Unnaturally Green (33 page)

Time flies
, my clichéd interior monologue thought, as I emptied a dog hair-filled dustpan into the trash.

An hour later, we were saying our goodbyes, heading through the doorway as Nic’s mop dog barked us a farewell.

“I’m going to miss that guy,” said Marshall as we walked onto the elevator.

“Me, too.”

In the coming weeks, several more of
Wicked
’s cast members left to take jobs in new or long-running shows, while replacements flew in for the remainder of the run. By mid-summer, the cast I had once known was nearly half gone. Even conductor Bryan took his leave, off to music direct
Next to Normal
on tour.

“Thank you for everything,” I told him after his final show.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, simply.

As we hugged, I realized that while Bryan had started out as my distant, power suit-wearing dad, we were saying goodbye as friends. Months later, he would confide in me that the reason he’d pushed me so hard was not because of some evil music director vendetta—but because he had believed so strongly in me. He had known, even before I did, that I could climb Mount Elphaba.

Among our new cast members were Alli, our Glinda, and Marcie, who had played Elphaba on one of the national tours. Like Eden, Marcie ended up calling out once or twice a week, which meant a bunch more bananas and note sessions with David.

Alli, on the other hand, never called out. Not once. Consequently, Libby descended into new depths of boredom, denial, and eventual acceptance of the fact that she would never again play Glinda in San Francisco.

“Just wait it out, Libby,” I told her, knowing how stir-crazy she must have become. “You’re almost there.”

September 5.

It loomed ahead, like a storm. A cyclone, even. One that would sweep everyone home, and leave
Wicked
behind.

In these final days, it was strange to keep going while knowing the rug was about to be pulled from under our feet.

Or maybe it was like the rug had already begun to roll, a few inches each day, as
Wicked
’s apparatus started to deconstruct. Storage boxes appeared, and handouts were taken down from the bulletin board, replaced by other handouts about how to prepare for the final weeks. Soon enough, the sets, props, costumes, paper cups, plastic spoons, and dressing room tchotchkes would all be gone. 

Where would they go?

 
I couldn’t help but imagine everything getting dumped into crates, carted away, then left somewhere in a warehouse, like that final shot in
Raiders of the Lost Ark
.

Poof!

Forgotten, in a blink.

In my mind, there was still so much to be done. For example, Libby and I had yet to film and edit a full-length workout video, set to discotheque-inspired
Wicked
remixes. Etai and I weren’t even close to finishing his entire film collection—which was, according to him, the definitive filmography of modern cinema. I hadn’t gotten to hang out with the ensemble girls as much as I’d hoped, due partly to my own persistent shyness and the invisible force of the “wall.”

And I hadn’t decided what the heck to do once I got back to New York.

Libby and I discussed these End of Days matters in our dressing room as we scrambled to finish our final puzzle project. It was a full-sized
Wicked
poster—that same iconic image of Glinda whispering into Elphaba’s ear. Libby’s plan was to complete it, have everybody sign it, shellac it, and frame it for her bedroom.

“You’re so conscientious,” I said to Libby. “Nobody even signed my high school yearbook.”

“It’ll be a fun keepsake,” she said.

Also helping with the puzzle was first-violinist Cary from game night, who visited our standby dressing room at every intermission. He was a true puzzle whiz—somehow able to distinguish all-black pieces from other all-black pieces. To do this, he painstakingly categorized each piece by how many holes or pegs it had, placing it in the appropriate row and column, with all the pieces facing the same direction. It was neurotic, but genius—since before that our puzzle-building technique consisted of me shouting things like,

“I think I found the piece that looks like a whale!”

Only three weeks from closing night, and the puzzle was nearly complete, with one or two patches missing around the border.

“Go on without me, ladies,” Cary said, “I have to get back to the pit.”

“We won’t finish until you come back!” Libby called to him as he made his noble exit.

“The hell we won’t,” I said. “This puzzle is the bane of my existence.”

Yes, the puzzle was our final dressing-room frontier. Excepting our
Wicked
remix workout video, we’d exhausted all activity options. We’d even done a “Witch Switch,” wherein we donned each other’s Elphaba and Glinda costumes and wigs, while I painted Libby green and she bedazzled me in pink makeup.

But those days were behind us, and the puzzle was our last great push to the end. It was time to make something of this whole experience. All we had to do was assemble those last few pieces.

“Have you found an apartment in New York yet?” I asked Libby as she got on her hands and knees to look under the couch.

“A lot of people are telling me to sublet, in case I have to go on a tour or something.”

“Good idea.”

“What about you? Ah! Found it.” Libby climbed back up holding an all-black puzzle piece in her hand.

I explained to Libby that I still had my Hell’s Kitchen studio and Marshall still had his Brooklyn one bedroom. The official word was that we wouldn’t combine forces. But secretly, I hoped we would.

