Unnaturally Green (15 page)

You ready, girl?

After hearing the five-minute announcement over the intercom, I filed out of the dressing room to the girls’ changing gondola, where, with the help of our dressers, we donned our costumes for the Act I opening number (which for me was one outfit layered beneath another—preparation for a lightning-quick change that would happen six minutes into the show).

Taisia, my dresser, was fiddling with my snaps and zippers with darting fingers, muttering things in Russian each time she failed to press or loop something right on the first try. She was slightly new to the job, but it may as well have been her first day—such was the nature of working with a new cast member. She and I would have to find our groove, our rhythm, our system, and it could take weeks.

“Over time, you would learn how to get everything on and off…”

I drifted back to the memory of trying on costumes in New York—the very costume I was being snapped into that night. Amanda had been right: some of my costume changes had been choreographed down to every last button and eyehook. I’d even watched Laura (the girl I replaced) many times backstage—to observe, take notes, and commit to memory not just everything she did while onstage but everything she did while
off
—from wig swaps, to makeup touch-ups, to when and how often it was advisable to pee.

Now it was my turn.

Dozens of snaps later, the intercom announced it was “places” and we, in our costumes-within-costumes, marched up the stairs to the main stage level like fat, multicolored ducks. Through the wings we made our way onstage, shielded from the audience by a map of the Land of Oz. There I saw the assistant stage manager Sue taking attendance, her permed hair looking particularly voluminous.

I weaved to the middle of the center clump—the first coordinates of my 3F track—like I’d done in rehearsal so many times before. Only this time, my imagination was made real—the characters and scenery popping out of my personal storybook.

And I was no longer alone.

“Ready, Frishé?” asked Penelope. I think she called me Frishé because it combined my first initial with my last name (F + Ricci = Frishé).

“Yes, I think so!” I said.

“Just have fun,” said my shaved-headed neighbor Tim, giving me a camp-counselor pat on the back. “That’s what this is all about!”

Thanks to Tim, I was reminded of all those years in summer theater camp, and all the student productions I’d done in high school and college. This would be just like those, right?

Except much, much bigger.

Here, the people surrounding me were the people I used to gaze at in awe on Broadway stages, or at the Providence Performing Arts Center where national tours would play. When I was a leg-swinging kid, heart fluttering from excitement, they all seemed years (even decades) older than I was—each impossibly gifted, gliding on air, at least twelve feet tall.

But here I was, among the
professionals
, grazing with them in their natural habitat. Moments before the show, they were all so relaxed, still themselves—laughing, joking, talking about last night’s reality television. I was on a precipice, while everyone else was at their 9 to 5.

The pre-show announcement blared through the speakers, advising the audience not to take flash photography or unwrap crinkly candies. Then, in a sudden exclamation, the overture began. With a few moments to spare, the cast trickled down into their pre-show positions (where I had already been standing at attention, frozen like a statue).

I listened to the music, its melody propelling forward, and began my countdown.

3…2…1…

Look, Ma! I’m a professional actor!

Eleven scenes, eight costume changes, four rib-bruising lifts, two Red Bulls, and one curtain call later, I was an official cast member of
Wicked
.

Exhausted, I trudged up the stairs to the stage door. It was my first time greeting fans and lovers of
Wicked
while behind the velvet stanchion, as opposed to outside it.

I made this wall calendar for you, Mr. Sills!

A few fans holding souvenir programs nodded and smiled, and one even said,

“Great show!”

This gave me instant warm fuzzies.

I speed-dialed Marshall as I walked to catch a train home, dodging a man with a dead squirrel hat who was urinating in a potted plant.

“Hello!” said a familiar man-voice, groggy since it was 2 a.m. in New York.

“I did it,” I said.

“Woooooo!” yelled Marshall, ever the Mayor of Enthusiasmville, even through exhaustion.

“I think I could get the hang of this professional-theater thing,” I said.

“Of course you can! You’re a superstar. And guess what?”

“What?”

“A week from now, I’ll be picking you up at the stage door.”

“That’s so wild. Is this really happening?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

“Still sure you want to do this?” asked Marshall.

