Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (55 page)

A few weeks later I received an assessment in the mail. My overall body fat composition was thirteen percent, well below that of a healthy female—a surprise to me. The section carrying the most fat was my stomach. Duh. My interpretation: “I have a beer belly!” Measuring in at 5’8” and 125 ½ pounds, they would have considered me three pounds underweight for my height but, due to the low body fat percentage, I was deemed proportionately fine. My ideal weight was considered 128. I was allowed to be six pounds over or under that ideal weight without getting a warning. Future weigh-ins could happen with only twenty-four hours’ notice. “I can weigh up to 134 pounds. That shouldn’t be a problem. I haven’t weighed that much in a long time,” I reasoned. My weight was okay, but I still felt the need to tone up and lose that extra, little bit of padding around the middle.

We were lucky that Radio City had relatively professional, fair, and safe guidelines for weight requirements. With other jobs, the producer just eyeballed you and insisted that you needed to lose five pounds. My girlfriend who worked a lot of cruise ships with the same producer said that every time she booked a gig with that producer, the producer would tell my friend to lose five pounds even though she was five pounds thinner than she had been the previous contract. A stage full of dancing skeletons may be good for a Halloween show, but I didn’t see the appeal otherwise. It wasn’t unheard of to find a girl using laxatives to control her weight only to end up with an atrophied sphincter muscle incapable of pushing out a normal bowel movement. And that’s one muscle you can’t rebuild at the gym.

The issue of weight is huge among female dancers. I saw girls try to survive a whole day on a single bagel, or on grapefruit, or sushi and Metabolife (a dietary supplement that was later banned by the FDA for adverse side effects including
death
), or on lollipops for dinner. I saw gorgeous, thin women beat themselves up over being “fat.” And fat in the dance world was not fat in the normal world. A fat dancer was one who needed to drop five or ten pounds, but we’d feel chubby after gaining only one or two. If you were “fat,” people would talk about how you would be such a great dancer if you would only lose ten pounds. If you did lose ten pounds, they’d start to worry about whether or not you had an eating disorder. Or they might even become envious that you were now skinnier than they were. 

Regular folks shouldn't be jealous of dancers because they have perfect bodies. Few are born with them. Dancers agonize more than anyone else in the world (except maybe models) about how they look. They have taken a gazillion dance classes a day since they were three years old to get those bodies. They do sit-ups, push-ups, yoga, and Pilates, and they lift weights to get those bodies. Some have breast implants, face lifts, and tummy tucks. Others starve themselves, count calories, and go on every diet you can imagine. They occasionally do terrible, irreversible damage to those bodies in the name of perfecting them, and they still may obsess about their weight constantly.

Mind you, nobody else in their right mind would have called me fat or flabby or said I had love handles, but dancers aren’t always in their right minds when it comes to their bodies. I was overly critical of myself. But let’s get real. Dancers don’t just have to look svelte in a suit or skirt and blouse. No, they have to look picture perfect in a skin-tight, high-cut-in-the-legs, low-cut-in-the-bust leotard. They have to have flat stomachs, ripped abs, thin thighs, and toned arms. Any sign of a spare tire, back fat, cellulite, saggy buns, or any wiggly jiggly bits is forbidden. Dancers’ bodies are thoroughly analyzed and sized-up by employers, directors, choreographers, costumers, and audience members. Talk about an unhealthy pressure to look good. Being successful at my job included having the audience scrutinize my every body part and conclude that I looked marvelous. In a
bikini
. Next to other totally toned, gorgeous gals. Wouldn’t you be self-critical?

*******

Time flew by, and I couldn’t believe it when opening day arrived a mere ten days later. Dancing all those hours in character shoes had been murder on my feet. My stamina was building, but I had yet to perform the show in real time and sequence with costume changes. Technically I had learned all the material, but I still didn’t feel prepared to perform. Until the put-in, I had no opportunity to practice with the other Rockettes or to get a feel for the timing of the show. God help me with the traffic patterns; I didn’t want to crash into anyone on stage. This afternoon’s put-in would be my only chance to have any idea what to expect on stage that night and to see what surprises my costumes might have in store for me. Usually, we had a week of tech and dress rehearsals to work out all the kinks. My show might be kinky. Very kinky, indeed.

