It’s ShoooOoowwTIME!
CHAPTER 1- from my upcoming Untitled Memoir
CHAPTER 1: WIG TOSS
I FINISH APPLYING the final swab of dark black mascara to my left eye. Then I take out the eye shadow applicator to paint a mixture of blue and black eye shadows to my eyelids, simulating the “Cleopatra” look of Barbra Streisand’s iconic eyes from the 1960s.
Ah well. Good enough…
I reach in the cabinet and grab the ‘Funny Girl’ style wig, the first of the three I’ll be wearing in the show tonight. As I pull it down over the nylon cap that’s holding my hair in place on my head, I catch a glimpse of my eyes in the mirror.
God! I look dead.
While holding the front of the wig down tightly I yank it a bit to center it squarely on my forehead. I do this every night.
I gotta try to get it just RIGHT so it looks like Streisand!
(I’m still insecure about whether I am doing a good job in this show and I want to make sure at least the wig looks OK on me)
I swipe a bit of deep brown blush onto the outer sides of my nose to make it appear larger. The makeup artist suggested I do this when I first got this gig, so I could look a bit more like Streisand.
(Here’s a pic of Barbra Streisand and my pic below it. The makeup artists gave me tips on how to contour and make my face look similar.)
To end my nightly makeup routine, I pull out the Estee Lauder pink lip gloss wand and add some shine to my slightly red lipstick. I make a puckered fish face with my pursed lips, so I can determine where to angle the brown blush to define my cheekbones.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
“Ms. Monet. ‘5 minutes!! You’re on in 5!!’
“Ok ok. I’m cominggggg!!!”
I unwrap the marijuana brownie from the square-shaped tin foil fast. My thoughtful (?) husband baked and handed it to me before I left for the show. I pop it in my mouth in one quick bite. CRUNCH CRUNCH. The sound reminds me of eating grasshopper legs mixed with chocolate. I’ve never actually eaten grasshopper legs, but I could imagine.
As I head out of the dressing room I glance at my dead hollow eyes in the lighted makeup mirror again. Even though I have layers of mascara and thick eyeliner on, it doesn’t hide my apathy.
Nothing can.
I close the door gently behind me.
..’ugh. here I go again…’
With a listless stride I begin the long walk through the backstage hallway where I pass a line of assistants and stage hands sitting in a row. I numbly walk past ten or twelve black women and a few black men — early 20s to maybe 60 years old from around the area — Cape Town, Soweto, Johannesburg, Pretoria, even Zimbabwe — some chewing gum, some knitting, others murmuring quietly, heads together, some reading books and magazines.
All oblivious to me walking by.
Can they tell how damn depressed and lifeless I am? Can they see that I am a shell of a person attempting to hold it together long enough to sing these 4 rather boring songs and then crawl back into my comatose oblivion when the show ends?
Probably not.
They’re probably grateful they have a good paying job working for this major American Production show called Beyond Belief.
I bet it’s a welcome contrast to their hard lives living in this poor country. This job might just be one of the best to be found for.them. I mean this is a swanky 5-star upscale hotel — The Palace Resort in Sun City, South Africa.They might feel grateful to just have a job at all, so I wouldn’t dare complain or give off an air of Spoiled Ungrateful American girl.
Nope. I don’t want to bitch, so I hold all my angst in. I hope they cant see it… although I bet they can.
I walk up to the stage manager Lou, a non-descript 60-something large bellied balding white man. He glances up from his newspaper, The Cape Town Gazette as he hands me my microphone — like he’s done every night for the past 111 nights.
“Have a good show.”
“Thanks Lou.”
I tap on the microphone a few times — which is what you do to check to see if a microphone is live.
This is my 111th time doing this gig. I know the exact number of nights I’ve performed in this show and the exact number of nights that I have left to do — (46!)
(I’ve been keeping track like a prisoner in a jail cell who anxiously marks off the days they have left in their sentence on their prison wall.)
This is the sixth month of a nine-month contract.
I was hired to be the finale, (some call it the starring role) of this multi-million dollar extravagant Production Show.
THE FINALE!! The star?
Trust me I feel nothing like a star.
I got my own dressing room this time though. Yippee. This is the first time I didn’t have to share with another performer, which was nice, because of how moody and hermit-like I am. I’m not really good around humans. I was also offered the largest salary I’d ever gotten in my career — which was the main reason I took this gig.
I find my way to the stairwell in the almost total darkness of the backstage area and place my high-heeled foot down carefully on the first of the nine steps that I walk up every night, which leads me to the ledge .
I wait for my turn to go onstage.
