Unnaturally Green (10 page)

Marshall and I took a cab to JFK airport. We split a muffin in the food court.

“So. This is it,” said Marshall.

“Do you want to just crawl into my carry-on?” I said.

“I do want to do that.”

“I think you should do it.”

“Okay, I will.”

“I mean, aside from the million-dollar plane fares, long distance won’t be so bad, right?”

“No, it won’t,” Marshall said, I think intending to smile. Instead he looked like a caged puppy.

“Actually, I think it might suck,” I said.

“Yeah, maybe you are right.”

“But we’ll find a way,” I said, sitting up. “As Jeff Goldblum says in
Jurassic Park
, ‘life finds a way.’”

“I love that part. I also love when he bangs the table and yells about selling plastic lunchboxes.”

“Oh, you mean this part?”

I reenacted the scene, banging the table in the food court.

“Yes! I love it!”

“The fact that we both love
Jurassic Park
is just one of the reasons why this is going to work out,” I said.

“And
The Dark Knight
,” added Marshall.

Before long, I was winding through the security line, with no Marshall in my carry-on. Instead, he stood off to the side, keeping watch until I passed the metal detector. Before I turned to go, I looked back and saw him, opening the envelope I’d given him moments before.

Last night I’d written a note of my own.
Bye
, it said.
I’ll miss you
.
You’d better write
. That sort of thing.

And, of course,

I love you, too.

He looked up and beamed, then started waving. I waved back, eyeing his silhouette even as I turned the corner.

6. I AM OZ, THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE

January 11, 2010. Felicia’s Blog.

Here I go, writing my first blog post in the thick of the action, aboard Virgin Flight 23, JFK--> SFO. I first want to say that Virgin is tricked out in the style of a very exclusive, very mobile, night club. There is neon purple lighting and the bathrooms play smooth jazz. Although I am not live-blogging right now, the airplane happens to be equipped with free WiFi (no charge for internet but must pay $8 for hummus and carrots). All going well here at 30,000 feet. See you on the ground…

W
hen you wake up in a foreign place, it usually takes a few moments to reacquaint yourself with the facts of your life.

One fact, I soon remembered, was this:

I am going to be in
Wicked
.

My face curled into a tired smile, at which point I smacked my lips together through morning breath so strong I could smell it on myself.

The next fact?

Marshall wasn’t there.

I miss him.

I sighed, then thought that, in a way, it was good he couldn’t catch me in this jet-lagged, morning-breath-ridden stupor.

I flopped over on my side, feeling my head pulsing.

Ugh.
I hadn’t slept well.

Third fact?

My new home was a 10’ x 15’ room at the Hotel Whitcomb, a medium-rise building across the street from
Wicked
’s theater. I’d booked the hotel for the next two weeks, securing a special company discount. Back in New York, when I’d imagined my future stay here, “hotel” had meant jumping on the bed, ordering room service, and swimming in shallow, reflective pools. But my imagination had gotten a little ahead of itself.

The Whitcomb brooded with a heavy and somber gravitas, like an old-fashioned prison, or any location shot from
The Shining
. Apparently the building had some kind of historical significance I can’t really remember. There was something about this on a plaque near its revolving doors, right next to another plaque warning pregnant women that the building could give them cancer.

My room was at the end of the hallway near the elevators, directly next to the ice machine. Being there at first seemed like it would provide a pleasant sense of community, what with people’s constant coming and going. But I took it all back last night, as I tossed and turned to the sounds of ice clattering into trays and elevator doors opening and closing every few minutes, accented by the shrill
ding
of the arrival bell.

Still, I knew it was temporary. And at least, come tomorrow, I’d have more important things to worry about than whether I’d run into Jack Nicholson’s creepy finger-talking son on his tricycle.

Like being in
Wicked
, for instance.

I was due at work at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow. Today, I had the day to myself.

What to do?

On the airplane ride over, I’d started blogging about my
Wicked
adventures, as a kind of public diary—mostly to get me to sit down and keep track of the experience, and to ensure that Marshall would read it and pine for me from afar. That morning I drafted a quick follow-up post from my hotel room, then  decided to head out and explore the city.

