Unnaturally Green (27 page)

There were families, couples, groups of high schoolers—all eager to stop and chat, and pose the question, “What’s it like?” Outside the stage door, Marshall and I had our routine down pat. With my silver Sharpie I signed programs while he conversed with a few
Wicked
regulars—from middle-schooler Joe, who ran my Facebook fan page; to Chris, a Renaissance woman who worked for Major League Baseball and wrangled penguins at the San Francisco Zoo; to Peggy and Dar, a lesbian couple who sent me friendly emails in which they wrote, “hugs to you and the hunkmeister.”

I always loved signing autographs and taking photos with
Wicked
’s most diehard fans. Here, I could assign faces to that monolithic void that was the Audience—the black expanse that stretched before me whenever I was onstage. As it emanated laughter and applause—bursts of encouragement—it was like someone saying,
keep going
,
good job
,
chin up!

It was wonderful, in this way, to get the chance later to reply:

“Thank you for coming!”

In my many months as standby, these interactions meant the world to me. I even received a bunch of homemade gifts, bestowed in person and in the mail—one of which was a purple t-shirt that featured a picture of my favorite yellow fruit, encircled by the words
POWERED BY BANANAS
.

Many fans, for whatever reason, looked up to
me
—in all my greenness. I couldn’t explain it, but I could understand it: I knew firsthand what a powerful force theater could be—one that struck chords of admiration, aspiration, and gratitude.

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

One
Wicked
regular named Bettie, who’d been a theater patron for decades, took special note of Marshall. “You’re quite the boyfriend,” she would say to him, under her flat cap. “I always catch you here, outside the stage door.”

“Of course I’m here,” Marshall said, smiling. “It’s my job.”

After I’d finish chatting with the fans, he’d assume the position: by my side, ready to take my hand. We’d wave goodbye and together start the journey home—piggyback-ride optional—down Market Street, past our literal next-door neighbors.

“Want me to carry your computer bag?”

“No, thanks, Marsh. I got it.”

I smiled.

Sure, the man snored. Sure he ate a small child’s weight in cheese and eggs. Sure he used enough floss to weave us a hammock. But this much was true: he always had my back. And the back of my neck.

17. SANGIN’ FOR GEENA DAVIS

A
s Elphaba standby, it was my duty to promote
Wicked
at various San Francisco events. These events could range from parades, to career trade shows, to any number of cultural happenings. It was all bundled in my job of sometimes playing my dream role, sometimes doing nothing, and sometimes singing “The Wizard and I” over a pre-recorded karaoke track.

My first press event was San Francisco’s annual Green Festival, “The Nation’s Premier Sustainability Event,” an exhibition for environmentally conscious brands, products, and consumers. The venue had an appropriately natural feel to it, with huge wooden beams buttressing the ceiling and reaching down to the floor like a tanned giant’s legs.

That day I would be the opening act to an eco-friendly fashion show, in which waifish semi-albino girls with paint swirling around their nipples would traipse around to electronica music, all at painstakingly slow speeds.
Wicked
’s PR bit was to have me sing “The Wizard and I” into a handheld microphone with pre-recorded accompaniment. I was more than happy to do this, even though I’m not too keen on handheld mics. My feeling is that they can look either really cool or really lame—a natural extension of the performance, or something that calls attention to the fact that you’re
sangin’!
 

For me, it’s the latter.

As I stood and did my thing (“
the Wizard aaaa naaaa!”
), I could practically feel my head flick, my chin raise, while I grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

All while
sangin’!

I felt like a mall-pageant talent contestant.

Soon it was over, and I was relieved of my post, at which point I got to mingle with the folks in the audience, a cross section of
Wicked
fans and bystanders who really loved the environment. Underscored by electronica, I commented that from the looks of the semi-albino girls with paint swirling around their nipples, maybe somebody should turn up the heat.

Another press event happened at the Moscone Center, a huge convention complex several blocks from Marshall’s and my apartment. As fate would have it, I had come to know this venue in two prior visits to San Francisco. These trips in 2009 bookended a truly magical time in my life when I worked as a marketing associate for medical software (remember, the dreaded day job?).

This magical time—or my “Freshman Year of Life,” as I like to call it—spanned those first twelve months out of college when I was trying to be an actor, make money to pay rent, figure out what the heck to do with my English degree, and cut things off with one Matt 3.0, Breaker of Fel’s Heart. I was leading a kind of double life, keeping strange work hours and auditioning on lunch breaks. It was, at best, a thrilling Clark Kent/Superman adventure; at worst, an exercise in rejection and living in fear that I was wasting my life—and sacrificing my livelihood for a dream that had all but flickered out.