I hold on to the banister rod tighter than normal tonight. I feel a bit wobbly now from the marijuana buzz.
I need to stay steady on these damn high heels!
I will soon be emerging down a long cascading staircase to sing my opening song Somewhere.
‘There’s a PLACE for ussssss’. Somewhere…. A PLACE for usss…
I wish there was a PLACE FOR me. I feel so out of place here. Oh, and I REALLY dislike this song too!! I just don’t like singing it. Never have. It’s a difficult song and it’s so damn stressful for me to try to hit that final high note, plus hold it out without my voice wobbling, while being flung high in the air above the audience, and at the same time balancing myself vicariously on top of the baby grand piano, hoping the stage hands won’t drop me on my ass…all while looking comfortable and confident!
They haven’t dropped me in 111 nights. I doubt they will tonight.
Then the song Happy days are Here Again will follow.
Ironic. These are far from happy days for me, but I can somehow pull out my phony ‘happy’ smile.
Well, for at least one song.
To the left of my perch where I’m standing in the royal blue fluorescent shadows, I notice a few of the perfect nimble-bodied dancers wearing bowties and holding black top hats. They are stretching their legs high above their heads, like they do every night while waiting in the wings. I overhear a few hushed murmurs between two girl dancers.
Hmm. I wonder what they’re feeling?
Are they content being dancers.? Are they bored with this show like I am? Do they have boyfriend problems? Family problems? Anorexia?
Who knows. I’ve hardly talked to them at all since starting this show. I haven’t had much energy to talk to many cast members to be honest. I’ve been too depressed and worn out. I’ve felt like a shell of a human since starting this show. Its like my mouth has been zipped closed except for the 12 minutes I’m on stage when I sing. I ironically I belt out some very loud songs.
The 22 dancers will soon be dancing behind me for the finale song Don’t Rain on My Parade.’ It’s a fast-paced high energy extravagant production number with lots of legs kicking around me.
I’m now standing on my mark at the top of the stairs behind a thin beige curtain on about a 2x4 plank. I try to stand very still because the audience can see my silhouette.
I don’t dare pick my nose now. Do I??
I don’t feel nervous anymore like I used to for the first week or so at this show. I was a friggin nervous wreck for a while, but I’ve calmed down thankfully.
I’m not worried any longer about what I used to care about when I stood here waiting and daydreaming like; the technical and staging issues, when to pivot to the left of the stage, how long to hold a pose or a smile between each song , how long to bow or seem gracious while the audience applauds, how far to walk to the far right then left side of the stage and then back to center again at the end of each song, or how to sit down gracefully and look gleeful while bending down on the boy dancers knee during the Hello Dolly song.
I’m also not worried that they will fire me anymore. If they wanted to, they would have done it many nights ago or many months ago. For some reason they haven’t — which amazes me!
Maybe I am still able to pull out the actress in me and sing these songs well enough. I don’t know.
My lack of nerves have been replaced with apathy and fatigue now. My main focus is just trying to steady myself on these damn high heels.
‘Oh, I can’t wait for the day that this gig is OVER, and I can FINALLY FINALLY get rid of this fucking abusive idiot husband! I’m so damn mad at myself for ignoring my instincts and for bringing him along on this 9-month gig! What was I thinking?? 9 months with this jerk who had already been verbally abusing choking and threatening my life almost daily! A week before I left for this gig from my home in Denver I knew it was a horrible idea to let him come along …I just KNEW he would get more violent… but I didn’t listen to my gut. Plus, he had me convinced I couldn’t make it without him — — without his WONDERFUL help and assistance, especially with my wigs — -which were an integral part of my show.
Every night he sprayed each wig with hairspray with meticulous care, spitting on his fingertips and carefully looking at the wigs cockeyed as though he was a surgeon getting ready for an important surgical procedure making sure every hair was just right…. ..placing each strand of bangs on the front of each wig in the perfect Streisand style — like a man possessed.
He took such pride in his wig styling job (Mission?) Who would’ve thought a military sergeant from Vietnam would also have such cosmetological expertise.?
He knew I was very sensitive about how my wigs looked and that I wanted them to look as good as possible, so I could look as much like my character, as possible, so I could do as decent a job as possible so I wouldn’t get fired. I was always worried I wasn’t doing a decent job. Deep down it could be because I didn’t want to be embarrassed by looking stupid with a wig hanging crooked on my head or have the critics mention it or have my coworkers snicker.
When he kicked my cat in a fit of rage the other night I knew — I just knew that was IT!! That was the last straw!!