Libby and I talked more about what life would be like back in New York. We’d be unemployed, this much we knew. No paycheck. No certainty.

“No matter what, we’ll be in New York,” Libby said, ever the optimist, “where everything happens.”

“It’s true. Anything is possible.”

I looked at Libby as she pored over Cary’s puzzle-piece grid. I had never known anybody like her. Despite our differences, we related to each other so well.

“I’m going to miss you, obvs,” I said.

“Obvs!”

“In New York, we’ll just have to have actual slumber parties.”

“And do a million workout DVDs.”

“Oh, I am never doing Tracy Anderson again.”

“She changes lives!”

As we bickered like the married couple we had become, it occurred to me that “New York” was our stand-in for “scary, impossible-to-predict future.”

Once we flew back, who knew what would happen?

New York
.

It was anybody’s guess. But knowing Libby would be there made everything seem ever-so-slightly better.

“I think we’re almost there,” said Libby as she placed a three-pegged, one-holed piece in the upper right corner.

“I think so, too,” I said.

One week before closing, Marshall’s strapping brother Dave visited us. Dave was one year younger than Marshall and looked exactly like him—only taller and lankier, with a mischievous glint in his eye. I’d hung out with him once before, during New Year’s 2010, when we’d done the bonding thing. Together, we’d gushed about Marshall, each other, and relationships (which was both easier and more difficult to do while taking shots of tequila).

During Dave’s San Francisco visit, I’d been tirelessly campaigning for his approval, planning a series of outings to keep him reeling in tourist-activity overdrive. On his last day, we were headed to Alcatraz, the former federal prison and national park—something Dave had been itching to see. I’d even managed to get my hot green hands on special ferry tickets, courtesy of
Wicked
company manager Tanase, which meant VIP boarding in a separate line. It was the final feather in my “Let me impress you so that you might like me” cap, since the
Official Siblings and Significant Others Guidebook
clearly stated that Dave would have to grant me official clearance before I was, in bro-to-bro terms, Totally Cool.

Monday night, we began our sunset ferry ride from Pier 33 through the frigid, choppy waters, circling the island as we approached.

“Classic Michael Bay wraparound shot,” Marshall said. “Classic Mike,” Dave agreed. Yes, conversation on the ferry consisted of my listening to the Roy Boys comment on and quote that movie
The Rock
, then banter more generally in their special hybrid language made up of semi-ironic spy talk and macho jargon (including “downloading intel” to mean “checking email” and “guns” to mean “muscles”).

Finally, we arrived on the Rock for its spooky night tour—the last of the day. Once inside, we opted for its audio guide, which featured real inmates and guards talking about their experiences those many years ago.

Stationed on a 22-acre island in the middle of the Bay, Alcatraz had been one of the most infamous federal prisons of all time. In its day, it housed the criminals’ criminals—the über-bad boys who had worn out their welcomes elsewhere. Closed in 1963, Alcatraz had reopened for the past couple of decades as a museum and truly righteous tourist trap.

Together with our tour group, Marshall, Dave, and I stalked up and down the first cellblock lane, peering through the bars at the abandoned cells. Some were empty, while some had been set up to look as they might have back in the day: inhabited by prisoners years into their sentences.

“Pretty cool, right?” I said to Dave, as our footsteps echoed off the concrete.

“It’s totally the best,” he said, at which point I mentally fist-pumped with myself.

I am so Totally Cool.

We walked on. Moonlight seeped through the barred windows while clusters of bulbs dimly lit the way. When we reached a new aisle, I squinted to examine a plaque on the wall, which hung in front of a cell. It described favorite prisoner pastimes and, accordingly, the display included an easel, an assortment of drawing implements, cards, and a board game that looked like Checkers. Prisoners would pass the time, the plaque said, confined to a small space, where they tried to amuse themselves through hours of boredom.

Ha!

A few paces more, and I turned to Marshall, who had wedged his face between two metal bars. I tapped his shoulder, relaying my Eureka moment.

“Just like a standby!”

“I was going to say the same thing!” he said, giving me a palm-burning high five.

“I’ve got to text Libby.”

Nearby, Dave was creeping into an open cell. Soon, Marshall had joined him, and they starting snapping photos of each other on the tiny cell toilet, while I got a text back from
my wife:

Libby: 7:21PM youre so insane!

We continued around the bend and through the prisoner cafeteria, while I smiled in self-satisfied glee. I felt so
clever to have drawn such a darkly funny conclusion:

Standbys are like prisoners! Chortle, chortle.

Next, we neared a solitary confinement cell. Through my headphones, a former inmate described the psychological challenges of spending so much time in isolation. In total darkness, he would throw a coin in the air, wait for the clinking sound of it hitting the ground, then scramble to find it. This he did, over and over, to ease the pain of loneliness and monotony.