The Rockettes all dragged their tight, perfect tushies into the theatre four hours early for my put-in. This was the moment I had dreaded ever since that initial costume fitting left me feeling totally insecure. They were all sitting on stage chatting in their sweats and leotards when I came down the stairs in my opening costume. There I stood, in front of that group of gals, the lone peacock poured into that bikini, holding my breath, sucking in my stomach for dear life, and pretending to be invisible. It wouldn’t have been so bad had they been in costume, too. But all attention was on me; all eyes were surely checking me out, sneaking a peek at my unwanted spare tire. I felt as ugly as Quasimodo, tarred and feathered in an itsy-bitsy-teeny-weenie-rhinetone-studded red bikini. I simply wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. I couldn’t wait for the day to come when I had a hard body like the other girls did and could perform the show without fear.

We rehearsed the opening number once, and Lara asked if I wanted to do it again. “No, that was fine,” I responded. The girls cheered. I could have done that number all day long, and I still wouldn’t have felt ready for the show that night. Why prolong the misery for everyone? I changed costumes, and we continued on to the next number. I did each number only once even though I was desperate for more rehearsal. What could I really accomplish running the numbers another time? I knew it would take weeks for me to feel good in the show. I figured I might as well win points with the girls by making the put-in as quick and painless for them as possible. And I did. “This was the fastest, smoothest put-in we’ve ever had,” Lara commented cheerfully after it was all over. “You are all excused.” All the girls applauded as they ran up the stairs to enjoy the extra free time they hadn’t expected.

I change into my sweats and went to the caf to get dinner before the first show, although I was too nervous to eat much. As show time neared, I was in absolute disbelief that I was actually going to be performing on stage that very evening. What possible embarrassments lay ahead? I knew I could make a fool of myself in myriad ways. I had to stop thinking about it and just get on with it. Time would pass and the shows would be over in a few hours.

When the stage manager called, “Half hour!” I already had my make-up on, so I stretched and marked through the numbers one last time. It was strange to be the only nervous one in the entire cast. The other girls were busy gabbing away, well into the routine of the show, and I was sweating. Lara came in at fifteen-minute call. “Kristi, I’m not going to watch the show tonight because I don’t want you to feel pressured.” I didn’t know whether or not to believe her, but it did take the edge off. I was ready well before the rest of the group because I wanted some quiet time on stage to calm my nerves and focus. The Branson girls all stopped by on their way to “places” to give me a hug or whisper “
Merde
.” (
Merde
is the French word for “shit” but it means “good luck” or “break a leg” to dancers. Some say the tradition started in France back when a lot of
merde
from horse-drawn carriages meant a big audience.) Once the curtain opened, the show was a blur, and all of a sudden I was standing on stage in the finale. First show, a success! Yippee! One down, one to go, and no major screw-ups.

The second show was going just as fast. What a relief that my debut was almost over. I was in the home stretch. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Everything was hunky-dory. Until the very end of “Diamonds” that is, when I made one single, solitary faux pas. It was a Big One. A Doozy. The Granddaddy of Rockette Mistakes.

Somehow in all my anxiousness and exhaustion I lost count in the kickline. Something distracted me for a millisecond, and I realized I didn’t know where we were in the music or in the kicks. My body started sweating. My face burned with fear.
Oh no! When do I stop kicking?
I tried listening carefully to the music to feel the end of the phrase, but I couldn’t be sure. I attempted to feel the vibes from the girls next to me, but they didn’t give any indication either. Instead of trusting my instincts and my legs to stop at the right time, I freaked out, second guessed myself, and stopped
one kick too soon
! My brain had failed me. I should have let my muscles do the thinking, but my nervous mind got in the way. 