“Yes. Definitely.”

I told him to get the heck back to sleep already, but he insisted we chat at least a little longer. Squirrel Hat Man began his approach, but I didn’t care: I was too happy to be freaked out.

“Seriously, though. My life is so—”

I didn’t want to say it. It felt sacrilegious, like giving the finger to a priest, or not liking Oprah. But it was true:

“—perfect! I half-expect something terrible to happen to me.”
Like for Squirrel Hat Man to steal my purse and pee in it. 
(I didn’t say this second part out loud, though, since I didn’t want to worry Marshall.)

“Nothing terrible is going to happen to you. Not while I’m there to help you.”

“Deal,” I said, feeling my stomach lurch.

Was it excitement? Was it fear?

Is there ever really a way to tell?

10. BACK TO THE FUTURE, OR NEW YORK CITY

T
wo things I underestimated about Marshall Roy:

1) The volume of his snoring.

2) The persistence of his snoring.

A week of living with him and I underestimated them no more.

But was I surprised?

From the giant bins of whey protein he carried with his massive gorilla hands into my tiny Mission District studio apartment, to the fact that any meal of his required two iterations (i.e. second lunch, second dinner), when Marshall did anything, it was go big or go home.

Snoring was no different.

“Commit to the bit,” Marshall would say.

And I admired this about him. When Marshall Roy decided to do something, he never looked back. It might take him some time to decide, but once he did, he was in it to win it.

This tenet best applied, of course, to the latest (for lack of a better word)
bit
of all: our new and sudden cohabitation.

This was a bit to which we would both
commit!

Twelve days after my ensemble debut, I awoke to the feeling of a massive hand resting lightly against my waist, and the stifled sound of Marshall’s inhale and exhale—which had (praise the Lord) gotten at least slightly quieter, like the engine of a car that had driven a few blocks down the street.

In the night, we had tossed and turned together like self-preparing salads, never sleeping for more than a half-hour at a time. We reached relative equilibrium once Marshall discovered that flopping over onto his belly tamed the snoring beast within him. By that point, the sun had started to come up, but we’d power-napped for as long as possible.

Now, in the peace of the morning, our night of trauma seemed far behind, and I was the happiest I’d ever been. I’d conquered being in the ensemble of
Wicked
, and my brand-new boyfriend had come to stay.

Everything was in its right place. Sort of.

I looked around me.

We were as happy as little love-drunk clams, sharing a single cluttered shell overflowing with things, which we’d sometimes tidy, sometimes not. Our formula of folded clothes, unmade bed, and lowered toilet seat made us neat, but not
too
neat—a huge upgrade for me. Before Marshall arrived, I’d been flinging my goods around with the unbridled creativity of an artist (which is my way of saying I’d been a slob). But in the five days since Marshall’s arrival, I’d managed to sweep and stack most things into little compartments here and there, making room for a giant gladiator in my one-room studio.

With my index finger I poked Marshall’s bicep, which was peeking out from his white Hanes t-shirt. He stirred and rolled his arm back over his head, offering me his armpit. I burrowed in, sniffing his Old Spice musk. You’re going to gag but, honestly, there was no smell I loved more than Marshall’s armpits. (I once told him that if I ever wore his deodorant, I would likely be attracted to myself.)

After a few moments of armpit sniffing, I began my morning ritual of unfurling slowly into waking life, like a flower to the light—except much less gracefully, and with a huge, visible wedgie.

“Where you going, little friend?” Marshall rumbled as I untangled my last limb from the swirl of white bed sheets.

“Gotta pee,” I squealed, running away, trying to de-wedgie myself. “Plug your ears!”

On this—a Wednesday—we would have all morning together. The working plan was to enjoy a late brunch at Boogaloos, a killer breakfast spot precisely one block from the Hunky House. Then I would be due downtown for
Wicked
’s matinee.

“What time do you have rehearsal today?” Marshall called through the flimsy bathroom doors, which weren’t so much doors as suggestions that maybe you shouldn’t come in.

I gripped the tiny hook knobs, trying to pull them further together to seal the two flimsy panels—a room divider between me and humiliation.

