Unnaturally Green (7 page)

“Okay, ‘Wizard and I,’ whenever you’re ready.”

The callback packet was the exact same material as the audition, so, amidst the weekend circus of wild commutes to
Hee-Haw
in dressing rooms that move, I had spent my time building on what I’d already learned with Julie—improving, enhancing, and stepping up my Elphaba game.

The main goal? Just stay focused.

Runners, on your marks!

The vamp of rolling chords began, and soon I was off to a sprint. And just when it felt like my shoelaces might come undone, the finish-line ribbon split across my body.

“Very nice,” said Paul-Alan-Nick.

“Could you wait outside for a sec?” said Craig.

I walked into the waiting room. From all the sweating it felt like I’d given myself a shower, and my body turned frigid. Once seated, I wedged my ice-cold hands under my thighs. Somehow both ablaze with heat and trembling from cold, as I waited for Craig to reappear I felt like I’d been caught beneath the top layer of a frozen lake, where the water below had begun to boil.

The door swung open and I saw Craig approaching, the camera frame of my view zooming in on his tired face, his eyes crinkling up into what could be a smile or the expression of someone who would have to let me down.

“Felicia, can you come to a dance call at 3:45 today?”

“Um, yes.”

Back in my studio apartment I rooted through nests of dirty clothing, dry-cleaning hangers, electric wires, and power strips.

Where are my dance clothes?

I’m not really a dancer, and I hate anything that is tight and clingy. But my hope was that some forgotten spandex relic would materialize from the ashes—a haggard, molting phoenix, leftover from my days of high school recitals.

I looked around my apartment.

What a crap hole.

I’d been spending so much time with Marshall—whipping in and out after work, preparing for auditions, or late date nights, trying to give myself salon blowouts—over the past several weeks I’d embraced being an absolute slob. Things never plunged to health-hazard depths, but it wasn’t unusual for me to wake up in the morning to find my entire library of books and Xeroxed sheet music either on my lap or directly under my head, with my computer propped up on socks and books, playing
This American Life
episodes on repeat.

Finally, I came upon a probably clean pair of American Apparel biker shorts, which were bright red with white piping, and barely grazed the top of my thigh. They reminded me of an adult diaper, if adult diapers were made of retro-colored cotton. I also managed to excavate a navy tank top and a pair of navy leggings. Everything combined made me look like a patriotic diaper-wearing sailor who had shrunk his uniform in the wash. At the last minute I decided to throw on yet another shirt, an homage to the 80s that was peach pink and fell off of my shoulders.

My theory? The more clothes I wore, the less likely anyone would be able to see my pit stains with the naked eye. (Downside: more layers would actually make me sweat
more
. But that was my silent cross to bear.)

I wolfed down another good-luck banana, threw on a pair of running sneakers, and dashed out the door.

The callback studio was in a different building in midtown. I took an elevator to a long hallway on the umpteenth floor, with huge numbered doors. I made my way down to the far right, opened the door, and saw a small waiting area with a leather couch and stools, on which there were two girls and two boys, each looking down at their cell phones.

“Is this the
Wicked
dance callback?” I said to the air.

One of the boys looked up.

“You got it!”

He was very chipper.

One girl had curly brown hair and was about my type, while the other was tiny-boned and olive-skinned, with sunken cheeks and pin-straight black hair. Kind of like a figure in an Edvard Munch painting, except pretty.

No one was talking, so, given the tension, it was obviously my duty to flout social norms.

“So are you ladies going to wear character shoes or sneakers?” I said, theatrically rooting through my bag, as if I even had a choice.

“Sneakers, probably,” the brunette said.

“Yeah, sneakers,” said Edvard Munch.

“Oh, cool.” I turned to the boys. “What part are you here for?”

“Fiyero cover. It’s for immediate casting on Tour One. We would leave on Monday. Can you even believe it?”

The two boys looked so alike it was hard to tell which one was talking.

“Wow! That’s crazy.”

“I know.”

“And it’s just you two guys?”