Mortified, I exited the stage, holding my breath as I waited for someone to let me have it.
Should I just beat them to the punch and convict myself? What if no one noticed?
I decided to keep my mouth shut. If anyone did call me on it, my back-up plan was to feign innocence and surprise. “Are you sure I did one less kick than everyone else? If you say so.” 

Amazingly, no one said a word, and I
sure
as heck didn’t tell anyone. I decided not to beat myself up over the mistake. It was a monster, but, under the circumstances, I could have made a lot more. I’d just pretend it didn’t happen. If a tree falls in the woods, and no one is there to hear it does it really make a sound? I figured if I goofed and nobody on the Radio City staff saw it, it never happened. None of the Rockettes ever mentioned it. And if Lara had fibbed and actually watched the show, she either missed or blew off the blunder. True to her word, she didn’t give me any notes that night. 

*******

While being thrown into
The Great Radio City Spectacular
in record time, I eventually eased into life as a Vegas Rockette. As I had earnestly anticipated during my debut, my life soon fell into a routine. About four o’clock in the afternoon, my brain went into “show mode.” For the next two hours, I started getting mentally prepared for the evening while keeping a close eye on the clock. I put my hair into a ponytail, slipped on a sundress and a pair of chunky, high-heeled sandals, grabbed a magazine, and left my apartment every evening at 6:20 p.m. so as to arrive at the stage door at 6:37 p.m. That gave me just over an hour to get ready before the show. Officially, I didn’t have to be at the theatre until half-hour call at 7:15, but I felt too rushed with only a half hour to get made up, warmed up, and focused. 

In the apartment parking lot, I hopped into my brand new, white, sporty, Honda Civic. White was the preferred car color in Vegas as any other color just soaked up the heat and fried you upon entry. A foil windshield cover to reflect the sunlight away from the car was absolutely imperative because the heat was brutal. From the lot, I turned right onto Las Vegas Boulevard. I drove past sporadic apartment buildings; past Vacation Village, a no-frills little casino for the locals; past Sunset Boulevard and McCarran Airport on the right; then past a few more small casinos, until I reached the famous retro, fifties-style “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign, the official introduction to the famous casinos of the Strip. The Strip was ever pushing southward with more and more casinos all fighting over the business of the tourist industries and some of the locals. Could this boomtown keep booming forever? It certainly gave that appearance. 

On my left, I passed the black, glass pyramid of the Luxor with the concrete Sphinx replica guarding the entrance; the pink and blue and gold turret-topped castle Excalibur; New York New York with its rollercoaster encircling the famous New York skyline and the Statue of Liberty; and the construction site for the grandiose, ostentatious Bellagio. On my right, I passed the turquoise-blue glass MGM Grand with the giant gold Lion head entrance, the Middle-Eastern Aladdin, the construction site for Paris, Bally’s, and finally the Flamingo. 

The original Flamingo was built by mobster Bugsy Siegel in 1946. This new version, adorned with pink flamingos, sat at the intersection of Flamingo Road and Las Vegas Boulevard in the heart of the Strip directly across from the monstrous Caesars Palace. A little thrill buzzed through my body every time I saw our show advertised on the giant video screen out front. I still couldn’t believe I was in it.

Attempting to turn right toward the employee parking lot in the back was a challenge, due to the steady stream of drunk, oblivious tourists crossing the road or inadvertently stumbling off the curb, intoxicated and transfixed by the lights. They seemed to think sidewalk and street were synonymous, and they weren’t the least bit worried about stepping in front of a speeding vehicle. Waiting for a clear path so I could make that right turn took half my travel time to work. I cursed the sauntering pedestrians who were slowing me down.
Why don’t they build a walkway over the road for goodness sake? This is ridiculous.

Finally, my car made a bold dash across the intersection during a brief lull in the people moving and zoomed over to the multi-tiered, employee parking lot on the left. As I slid my security badge into the machine, the gate magically opened. I always parked in roughly the same spot, especially when we had to come in a second time for rehearsals during the day. Otherwise it was easy to forget where I parked, as each day blended into the next.