Unnaturally Green (26 page)

Meanwhile, I was rehearsing for another role I’d been cast in: Live-In Girlfriend to Marshall Roy.

So far I’d been learning my part diligently, always showing up to practice prepared—splitting the electric bill, folding laundry, doling out foot rubs. Since Marshall was at first unemployed, we spent a ton of time together; we went to the gym, explored the city, and watched episodes of
No Reservations
, that brash Anthony Bourdain travel show where he would visit Siberia and complain about the cold.

Our own traveling was a bit more circumspect; since Marshall and I didn’t have a car, we walked everywhere. But we only made it a mile or two in either direction before our calves and faces started burning—from the rolling hills and skin-slapping wind, respectively. Consequently, the farthest east we ever got was the Ferry Building, a waterfront complex that sold fresh produce, or (in the other direction) the Castro, San Francisco’s gay district, where we’d buy chocolate-covered penis cookies.

Indeed, “rehearsing” perfectly summed it up. Under special, once-in-a-lifetime circumstances, we’d taken wildly romantic measures to be together (just like in the movies!). In this way, we were
playing
house: living together, but not
really
living together.

The way we saw it, the stakes were nil. If playtime got to be tiresome, we could blame it on bad timing, or the miserable San Francisco weather, or the fact that there was never a moment in which I didn’t look slightly seasick.

No, we wouldn’t fall victim to
real
problems—when real life got in the way of relationships. Here in Oz, life itself was so wildly unrecognizable that it was hard to believe anything could have lasting consequences.

Socks on the floor, mold in the grout, spoiled milk in the fridge be damned—playing house was nothing but
fun!

Oh, sure, there were challenges. For example, I learned that being domestic meant sometimes having to cook—which I almost never did when I lived alone, except when I boiled spaghetti or poured cans of beans into pots and stirred in salt. I successfully hid this fact from Marshall until around the five-month mark. The moment of disillusionment came when I volunteered to make chicken tenders for dinner, and then left them in the oven for two hours. Through each jaw-breaking bite Marshall commented on how “crispy” they were, while I noted that they had the consistency of burnt sand, or rocks.

From then on, Marshall took kitchen matters into his own enormous hands—whipping up meals six or more times a day, each in a matter of minutes.

This was fun for a while. But in order to maintain his muscle mass, Marshall ate close to 4,000 calories a day, or once every ten minutes—which meant not only that the supermarket cashiers knew our first names, but that at any hour of the day there were dirty dishes in the sink.

He just wouldn’t stop
eating!

Even worse were his massive bales of protein, from which he’d scoop his pre-workout shakes. At first I thought them charming, but they grew progressively less so each time I had to leap over them to get to the kitchen sink, or use the toilet, or take out the trash.

Or do anything, really.

Outside our apartment, his Rambo proportions were grounds for celebration.

Inside, they tested my sanity.

I felt like a prisoner in my own home, barred from baseline creature comforts by my clumsy, live-in Hercules.

To avoid conflict, I would try to relax on our patio. There (I thought) I could escape the constant kitchen smells and sounds of clanking stainless steel. But the weather was never above 60 or sunny for more than five minutes, so each short-lived escape ended with me scurrying back indoors—back into the aroma-cloud of roasted sweet potato and baked Brussels sprouts.

Other days, I would try to go for a walk. But inevitably, I would get chased down by the shopping cart lady or her constituents who, in moments, drove me off the streets and back inside.

There I remained: indoors, sitting on the couch,
looking
at the patio (visible through the sliding doors we kept tightly shut to ward away the cold) while Marshall announced he’d be making five pounds of quinoa in the rice cooker.

But, oh, these trials made us
stronger
!

Yes, we became
stronger
when I submitted a verbal treatise on why it was unacceptable for Marshall to leave dirty pans in the sink or use two feet of dental floss with every brushing, or snore so loudly I felt like I was sleeping next to a power tool.

We became
stronger
when Marshall rebutted that I traipsed in mud with my dirty shoes, clogged the drain with my long blonde hairs, and forgot to close the refrigerator anytime I went to get anything.

Yes, this was the stuff of
romance!

The corrosive, degrading, take-me-back-to-NYC stuff of romance.

In these moments I’d draw a mental map of my Dating History Museum and start planning where exactly I would display Marshall’s bust. I’d have to start a new wing for him—the Post-College Collection. In my information pamphlet I’d be sure to mention that we’d had a great run—at first so perfect, then later fractured by circumstance:

When faced with long distance, we couldn’t bear to live without each other. Soon, we learned we couldn’t live
with
each other, either.

It was only a matter of time before the spectacular, soul-crushing failure. It had happened with Matt 3.0. Now it was time—time for my next great disappointment.

Another one bites the dust
.

But one day, Marshall sat me down on the couch.

“Game plan,” he said.

I could see it in his face; he was determined.