Because I have an abysmal sense of direction, closely akin to a  baby’s, I thought it wise to allot most of the day to getting a handle on my surroundings. Even though
Wicked
’s theater was across the street, it would not be unheard of for me to get lost the next day on the way there, wandering into, say, the state of Washington.

I trotted out of the lobby onto Market Street, a well-known landmark whose name, to me, evoked commerce, industry, and progress. I’d been to San Francisco twice before (when I was peddling medical software, actually, for the dreaded day job), so I knew all about how this central thoroughfare cut through the entire city, from South West to North East.

How brilliant that
Wicked
’s theater sits on this illustrious street
, I thought to myself, in a strangely formal interior voice.

Stalling on the red brick sidewalk, my first instinct was to turn left—so I turned right, since when it comes to directions my first instinct is usually the opposite of how one should proceed. After a few strides I felt the wind whip across my neck, and so zipped up my coat and burrowed my face in my scarf. As I would soon discover, San Francisco’s weather had a daily identity crisis, unable to commit to hot or cold. Its air was dry, fleeting, impossible to hold onto, two-faced in the shadow and the light. That afternoon it was cloudy with patches of sun and gusts of frigid wind—an upgrade from New York winter, but certainly not what I’d pictured as sunny California.

I crossed the first intersection next to the hotel as the
Wicked
marquee glided past me on my left, a road sign beckoning me to veer off and approach. But I pressed on, maybe because I was intimidated, maybe because I knew that the theater and I would become acquainted soon enough. I eyed it as I zipped by, making note of its location, then soldiering on—a latter-day Magellan on a mission of discovery.

But I am a terrible explorer. A few feet more and I felt the first pang of hunger, soon realizing that every pioneer needs food in her stomach and a manicure on her fingernails. Although not necessarily both at the same time.

While I rarely get my nails done under normal circumstances, in times of upheaval nothing melts my cares away like money and time-wasting luxuries. While going through one of my breakups with Matt 3.0, I dropped more cash on gossip magazines than groceries, and bought at least six different kinds of sunhats, even though it was winter.

Mani-pedis reminded me of best friend Becky, so I decided to give her a quick call.

“Becks?”

“Son!”

“Hey, son!”

“Son, are you gone?”

“Yeah, son, I’m in San Fran! Can you even believe it?”

(We call each other “son.” I do not know why.)

As we chatted, I scanned the nearby blocks, spotting only a Burger King and a fast food place called “Carl’s Jr.” where there was a picture of a hamburger and a star with a smiley face.  I continued past a big plaza that stretched from
Wicked
’s theater all the way to the end of the block. On it was a raised patch of grass, enclosed in a low, single-chain suggestion of a fence. On the far end, opposite the grass, was a homely fountain, constructed from blocks of concrete and other right-angled shapes. I crossed the street to this large lot, eager to find somewhere to eat and/or get my nails painted jungle red.

“So, let’s talk outfits,” said Becky.

Becky had a Masters in journalism, and was a pro at extracting a ton of information from me in a short amount of time. Only a couple of minutes in and already we were bouncing around ideas for what I should wear the next day, to dazzle everyone with my (feigned) sense of fashion.

“Actually, I looked in my suitcase,” I said, “and I’m worried I shipped all my good clothes separately, with UPS. All I really have is my travel dress.”

My travel dress was a black muu-muu that swung loosely from my shoulders, perfect for hiding things beneath it, like small children, or a bad body image.

“Okay, but make sure you belt it.”

Becky was right; I looked less like an old lady in a housedress when I belted it.

By this point I was standing right next to the fountain, getting sprayed with misty city water. On this side of the street, everything seemed darker, dingier, in need of a good scrubbing. A guitar started playing somewhere. I turned toward the sound and noticed a cluster of people singing and swaying behind the patch of grass, swigging from a bottle and sticking out their tongues. One of them, a man, had a metal sword and was sparring with an invisible opponent.

