Unnaturally Green (22 page)

I took a deep breath.

I chugged five glasses of water.

I ate a banana.

I rehearsed with Bryan.

I slapped that witch.

Then?

I climbed Mount Elphaba.

(Again!)

And—Songs of Death be damned! I made it out alive.

Over 40 performances later, I learned that playing Elphaba evoked many different feelings.

But that first week? I could boil it down to two:

1)
HolycrapIamplayingmydreamrole!

2)
This sucks so hard.

One minute, I was soaring from the freeing rush of being onstage; the next, I was in a whimpering heap.

I’d never before sympathized with crack addicts, but after my debut week felt kindred to the poor fraught souls who lived outside my door. (It’s true: Marshall and I often found crack pipes on our stoop.) You might also think of me as a big rubber band: each show, I got stretched to my limit; afterwards, I snapped back on myself. When withdrawal set in, I’d never felt so low—my arms, legs, neck, and shoulders ached from the incredible exertion of playing Elphaba.

After the final recoil, the sun set on Sunday, and Marshall and I cooked a pork chop feast, toasting with wine (him) and lemon water (me) the long-awaited end to my week. After Friday night’s semi-sick performance, I’d had one more peak to scale: a fifth Elphaba show for the Saturday matinee.

“At 23,” Marshall began, “you’ve done it. You’ve played Elphaba five times!”

I did a golf clap, almost tipping over my glass.

“I think you can retire now, from everything,” he said, “and move to a remote island.”

“You are right,” I said. “But before that I have to tick off a few other items on my list, including inventing a way to read in bed, without hands.” (I’d been scheming to build this contraption since I was eight: it would involve metal beams, Plexiglass, and a computer chip in your brain so you could lie on your back, gaze up at the pages suspended above you, and command that they turn only by thinking it.)

“Oh, and I also want to write a book.”

“Fair enough.”

I wolfed down a morsel of pork doused in a balsamic-shallot reduction—a recipe Marshall had concocted from scratch.

“So now what?” he asked, taking a large bite.

Now what?

If I thought about it, this “you’ve done it” idea was slightly unsettling. Because now, you see, I had to keep going—for nearly six months—as Elphaba standby in
Wicked
.

Would things get easier? Or would Mount Elphaba tower higher, colder, and with thinner air?

It was hard to know.

But what were the odds that
Wicked
could get any more difficult?

Just keep climbing.

“Now—” I said with a sigh, “now I’m going to bed.”

On a soggy, green-smeared pillow.

A few days later, and I was on YouTube singing “Defying Gravity” for the all the free world (or at least my mother) to see.

“Oh my God, it’s incredible,” she said to me over the phone. “I posted it on Facebook.”

Yes, these were the facts. I hadn’t yet scrubbed off all the green, but already I was online, shrunken to mini proportions, performing for home viewers at the mere click of a mouse. Documented and cataloged, for posterity. And belting contests.

 In short, I had been YouTube-ized—by a really efficient bootlegger.

(
GREEN
.
7.
freshly slaughtered or still raw:
green meat.
)

“Great video,” chimed my dad who was, as usual, listening in on the other line.

“Oh, hi, dad.”

To change the subject, I told my parents that I was on my way to the mall to find a new computer bag. As I’d spent more time blogging, I’d been lugging my laptop to the theater in a Trader Joe’s tote, which simply would not do for an established woman of letters.

“You’re taking a cab, I hope?” asked my mother, who had heard tales from past sidewalk safaris.

“Nah, it’s close enough to walk,” I said, scanning my surroundings.

Marshall and I had recently moved from the dilapidated comforts of the Hunky House to a new apartment ten minutes from the mall and the Orpheum Theater. This meant we’d traded neighbors Tom, Etai, David, and Tim for the colorful inhabitants of Market Street.

“Always stay safe,” said my dad.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Right now, for example, there’s a woman sitting in a shopping cart in the middle of the street. Directing traffic.”

“Why are there so many homeless people over there?” asked my mom.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I read somewhere that the city is underfunded, and can’t support many civil services or outreach programs.”

“Double-lock your doors!” shouted my father.

My parents were overreacting; here, in our new hood, Marshall and I were part of a close-knit community. Many folks even lived and slept right outside our door. These
literal
next-door neighbors were very friendly, since they often left us little gifts of crack pipes and used toilet paper.

Why the free and willing move near Market Street? For one thing, Marshall and I were lured by our new apartment’s finishes, washer-dryer, and kitchen sink that didn’t double as the bathtub. Second (and more importantly) it turned out that
Wicked
would allow its standbys to leave the theater during the show—as long as they stayed within five blocks. With my recent promotion, I could arrive at work, sign in, and retrace the five blocks to my apartment—watching TV, cleaning, or blogging—while keeping my cell phone close in case the theater needed me.

In summary, our new place near Market Street meant I could go home during work, wear clean clothes, and greet strange men as they peed outside my garage.

“Anyway, I think I’m going to try the Fossil store, since they had some good bags,” I said.

“Try TJ Maxx,” said my dad.

“Is somebody screaming in the background?” asked my mother.

Three drivers were honking their horns and sticking their heads out the window, yelling at the shopping cart lady, who was now eating a bag of chips.

“No.”

“Well, make sure you go to YouTube when you get home.”

“Okay, Mom.”

 “I’m going to email you the link,” said my dad, “so you can see it for yourself.”

“Which performance is it, anyway?” I asked, feeling a tug of regret.

“It said it was your third full performance,” answered my mother.

“Oh, great, the night I was sick,” I said.

“Honey, you
do not
sound sick!”

“Mom, it’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“You are the
best Elphaba!
”

 “I just love those high notes at the end,” said my dad, as he explained that the clip was of me singing the “Defying Gravity” finale—those final notes of doom.

“Oh, it’s not the whole song?” I said, feigning surprise.

Really, I knew better. From my own YouTube searches (guilty as charged) I’d seen that most
Wicked
bootlegs only bothered to capture the ending. Over and over I’d watched my favorite actresses, as recently as a few months before,
belting their faces
for hours on end.

But that was then! And this was now. Now, the tables had turned.

“Are you going to read the comments?” asked my mother.

“The what?”

“The YouTube comments!”

“I commented,” said my dad.

“Me, too!” said my mom.

“No, probably not,” I said.

“Why not?”

Because it could get ugly, I wanted to say. Because people are made boldly cruel by their anonymity. Because I could predict, even before logging on, the three things they would say:

1) That was good.

2) That was bad.

3) So-and-So was better.

Instead I settled on: “Because I can’t read.”

“Just make sure you take a look,” said my dad. “Or I could read them for you right now.”

Ah, make it stop!

“Enough!” I screeched.

As I watched the shopping cart lady take out a soda can and start to chug I felt a twinge of remorse. I knew my parents were just excited and proud. Who was I to judge them? This was how live theater worked nowadays. Thanks to the Internet, they could get a 90-second glimpse of my performance. Over and over and over.