Unnaturally Green (12 page)

As David led me around, I realized that the theater was organized into two main levels. The props, set pieces, big production element-type stuff, and the stage itself were on the top level, with mostly everything else in the basement (dressing rooms, storage space, costume rooms, and wig rooms). Stage left and right in the wings held shelving units for the show’s props—Glinda’s crystal staff, schoolbooks for the Ozian students, tickets to the Emerald City’s “Wizomania” show, a disconcertingly lifelike green baby—each of which had its own meticulously chosen space, where it resided at all times except when needed onstage.

Lining the basement and dotting parts of the upstairs wings were garment racks holding dozens upon dozens of costumes—almost as if the New York costume shop had been broken into pieces and reshuffled into the theater. Wherever there was space, there was a garment rack—outside the bathroom, near the stage management office, at the foot of the stage right stairwell. It seemed it was the only way to accommodate a costume-heavy show into a fairly confined space.

In the remaining nooks and crannies were hints of humanity: lunch containers, facedown paperback books, water bottles, First Aid kits, lip balm—tools used by the villagers who inhabited this unpredictable landscape.

2)
Whoa… technical stuff!

Singers warmed up their voices, dancers stretched their limbs,
Wicked
’s stage crew prepared and maintained. Every once in a while during the tour a burly man in a black shirt would appear, attaching doo-dads to thing-a-ma-hoosits, placing fabric sheets over rolling doo-hickeys. Theater tech was one aspect of student and amateur theater that I never fully, or even partially, understood—so when it came to the big leagues, seeing
Wicked
’s technical inner workings felt like I was bearing witness to miracles. Each time a black-shirted burly man walked by, he did his thing with such a sense of purpose and quick skill that I almost wanted to kneel out of respect.

3)
Lots of giant heavy things are hanging over my head.

As I was admiring the confounding rope-pully mechanisms in the wings, I soon realized that there were many giant things hanging directly over my head, almost fifty feet in the air.

(“What!” said my mother.

I could practically hear her hyperventilating over the phone.

“Mom, don’t worry,” I said.

“I
will
worry,” she said.)

During the tour, David had taken a moment to explain how
Wicked
’s scenic design worked. Most of the medium-to-large set pieces—from the somewhat-manageable to the downright unwieldy (giant staircases, flaming pillars of fire)—were strung up on wires, hooks, and pulleys, and hoisted high into the air by the stage crew. Before, during, and after the show, the crew had to perform an elaborate set-change dance—their takedown or hoist-up sequence choreographed alongside the cast’s traffic patterns, perfectly timed to accommodate the show’s scenery needs.

It was pretty amazing. But, as an unfortunate consequence, a giant set piece would be hanging over my (and everybody’s) head—more or less at all times.

4)
The wig room is  creepy.

After leaving the stage and crossing downstairs, David and I peeked inside something called the wig room, where I saw a bunch of blank, disembodied heads. On those heads were wigs in the most ridiculous styles I’d ever seen: wavy mullets and curly updos, many of which were woven around wiring that looked like painful orthodontic headgear. There were curlers, hairnets, and bottles of gel and hairspray, all of which were used to sculpt and set the wigs in between shows. 

The heads were faceless but I could imagine their rolling eyes, their
tssk
ing mouths. It was not so much that I found the heads unnerving as I found their wigs to  be scarily realistic, giving each of them a distinctive personality—and, in turn, a story.

What had that curly red one witnessed? Had the traffic cone updo been in the original Broadway cast? Did Sideburn Braids gossip with Pink Beret?

Backstage at a show is a dangerous place for a girl with a wild imagination. As I was surrounded by such intricate craftsmanship, the magical world of
Wicked
almost subsumed the real world, blending fantasy and reality.

5)
Is that room a closet?

I’m not sure how things are backstage in theaters the world over, but at the Orpheum many spaces that might conventionally warrant four walls, a ceiling, and a door, had (for whatever reason) been placed in closets. Room taxonomy isn’t always clear, so it was hard to tell, but I was pretty sure that many “rooms” were, indeed, straight-up broom-holdin’, shoe-rackin’ closets.

Rooms up for debate:

A. The security guard’s little man cave directly inside the stage door, which was too small to fit anything but a human and his TV tray.

B.  The vocal rehearsal room, which stood adjacent to the stage right stairs. This “room” was a small, Harry Potter-esque hideaway that doubled as an office space for Bryan, the conductor and music director. Along with its upright piano, couch, hanging Japanese lantern, and poster of a shirtless man, there were granola bars and other provisions piled in the corner. If not a closet, it could have also been a hideaway for fugitives or changelings, if they were musically inclined and into shirtless dudes.

C. Lastly, there was the physical therapy room, big enough only for a stretch table and a chair. I think the only space from my past that rivaled the physical therapy room in preposterous smallness was my freshman year dorm room, which I shared with a laundry-flinging yell-talker named Erin. There were other similarities, too. Both closet-rooms had terrible wall art (dorm—bookstore-bought French print; therapy—
Mama Mia!
poster) and were places where people suffered in silence.

