Unnaturally Green (4 page)

I got the call about my
Wicked
audition one frigid December night while I was clawing around in the backseat of a cab.

This wasn’t by choice. I was on my way to opening night of
Hee-Haw
, a disaster of a production I had agreed to perform in, whose theater was in the farthest, most deserted corner of lower Manhattan. Since it took an hour and a half to get there by subway, I’d been commuting in taxis, or as I affectionately called them, “dressing rooms that move,” prepping for each performance on the way. In so doing, I’d achieved astounding new heights of dexterity, cutting things down to the wire, and flashing many, many pedestrians.

This particular night, it so happened I had almost sealed my eyes shut, trying to glue on an old pair of fake eyelashes. Gripping them with both hands, I gave one final
yank
and ripped the ratty buggers off my lids, along with patches of hair and skin.

The clock read 7:51 p.m., so I had nine minutes to finish my makeup, tease my hair, put on my corset, pencil skirt, and thigh-highs, and get to the theater to start performing onstage. With my free hand (the other was rolling up a nylon) I began texting the stage manager to let her know I was running late. Before pressing “send” I felt my phone buzz.

It was my agent! What could she want late on a Friday night?

“Hi, Ann? I’m a little swamped. Can I call you back Monday?”

I had wedged my phone between my elbows because my left hand had gotten tangled in my bangs.

“Sorry, darling, can’t do that. This is the big one. The prune in the pie. You hearing me, crackerjack?”

She cackled.

I was hearing her all right, but that wasn’t the problem.

“Um, what exactly do you mean?”

“Keep your saddle on.”

“Okay.”

In addition to sounding exactly like a Southern Carol Channing, Ann my agent made up phrases on the spot. I called it “Annglish.” It was pretty charming, except for the fact that I couldn’t understand what she was saying.

“You’ve got an audition. For 
Wicked
.”

I nearly dropped the phone.

“
What?”

“You got cotton in your ears? 
Wicked
. Elphaba cover. San Francisco.”

“No, no, I heard you. That’s fantastic! When is it?”

“This Monday. Not busy this weekend, are you?”

I had three
Hee-Haw
performances over the next two days, then weekday rehearsals for a strange and inexplicable Chanukah musical I’d agreed to perform in the following weekend. Plus, my family would be in town.

“Uh, nope.”

“Good! Practice, practice, practice.”

“I will.”

“You take your aim before you shoot, ‘cause a shot like this hardly ever comes around.”

“Right. Definitely.”

“I’ll send details. Cancel all your plans.”

She hung up as my cab arrived at the theater. With no time to understand what had happened, I pegged my driver with a wad of cash, gathered my plastic bag-totes, and hobbled in stilettos over a snow bank into the theater’s back entrance.

At 7:55 p.m. I exploded through the doors to find a deserted dressing room, except for my stage manager, who was there flapping her arms and jumping up and down either in silent panic or because she was playing a one-person game of charades in which the answer was “murder Felicia.” Without pause I began buttoning up my corset, drenching my hair in Aqua Net, guzzling a water bottle, and smearing on lipstick, all while honking out a vocal warm-up that sounded exactly like a car alarm. After a brief mirror consultation I realized that one of my fake eyelashes had nestled over my top lip like a Hitler mustache. I ripped it off, which was kind of like an upper-lip wax.

I sprinted to my pre-show post, where I joined the rest of the cast just in time for the “places” call. Having crossed the finish line, I celebrated a breathless victory, trying to mutter “booyah” through my panting, but being too out of breath to mutter anything, then considering briefly how the only thing lamer than actually saying “booyah” was
trying
to say “booyah,” but failing.

Still, I had made it, against all odds. For now I was out on top, teeming with confidence, like I could do anything—maybe, I thought, even nail my audition for 
Wicked
.

Ah, the feeling of triumph!

I’d gotten a life-changing call that night. And I was ready to take on the world! Sweet victory would be mine.

Then I walked onstage without a skirt.

“The wizard…”

—in a maneuver I’d learned days before, I sucked in my butt cheeks—

“aaaaaaand I!”

—and held out the final note for as long as I could. Meanwhile my hands floated up from my sides and over my head, as if I was launching into flight. As the final stream of air escaped me, I felt like I might next wilt to the floor, a balloon that had rapidly deflated.

My eyes refocused to the room. I looked at Craig, who was smiling.

That wasn’t so bad, was it? I felt kind of giddy, either because I’d done well or because not enough oxygen was flowing to my brain.

“That was great,” he said. “Now let’s do the Cub Scene.”

I had stayed up late memorizing my Elphaba lines, but decided to duck over to the piano to retrieve my script. An actor friend once told me that holding the script at an audition gave you an advantage; it was a kind of visual reminder that your performance was still unpolished, so the casting folks would be more forgiving.

Papers in hand, I retook my post in the center of the room. Faux Hawk had perked up and was reaching for some pages on the table, which meant he was probably my reader.

“Readers” are usually professional actors hired to play scene partner to every person who rolls through an audition. But in preliminary rounds, like this one, the reader is often the casting director himself, or his casting assistant.

“Whenever you’re ready,” said Craig.

I glanced at Faux Hawk, whose eyes narrowed. Through the silence I could almost feel my hand twitching, eager to spray him with little finger gun bullets.

The scene began. Faux Hawk spoke in a Keanu Reeves monotone. But this wasn’t so bad. You might even say his standoffishness served his character—Fiyero, the self-absorbed playboy,
Wicked
’s male romantic lead.

As the scene drew to a close, Craig looked pleased.

“Great,” he said. “How about some ‘Defying Gravity?’”

Gulp.

How about it?

As luck would have it, I happened to know a girl who’d played Elphaba before. Her name was Julie and she’d performed a bunch of times as the Broadway standby. The month before my audition we acted together in a workshop, and in our free time had chatted about bowling parties and affordable hair highlighting. Naturally, we were close Facebook friends. I contacted her the evening after my skirt-less
Hee-Haw
turn, and she graciously agreed to coach me.

We met at a (moderately jail-esque) midtown studio and dove headfirst into the audition material. There, listening intently, it took me all of three minutes to realize that I was completely and utterly screwed.

It was just—well? I’d had a hunch the Elphaba material would be hard to sing. But I’d never expected it to be impossible.

How can I explain this?

The songs were
high
. As in, the freaking notes were really
,
really
freaking
high
. The audition material was a sinister collection of the hardest, highest, and most intense sections. They were also relentless—with no chance to regroup, and no room to fudge the interpretation so that, say, Elphaba whispers because she’s lovelorn or hiding from the secret police. Nope, these songs were power anthems, emphatic cries sung during the absolute height of passion.

It was go big—or go home!

In light of this, the audition felt less like a lucky break and more like Luck had just whooped me on the ass with a horseshoe—as if to say,

“Here’s your chance. Now fail!”