“What’s wrong?” said Becky. “You got quiet.”

“Nothing,” I said, “except I just spotted a man sword fighting with the air.”

“Oh, I should have assumed.”

As I hustled down the block, Becky asked me whether or not I was nervous about starting
Wicked
.

“Obviously, I am nervous,” I said. “I mean I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Please, that is so not true,” said Becky, launching into her patented, two-minutes-or-less best friend pep talk.

As Becky reminded me of my “baller G-dom,” I kept scanning my surroundings, looking for somewhere, anywhere to duck inside. But there were only pawn, sex, and discount shops, like the cheap squares on some depressing, adult-themed Monopoly board. In the next ten minutes, I dodged five different piles of poo, the advances of an old woman wearing one shoe and carrying the other, and a Raggedy Andy-haired man who tipped over every trash can on the sidewalk, singing “London Bridge Is Falling Down.”

In that same short amount of time, Becky had gotten me to confess my deepest insecurities—most notably my belief that, in being cast in
Wicked
, I’d been set up to fail. It was only a matter of time, I thought, before everybody found out the truth—maybe as soon as tomorrow.

“You are insane,” said Becky.

“Like, I took the job, so I agreed I could play Elphaba. But, honestly? I’m pretty sure I did a bad thing.”

“That is just the Catholic guilt talking. What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“You just gasped.”

“Oh, yeah, a lady grabbed my arm and told me to give her my coffee, even though I am carrying no coffee.”

“What the hell is going on over there?”

“Honestly, Becks, I don’t know.”

What
was
this Godforsaken place? This was not the San Francisco I knew from
Full House
. I ducked my head down and started power walking like a high-strung soccer mom.

“I’d better go,” I said. “I may need both hands to defend myself.”

“Yeah, I gotta go, too. I’m meeting Millhouse for a drink in Harlem.”

Becky called her boyfriend Millhouse because he looked like that character from
The Simpsons
.

“Have fun.”

“You too! Be safe. And good luck!”

As I hung up the phone, I saw it—like a mirage emerging from the wasteland. On the horizon were tall spires with flags stretching into the sky, announcing the presence of a giant shopping mall. Inside its fortress of window shops were an expansive food court and—glory be!—a beauty salon. Not to mention loads of kiosks with ghetto bling and wide-rim hats. Maybe a diamond grill to go with my red nails and muu-muu?

After sprinting inside, I felt the cool rush of air conditioning on my already freezing body. In the Food Court I loaded up on smoothies and General Tso’s kitchen, before enjoying a full-bellied manicure while reading
Us Weekly
magazine.

I think that’s enough exploring for one day
, I thought to myself.

On my way back, I took a cab.

7. FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

F
rom the street,
Wicked
’s stage door looked like any other door, except for the fact that it was the width of a car and had
STAGE DOOR
written on it—so actually it was not at all like other doors. It sat squarely at the long edge of the theater, next to a painted mural of
Wicked
’s logo, the iconic image of a blithe and blonde Glinda whispering something to Elphaba, whose eyes were obscured, her mouth curling into a smirk.

Weary from yesterday’s sidewalk safari, at 12:54 p.m. I made a beeline for the theater, keeping my eye on the mural, hoping to outrun the drunken, shoeless, sword-wielding street folk. Dressed in a belted muu-muu, I arrived at the pair of utility doors, my rehearsal tote in one hand, my crumpled rehearsal schedule in the other, feeling like an overgrown kindergartener on her first day of school. There was no one waiting outside, so I reached for the handle, pulled, and walked in. Easy enough.

Kindergarten shouldn’t be too bad!

I stepped into a small and deserted vestibule that felt kind of like an entryway to a warehouse, with crates to my right and miscellaneous boxes stacked below a bulletin board. Gazing further I saw black draped fabric, and another doorway ahead. I started toward the bulletin board, then heard a voice,

“Can I help you?”

I turned. The voice had come from a large man sitting and watching television in what looked like a closet, directly to the left of the doors.