“I told you, I cannot talk to you while I pee!” I shouted.

Marshall had arrived late on a Saturday night and met me at the stage door, suitcase in tow, his smile big as ever. He’d scooped me up in his arms, at which point I let him kiss my sweaty face and recently un-pin-curled hair, which had been doused in the salty goodness that was my abundant sweat. No-holds-barred unkemptness in front of Marshall was a first for me, since during our courtship I’d upheld the illusion that I was put-together, well-groomed, and effortlessly poised. (Sort of.)

A mere three months in, and I suddenly had to face a girl’s worst fear: showing herself as she was. Without makeup, primping, or the distancing formality of a dinner date. He would have to take me as I was. And vice versa.

I swung open the wood panels and promenaded into the bedroom to see Marshall lying diagonally across the bed, clicking through his cell phone.

“Weather.com says that every day this week it’s going to be cloudy and 60 degrees.”

“Oh, sorry about that,” I said.

“No, I wasn’t complaining. In New York it’s, like, 12 degrees.”

“Ah. But don’t get too excited. Weather here is a fickle mistress.”

Marshall lay his phone down on the end table, next to my own. “Cell phone friends,” we called them, in our sickening love haze. He stretched his arms over his head while I lowered down onto the bed, watching him. His face was stubbly, and his eyelids were still at half-mast. He looked like a groggy newborn. But sexy. Like, a sexy, groggy newborn.

“I like that I get to see you like this,” I said.

“Oh, now I’m embarrassed,” said Marshall, hiding his head under the covers.

“Come on. You saw me pluck my eyebrows yesterday and pop a zit on my chin.”

“But you looked really good when you did that,“ said Marshall, wrangling for my stomach. I screamed as he bound his hands around my waist and scooped me to him, pulling me back into the bedsheets from which I had worked so hard to escape.

I pleaded. “Marsh! My call time is one-thirty!”

Since it was Wednesday, I was due at the theater for the afternoon matinee, followed by an evening performance. It sounds like a lot, but I’d grown accustomed to having my days and nights full. Since my ensemble debut, I was rehearsing the part of Elphaba during the day, and performing at night. Two-show days Wednesday and Saturday  were, ironically, my only respite.

“Okay, I’m getting up,” Marshall rumbled as he finally planted one long, muscular leg onto the carpet.

“You’re such a hottie,” I swooned, acting the damsel to my knight in shining Hanes.

While walking by, Marshall patted the side of my bum—his wordless reply. Then, from inside the bathroom, he called, 

“Speaking of hot, which way do I turn on the faucet again?”

“To the left!” I yelled. “Remember, it’s counterintuitive!”

Our freestanding bathtub-slash-shower was an ancient marvel, possibly from the Elizabethan Era. You know, the kind that have legs and look like fat porcelain pets that might up and walk away one day. It was barely large enough for a toddler, and was surrounded by a wraparound curtain that clung to you with cold, slimy determination. The showerhead itself was an insult to indoor plumbing everywhere, raining pitiable spurts of water, like warm, begrudging spit. I strained to listen for Marshall slinking his way in, gasping from the cold sheen of the curtain, and imagined how he must look—cramped and corralled, the only adult in the kiddie pool.

As I approached our shared dresser, I glanced at my cell phone and saw the white light flashing, indicating a voicemail. While hoisting on my easy jeans and button-down, I listened over the speaker.

“Hi, Felicia—”

I’d know that Southern braying anywhere!

“—it’s Ann. Give me a call when you get this.”

Click!

Oh, Ann. My agent. Ever the charmer. No matter how terse the message, I smiled at the thought that she was calling to check up on me, her new client on her first big show.

“Who was that, Fel?” asked Marshall, stepping from the bathroom. He’d wrapped a towel around his waist, and water droplets glistened on his pectorals.

“My agent. I’ll give her a call on the way.”

The Hunky House was perched on the steepest hill I’d ever seen. It was less like a hill and more like a step-less staircase, or just, like, an elevator shaft you had to climb down. On our way to brunch, Marshall volunteered to carry me, but I desperately needed the workout.