6)
To be a male cast member, you must be confident.

While everyone in the ensemble was assigned a communal dressing room like the one I’d visited earlier, there were extra dressing areas throughout the basement and upper level for more rapid, mid-show costume changes. The women’s areas were called
gondolas
and were encased in black hanging fabric. The men’s weren’t called anything, and stood shamelessly out in the open. Which is to say: the men changed in front of everybody. Like tribesmen splaying their goods in the underbrush.

You’ve got to admire that kind of confidence.

(“Are you being serious?” asked my mother.

“I
am
being serious,” I said.)

Luckily (or unluckily, depending on your perspective) nobody was ever required to strip down to less than a t-shirt and underwear.

(“Well, thank goodness for
that
,” she said.)

Amidst my mother’s expressions of incredulity, pleasure, and concern, I rounded out my Greatest Hits with a list of miscellaneous actor perks, with special mention of the bins of free cough drops scattered about, the water coolers and mini cups on either side of the stage, and the fact that somebody offered discount Pilates classes to cast members on certain afternoons.

“And how did your rehearsal go?” asked my dad, who apparently had been listening on another line (he does that sometimes).

“Oh, hi, Dad,” I said. “It went pretty well.”

After my backstage tour, I’d had a brief costume fitting—followed by my first ever
Wicked
vocal rehearsal, during which I thankfully didn’t implode or start weeping from the stress.

It was led by Steve, assistant music director and associate conductor. In addition to being an awesome pianist, Steve confirmed my suspicions that at some point quirky authority figures decided they should all wear round-framed glasses (a suspicion I first had while under the instruction of Yale professors). Tall and blonde with a
Where’s Waldo
gleam in his sometimes-glassy, sometimes-cutting gaze, Steve was a curious blend of laid-back California and old-fashioned curmudgeon. During our rehearsal I first thought I’d charmed him, but later I was nitpicked like a lice-ridden monkey. Chuckling one moment, snapping about the rigors of breathing, consonants, and phrasing the next, Steve was the principal who would stage a school prank with you, then suspend you for it.

I had painstakingly learned all of my ensemble vocals once I’d received my script and score back in New York; I expected
extra
gold stars, since I’d practically memorized everything.

But Steve was unfazed. Noting only,

“Teaching you shouldn’t be too bad.”

He then proceeded to stop me every five seconds—to discuss diction, vowels, crescendos—the works.

I soon got to know some of the show’s more idiosyncratic musical direction. Like every time I sang “witch of the west” Steve said it needed to be “witch-a-the-west,” and that “one short day” should actually be “one shore day” when sung in unison. Not only that, but every held note had a precise cutoff that had to be memorized—meaning double memorization duty for every song. I had never before encountered such detailed musical direction.

 “You must be smaaaht,” said my dad, parodying a Rhode Island accent—a recurring bit of his.

“Well, we’ll see. I mean it was only my first day.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’ll see?’ You’re gorgeous and talented,” said my mother, her mother lioness mane bristling. If she ever senses a hint of insecurity, her tactic is to pounce on her children with a flurry of direct, if not irrelevant, compliments.

“I know, Mom, I wasn’t putting myself down.”

“You could play Elphaba
and
Glinda, you’re so talented!”

“Okay, thanks, Mom, but I am not playing Glinda.”

“But you could! You could sing it! And you’re gorgeous!” my mother yelled.

(It is a characteristic of Riccis to yell as if in argument when we’re actually saying mundane or even encouraging things to each other.

Example
(read as shouted)
:

MOM: WASH YOUR HANDS BEFORE COMING INTO THE KITCHEN!

FELICIA: DID YOU GET THE MAIL?

DAD: LOOK AT ALL THOSE CATALOGS!

FELICIA: DON’T THROW AWAY MY MAGAZINES!

DAD: WHY IS THE STOVE ON LOW? BRING THE WATER TO A BOIL FIRST, THEN TURN IT DOWN!

MOM: YOU LOOK NICE TODAY!

DAD: YOU DO, TOO!

FELICIA: HEY, I GOT AN A ON MY PHYSICS TEST!

MOM AND DAD: YOU’RE A GENIUS!)

“Anyway, I have to go,” I said, unrolling my sweatshirt and climbing out of the tub. “Tonight I’m going to meet the cast and watch the show.”

I looked in the bathroom mirror at my belted muu-muu, bird’s nest hair, and chapped colorless lips.

I hope the other kids like me.

“Well, have fun, sweetie, and call us any time,” said my mom, coming down from her compliment frenzy.

I said goodbye to my parents and gathered my things, resisting the urge as I headed out the door to call home once again—to ask one final question.

Will you come drop me off at school, Mommy?