Ahhh…. when this gig is over I’ll finally have enough money saved to leave him. I can finally move somewhere far far away… by myself! Move to a quiet serene place with maybe a few cats and a sunny music room where I can sing my own songs, play my guitar, style my own hair and write. Not be a damn impersonator phony anymore! Ugh I’ve always hated it, even from the first gig I did way back in Reno. I only wanted to do it a few short months, (I told my agent, only for the money!)…I needed the money… but 7 years later here I am. Still here. SOON VERY SOON though I can finally have a peaceful new start. A new life.
ONLY 46 more nights.
***
Abruptly my daydream is interrupted by the familiar violin introduction music for my opening song.
‘Yeah yeah I’m ready. I can do this silly show in my sleep.’
The buzz from the brownie hadn’t taken hold quite as much as I would’ve liked it to. Damm! I was hoping I might feel more numb than this. This show is so impersonal anyway. No one will even notice if I look stoned out of my mind. I’m so far back from the audience. I might even look like a small pea getting swallowed up by this big stage full of dancers anyway. They don’t know who I am. I don’t know who I am. They can’t see my eyes or the sadness behind them, or the apathy. I can’t connect to this audience anyway so there’s no point trying. To me it’s a sea of blurred faces in a darkened theater. Nameless blurry faces. They don’t care. I don’t care. They are only looking to see if I look and sound anything like Streisand. Yea yea. Who the heck cares anyway? I just gotta get out from under these damn wigs — -soon — -and be ME!!
…whatever that is.
NOW I AM DEFINITELY FEELING a bit wobbly from the brownie. I try to steady myself on my high heels again.
I can’t wait to get out of these heels, back to my dressing room and put my flip flops back on!
In a few minutes I will be entering the stage through the regal gold-trimmed white double doors. I will be walking down the large staircase. (A simulation of the exact staircase that Streisand walked down in her live concerts), attempting to look elegant, glamorous and confident in my white rhinestoned 3-piece suit (the exact replica of Streisand’s suit from the 1970s — that the seamstress painstakingly custom made for me).
What if tonight I’m so stoned that I fall on my face in front of 2,000 people? Or, I trip over these high heels and land on someone in the audience?? HA! Oh well. That might be a fun way to break the monotony of this fuckin show!? Maybe they’ll finally fire me…Release me. YEA! I’d LOVE THAT!!
Ok. Ok. it’s — — — SHOooooWwwwwTIME!!!!!!
Let me put my professional (?) show business face on now. Let’s seeeee…. which Streisand face can I choose to wear tonight?
the cool confident look?
the arrogant bitchy look.?
the shy insecure look?
the I don’t give a flying duck better than you look?
The Silly Funny Girl persona? Yeah that one might be fun tonight since I am starting to feel a bit sillyyy now from this brownie!! Or should I put on the smug sassy grin?
NAHH. I just can’t fake happy tonight. I’ll choose …sullen.
I’ve worn many faces since starting this show and many masks. None of which are me; It seems that none of it matters because ironically I get the same smattering of polite applause each night no matter what I do — no matter what face or mask I choose to wear or even how well I sing these 4 songs. These 4 songs that I’ve grown to despise.
‘Ta daaaaAAAAaaaaa!!”
oh There’s my cue.
The magician couple (husband and wife team) take their bows. They run to the far left of the stage with their starkly made up multi colored faces, plastered on grins and wide excited eyes, backed by hoots and hollers from the audience and a few lingering whistles. They wave their wands in unison pointing upward towards where I am standing on my high perch.
Drummmmmmm rolllllllll.
Immediately I feel a bright spotlight almost blind me — -Damn that lights bright. I’m sort of glad though because I don’t have to see anyone’s faces close up.
Perfect.
I start slowly gliding down the staircase, holding onto the banister, like Bette Davis?, my head arrogantly held high trying to elongate my neck to look a bit taller and graceful.
I put the microphone up to my mouth and these hopeful lyrics slide out.
“We’ll find a new way of livinggg. We’ll find a way of forgivinggggg….SOMEWHERE!!…’
Someday. Somewhere I’ll be released from this hell.
Halfway through my 12-minute set something hits me. An evil evil force.
Honestly, even to this day (over 25 plus years later) I can’t recall what it was that propelled me to do the unthinkable.
What I did next shocked me.
I threw my wig off my head.
I surprised even myself when I flung it out into the crowd of over 2,000. It might’ve landed on a lady in the 2nd row. I don’t know.
Am I here? Is this happening?
As I saw the stunned looks on all the dancers faces it seemed that they were frozen in time…in shock …with their legs stuck in a half kick upwards. a creepy hush came over the audience as I ran off the stage…mascara running down my well made up face.
I was done.
I was fired the next day.