“So it seems!” said one boy to the other. Or maybe they were speaking in unison?

I could only assume the two girls were going in for my part—ensemble/Elphaba understudy. But I was too scared to ask.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, a taunting contrast to the thick cloud of tension that hung over us all. Something about it being a small group raised the stakes, and made me want to start slapping everybody. If I’d had a choice, I would have preferred a huge “cattle call” audition. Not only would the competition be faceless, nameless, and less intimidating, but when we got into the studio I could disappear behind a cluster of
real
dancers and, if necessary, duck out the fire escape. At least then I could save face, bowing out of this dreamlike experience with a pathetic whimper, not a humiliating bang.

However you slice them, dance auditions suck—especially for hacks like me. Sure, I’d had years of dance training growing up—and, accordingly, traumatic John Travolta anecdotes from year-end recitals—but in the triple-threat zone of singer-actor-dancer, I knew the last one fell lowest on my résumé of theater skills. If given enough time, I could pick up most dance combinations, as long as they didn’t require exceptional technique or that I touch my toes.

But in a fast-paced audition? I knew I was toast.

All of a sudden a side door swung open, and in drifted a woman with burgundy hair and low-slung dancer pants.

“Come in,” she said.

 We were told, (1) that this woman’s name was either Corinne or something else, (2) that we would learn a combination that pieced together the hardest ensemble dancing from the show, and (3) that our audition would, for whatever reason, be accompanied by live drumming.

Actually, we weren’t told that last part, but it was probable from the fact that there was a man sitting on a stool behind a drum set. Maybe he would provide snare, high-hat drum kicks every time I would make a joke, and by “make a joke” I mean try to dance. Whatever the case, the drums felt extravagant—like the callback mattered all the more. Which made me feel all the worse.

“Okay,” said Corinne, “Let’s start with the ‘Hoi Polloi.’”

This sounded like a Vietnamese sandwich, but was actually a dance routine involving much stepping, pivoting, changing of direction, and general chaos. The main challenge, it seemed, was not only to remember which foot to walk on when, and in which direction, but to do so while looking like you had no joints.

As soon as the music started I jolted forward and slammed into Edvard Munch and then a table.

“I’m not so much concerned with your getting the steps right,” Corinne said to us as the wall and I met. “I want to see that
pop, pow!
I want to see you
hitting it
.”

As she said this she threw her body forward with full force then stopped her momentum by going completely rigid. She did this a few more times, apparently to demonstrate some choreographic sequence, but I saw no pattern whatsoever; just an endless cycle of stopping and starting, each time with board-straight limbs, as you might do when you are nervously, and indecisively, fleeing the scene of your own crime.

“Okay, let me see you guys
give it to me
.”

The drums cut in, as if to startle us into dance, and it kind of worked. My lower body moved in whatever direction it wanted, aimlessly walking back and forth, while my upper body essentially just did The Robot.

It was obvious the guys were way better than we of the fairer sex. Even though the two girls
looked
more like dancers than I did—which is to say, their outfits didn’t resemble an incontinent sailor’s—I was pleased to see that we were in the same boat: discombobulated and miserable. In between each pass at the routine together we cowered in the corner, where we were on the one hand united by suffering, and on the other hand fighting off a
Lord of the Flies
instinct—poised for strangling, punching, gouging, hair ripping. You know: your usually audition-y stuff.

After about 20 minutes the door opened and Craig the casting director entered, his collar popped, his head hanging down to consult his smartphone.

This was the worst thing that could happen, in my opinion, as I was at that moment bright red, my hair so drenched it looked like I had just gone swimming. I glanced around. Everyone else was dry and Edvard Munch’s hair was miraculously kempt.

“Okay, are you ready to break off into groups? Let’s see guys, then girls. C’mon,
give it to me
.”

Drum fill, followed by a blast of music. The guys took off, prancing around like the best of them, hitting each step with ease and agility.

“Girls, let’s do it up. Make it count and
work it
.”

