. Who knew?

*******

I returned to Detroit elated with my exceptional experience in the Big Apple. Plus, I was going to Switzerland to do a show! Life can change in the blink of an eye, however, and almost as quickly as I’d gotten the job, it was snatched away. “I’m sorry, but the show had to be cancelled due to work-visa problems,” phoned the producer a couple weeks later. Although it was disappointing to drop my dreams of dancing among snow-capped mountains, chalets, cheese fondue, and Swiss chocolate, my immediate audition success had given me something far more valuable: the confidence to give it a go as a professional dancer. “Change of plans. I’m moving to New York, pronto,” I informed Jenny, who was ecstatic.

“Come in August and we can do this month-long modern dance workshop with Jennifer Muller’s company, The Works,” she said enthusiastically. Not only had I never heard of Jennifer Muller, renowned artistic director of Jennifer Muller/The Works and former principal dancer with the Jose Limon Company, but I was only vaguely familiar with modern dance from the select performances I’d seen while in college. They blew my mind. The movements were bizarre, often ugly, and told a story or made some sort of social commentary. I often found myself thinking, “What on earth was that all about?” It wasn’t the smiley, easily palatable entertainment I was used to. It seemed to be more of an art form and an acquired taste like Stilton cheese, which to some people really stinks. I found modern dance intriguing and refreshing.

Modern dance brought with it new names to learn: Martha Graham, Merce Cunningham, Paul Taylor, Alwin Nikolais, Murray Louis—famous modern choreographers. In spite of my lack of modern dance training, I was game to learn. Maybe the workshop was just the jumpstart I needed.

This time I vowed to arrive in New York more prepared, with headshots being my number one priority. My best friend from high school, an actress herself, turned me on to a photographer in Detroit to do the deed. I felt silly having my picture taken. Who did I think I was? “Big smile! Lotsa teeth! And tilt your head a little to the left. Eyes open wider. They look a bit sleepy. That’s it!” the man coached. “Now let’s try a few non-smiling ones. This would be a good time to change clothes if you brought another outfit.” I jumped off the bar stool and made my way to the small dressing room. Presumably, the photographer was trying to get a few photos suitable for more serious actress roles. I had never thought of myself as a serious actress. Anything but. In my high school musical theatre experience, I had always been cast as the funny, dumb, pretty sidekick.

I took off my lime green silk blouse and replaced it with my pale pink sweater, wondering how to make a non-smiling face that wouldn’t resemble a prison mug shot or my embarrassingly ugly driver’s license. “Am I supposed to make love to the camera? I can’t do that!” I practiced facial expressions in the mirror: Serious. Pensive. Intense. Intriguing. Flirtatious. “Oh, God. I look ridiculous!” Finally giving up, I returned to the studio surrendering my photo fate to the expertise of the photographer.

The great thing about photo shoots is the oft-used strategy of taking a gazillion photos, so you are bound to get one that’s usable. Despite my discomfort in front of the lens, I discovered a radiant smiling shot and, miracle of miracles, even a decent non-smiling one. “Hey, I look pretty good,” I admitted with a slight flip of the hair and a taller stance. Then, per my actress friend’s instructions, I mailed off my two favorite photos to ABC Printing in Missouri for duplication.

When those boxes arrived with five-hundred, 8”x10”, black and white glossy photos of my face, I was star struck. I almost felt famous just because I existed, multiplied, in print. Still, that was a lot of pictures. Would I ever really use them all? I imagined them littering some garbage dump, seagulls leaving their droppings on my beaming smile and visions of fame. Future rubbish or not, it was thrilling to see my dreams begin to take shape. I had headshots!

Next issue: housing. An aspiring female singer who I knew from college also wanted to try New York City and agreed to be my roommate. My plans appeared to be falling into place perfectly. Until, that is, they fell out of place. The woman got cold feet and backed out at the last minute. I panicked. I couldn’t afford to live alone, and Jenny already had a roommate. Would I be forced to abandon the plan and stay in Michigan? And do what? I had no plan B.

In the end, Jenny came through for me, once again. “Good news! I ran into Ashley at dance class. She and her family are going on an African safari, and you can stay in their apartment for the month of August.” Not only was Ashley a college dance friend of ours from Impact Jazz Dance Company, but she was also a member of Kappa Alpha Theta, the high-class sorority envied for its beautiful, rich girls. I could only imagine how stylish her home might be. Hopefully, this apartment-sitting job would buy me enough time to find a roommate and a more permanent place to live. All signals now “GO,” my parents and I loaded up their minivan with my meager belongings and headed east for New York City.