“It’s just…you’re so big,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

“I’m so bad at being neat.”

“You’re creative.”

“I hate cooking.”

“That’s okay.”

“And you snore so frickin’ loudly.”

“Okay, so what do we do?”

As we talked, I saw him emerge—that same Marshall who’d been there for me the Week I Didn’t Poop, helping me relax and invoking logic through the haze of anxiety. Today, he’d come back stronger than ever, to lead us toward a step-by-step solution.

In his words, when it came to playing house, we’d
committed to the bit
. And nobody was giving up.

So, we brainstormed, finding points of compromise. Marshall would pay for more groceries and I’d take care of the electric bill. He’d buy the floss and sleep on his belly. We’d take turns loading and unloading the dishwasher. He’d store his protein bales under the sink. I’d buy the Draino, take off my shoes, and make a special effort to enjoy our porch while bundled in a winter coat. To mitigate the stress of walking the streets, Marshall would accompany me to and from the theater.

It was slow going: discussions, questions, agreements. But soon, we started to find our way, drafting a Living Together Treaty to help us hold onto our sanity—and, as a result, hold onto each other.

 “You know, in college, people called me ‘Marshall Stewart,’ since I baked all the time.”

A couple of weeks later, Marshall decided to bake homemade brownies for the cast. I sat on a stool and watched as he fashioned a double boiler to melt bits of baking chocolate into a bowl.

“It’s how I show I care,” he said.

“The way I show
I
care,” I replied, “is that I eat the things you bake.”

Per terms of the Treaty, in a clause I’d drafted myself, my new job in the kitchen was not to overcook things, but instead to observe the size and volumetrics of Marshall’s muscles as he scooped, stirred, and kneaded. As reward for all of his fine chef’s work, I’d even bought him a souvenir
Wicked
apron the day before, which I encouraged him to wear around the kitchen with nothing but underwear.

“Also, can I just say: working out with Nic has really paid off.”

Marshall turned on the gas burner, his muscles glistening under the oven light.

“Ha, thanks, you sasser. Would you hand me the spatula?”

I did this as I pitched to Marshall that he should have his own cooking show, called
The Nearly Naked Chef
. “You could cook, while nearly naked,” I explained. “Maybe if you wore that apron
Wicked
would sponsor it.”

“I told you I would do it,” Marshall said as he began stirring the chocolate, “if it involved some kind of badass weapon. Like a sword.”

“You could absolutely have a sword, provided you would use it to mince.”

Marshall gave me a peck on the cheek. Still stirring, he said,

“So, in the unlikely event
The Nearly Naked Chef
doesn’t start until next season
,
I found some work in the meantime.”

“You got the job in Pacific Heights?”

“Yep!”

I whooped and gave him many celebratory butt slaps.

“That’s amazing! But did you tell them I was in
Wicked
?”

“I strategized a new approach.”

“Brillz! What was it?”

“I said you were an investment banker.”

“Ha!” I said, clapping my hands. “I can’t think of a job I’d be worse at.”

Since arriving, Marshall had been looking for work in San Francisco. But any time he’d landed an interview, he was a near-impossible sell. “My girlfriend’s in
Wicked
,” he would say—meaning that when the show closed, he’d have to fly the peninsula. But now that I was an
investment banker
, Marshall was set to start work the next day, running the front desk of an upscale health club.

Always a lover of weight lifting and nutrition, Marshall had long been considering a career shift to personal training, and this gym job would be a great stepping-stone for his résumé. As a perk, he could spend slow hours studying for the National Academy of Sports and Medicine exam—laying the bricks for the next stretch of his life path.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said, as I walked over and dipped my hand in the baking chocolate. “Mm, scalding and delicious!”

Later that night, we celebrated his new job by feasting on warm “reject” brownies, the broken bits that had stuck to the pan. The chocolate was rich and perfect, the consistency moist yet crumbly.

“You’re such a g-unit,” I said to Marshall, as he licked his fingers clean. “How are you real?”

He headed over to the sink.

“Oh, c’mon. Now I’m shy.”

Marshall washed the pans while, according to the Treaty, it was my turn to load the dishwasher. As I did, I couldn’t help but note how lately this whole cohabitation thing had not only become manageable, but was getting to be pretty darn awesome. Marshall was like a live-in, life-size action-figure of many facets: part chef, part personal trainer. Part apron model.

And, of course, part bodyguard.

Eight shows (plus rehearsals) meant Marshall had been carting me back and forth to the theater at least sixteen times per week. Soon he’d befriended each of
Wicked
’s security guards, and after my Elphaba performances would greet me backstage in the dressing room. There, he’d scoop me up in his patented hug/twirl combo, then accompany me to the bathroom, where he’d help scrub the green off the back of my neck. Then we would walk outside, arm in arm, to meet the cluster of audience members waiting by the stage door.