This was the inevitable moment of judgment, when we had to “perform for real.” Whereas before it was somehow not the actual audition, now it “counted,” which is ridiculous-sounding, I know, but that’s how dance auditions go.

The music kept vamping, drums keeping a steady beat, until we were off.

As I propelled forward, I kept my knees locked while standing on my tiptoes, swiveling around, shooting out one foot forward, then the next. I basically just flailed, hoping my willingness to injure myself would count for something.

I mean
,
look at me!

I was the most insane robot dancer you’d ever
seen
, whipping and prancing around like it was my last dying wish to convulse to live drums.

When it was over I found myself in the corner of the room opposite from everyone else. The other girls, also scattered about, seemed just as confused.

This was great news. There’s nothing like the thrill of realizing your competition isn’t so bad after all—or, I should say,
is
bad. It’s a terrible, sick feeling of evil pleasure. But, if you’ve ever auditioned for anything, you know what I’m talking about.

I traipsed to the other side of the room, poised to grab my water bottle and head out the door. But the torture had only just begun.

We had to learn
another
combination, a hybrid of random steps from a bunch of songs throughout the show tacked onto something called the “Ozdust Ballroom” dance. In this combination, we had to spin ourselves in various directions, while tangling and coiling our hands around our wrists, squatting, jumping, and hitting various “broken scarecrow,” positions, which for me meant I, again, did The Robot, while spazzing out.

As we danced I eyed Craig, lurking by the door, beside the drummer, texting. I could only imagine he was corresponding with some
Wicked
higher up, writing something to the effect of:

Craig: 4:14PM no castable girls. may have to cancel everything.

Snare, high-hat drum kick!
And here we go!

I spun around, flopped down, then shot up off the ground, my arms and legs kicking and bucking in many directions, as I imagined someone would do if they got pricked while going to the bathroom, bare-assed, in the woods.

What now?

My right brain swung into gear, and all of a sudden I was repeating the first part of the dance—the little bit I happened to remember—once, twice, three times.

John Travolta, here I come
.

I flicked and kicked around with the
pop, pow!
Corinne was referring to earlier. After all, it wasn’t about the steps, right? Maybe it
was
just about showing her my potential—even if learning the steps might not happen until some rare, distant, apocalyptic day.

The drums came to an abrupt halt. In my periphery I saw Edvard Munch still spinning, caught in her own momentum, until she eventually wound down to stillness.

Corinne sat in a wide dancer split at the front of the room, looking distraught, her head cradled in her hands.

“Okay, why don’t you all hang outside for a bit,” she said.

Back in the hallway the vibe was tenser than ever, and instead of trying to talk I simply buckled under the pressure, curling up on the couch in the fetal position.

“So have you guys been in for
Wicked
before?” asked one of the boy-twins.

“Never.”

“Nope.”

“Nah,” I chimed in.

“I was seen a while back,” said the other boy-twin. “For Fiyero cover in another company. So I know the dances pretty well.”

Just as I was about to start sucking my thumb, the studio door opened and Corinne and Craig reappeared. They were both smiling like pageant contestants.

“Thanks so much, guys, for all of your hard work today. Everybody can leave.”

Yep. There it was.

We’re toast.

“Except Felicia—could you please stay behind a minute?”

I sort of did a spit-take, but without any liquid in my mouth, which meant I basically made a fart noise with my lips.

“Sure thing!” I said, jerking my body upright.

“Come on into the studio.”

As I re-laced my sneakers, the others milled through the exit, silent and gazing at the floor. I felt a twinge of survivor’s guilt. If the tables were turned, I knew I’d be crushed. Or worse, totally pissed, ready to go Jerry Springer on their asses.

Whatever the case, I had to keep it together: this could be my chance to actually succeed in fooling
Wicked
into casting me! I shook myself awake and stepped inside the studio.

“We’re going to teach you some lifts,” said Corinne. “Do you have any experience doing lifts?”

“Not really. But I have been known to lift things,” I said.

“We need to see you do the lifts that would be part of your ensemble track,” Corinne said.