At the very least, having a day job could distract me. It could distract me from the fact that, without an agent, headshots, or audition appointments, I was failing to take baby steps toward a career. It could distract me from the fact that my checking account hovered at $300.00. It could distract me from noticing that Matt 3.0 had all but dumped me for a French girl in his Parisian host family.

It could distract me from everything. All I had to do was take the F train downtown, ride the elevator up to the eleventh floor, and mouse-click my way to numbness.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, as best friend Becky and I used to say.

But really it was just the worst of times.

On the plus side, as marketing associate, I did a lot of writing—the one thing that I loved other than theater. On the not-as-plus side, I was writing things like, “We don’t just sell software, we work with you and your staff to achieve your goals!” On the plus side, I kept flexible hours and got free coffee. On the not-as-plus side, I wanted to gouge my eyes out.

Then came the trade shows. This medical software company (let’s call it Software, USA—or SUSA for short) would fly me out to the Moscone Center for specialty physician conferences, where it was my job to (1) get people to visit our booth, (2) fend off the advances of horny old businessmen. Through trial and error, I found that the best way to do both tasks was to stand in the aisle and yell, “Software! Get your medical software here!” like a 19th century newsboy, while the CEO, his third commonwealth wife, and my coworker Kate performed software demos on a droning loop.

Together, we four made up almost half of the company, a collection of sweatsuit-wearin’, time-wastin’, corner-cuttin’ individuals who drank, cried, and complained together on a regular basis. This circus of dysfunction was led by its thrice-married ringmaster, or CEO. With his sheet-white beard and mustache he looked exactly like Papa Smurf and, at 10 minutes and 29 seconds, held the world record for Longest Continuous Monologue Ever Delivered to Felicia in a Real-Life Conversation.

Meanwhile, I was living in Queens with a 19 year-old roommate I found on Craigslist who dated approximately 45 men in the span of seven months, half of whom she’d met online, one of whom was a grandfather, and all of whom she’d woo by cooking dinners from a box, whose chicken-y smells I couldn’t escape even if I rolled a towel at the base of my bedroom door.

So, you see, those despairing days at SUSA were not all that different from the rest of my life. In that Freshman Year, I felt lost—figuratively and literally, since I would often find myself cabbing through neighborhoods I had never seen before while eating bagel sandwiches, crying, and trying to send international texts to Matt 3.0.

But today, back in the Moscone Center, those days couldn’t be further in the past. 

Today, I was Elphaba.

I would be singing for a room full of pantsuit-clad ladies who were attending a “women in business” conference. As I waited backstage, cordoned off by curtains, I spotted Geena Davis (of
A League of Their Own
fame) who, as it turned out, had been invited as the event’s keynote speaker. We greeted each other with head nods while nibbling strawberries and mini egg salad sandwiches, while I privately noted that she was really tall and Marshall took pictures of her on his camera phone.

When the time came for
sangin’
, my face was projected onto two giant screens on either side of the stage, while below a spider-legged photographer took some action shots. After I held out the final note of “The Wizard and I,” I couldn’t help but think,
What a funny headline:
“Site of Cruel and Unusual Day Job Becomes Performance Space for Dream Role.” It felt like I was taking back all those hours I’d spent imitating Cockney newsboys, or suffocating from the stench of chicken gravy.

As I heard the sound of applause, it hit me: You can never know exactly how everything’s going to work out, but in one day—one
moment
even—you can turn things around, and start rebuilding.

LL101:
You have to start somewhere.

Back in New York, after finally breaking things off with Matt 3.0, I booked my first professional headshot session. From there, I gradually gained momentum. Miraculously, Papa Smurf was supportive. I think he always thought of me as his inept artistic daughter—only occasionally resentful because I didn’t know how to build an Excel spreadsheet. But in those later days, he had huge stores of faith in me—even when I had to steal away for auditions, rehearsals, and then finally, when I had to leave to come do
Wicked
. For this, I am grateful. (Thanks, Papa Smurf!)

Now, thanks to determination, a little bit of Luck, and others’ support—from my boss, my parents, and best friend Becky—I had changed my life for the better. Now Geena Davis and I were munching the same finger food, while my hunk of a boyfriend stood off to the side, watching, cheering, taking camera-phone photos. I had just performed onstage, representing
Wicked
to the public, and singing a song that, those many weeks ago, I didn’t think physically possible.

That day, I couldn’t deny it. I was living in Oz, and life was sweet.

Still. Every yellow brick road has its speed bumps. It was, for example, impossible for me to get a good haircut in San Francisco. I tried twice, and in both instances requested long layers, angled in the front, please. (I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure this is rather standard?) The first stylist cut literally three strands on my head. The second did the opposite, cutting short bangs all the way to my sideburns, giving me a full-on mullet.