The pursuit of your passion is not always a bed of roses. In my case (as you’ll read below), there were moments that were gross, scary, uncomfortable, stressful, smelly, inappropriate, eye-opening, and ultra embarrassing. Looking back, however, you’ll realize that those goofy challenges made you wiser, stronger, more compassionate, and maybe even easier going. And, like I did, you’ll notice that a lot of what embarrassed you to near death at the time is funny as all get out now. Ha!
Please enjoy your next excerpt from
by Kristi Lynn Davis
My fantasy life seemed to be falling into place: a nice apartment, free dance classes, and plenty of income, thanks to Celebration Magnifico, which was becoming a bigger part of my life than I had anticipated. As I learned the ropes, the idiosyncratic inner workings of the company became clearer and clearer. Bart, I discovered, was the head honcho, with his brother, Danny, playing second fiddle. Bart worked all the best parties at the nicest locations. The favorite dancers, therefore, got all the good gigs with Bart and got to travel a lot. Unofficially, this group became known by all the dancers as “the A-team.” The tier below these golden guys and gals was inhabited by “the B-team.” These performers worked fairly often but got the local, schlockier jobs led by Danny. The “Z-team” were the people that never worked except for New Year’s Eve when Bart and Danny practically had to pull strangers off the street to cover all the parties they’d booked. I got right into the A-team, which peeved some people, and rightly so.
Being a preferred dancer, I found myself averaging about $1000 a month, so it was smooth sailing, income-wise. I could easily pay my portion of the rent—three-hundred smackaroos—and still have lots of money left for bagels. While my weekends were now relinquished to Celebration Magnifico, having neither a boyfriend nor much of a social life, I actually preferred working to sulking alone in my apartment.
Instead of being holed up at home, I danced at weddings, corporate events, conventions, charity functions, parties, and elaborate New Year’s Eve celebrations. Once we even partied with patrons at a spooky mansion for an outrageous Halloween benefit. But our bread and butter came from the very lucrative bar mitzvah/bat mitzvah circuit. Being Jewish themselves, it made sense that Bart and Danny tapped into this familiar market. Hence, we made a multitude of trips out to the nether regions of Long Island—bar mitzvah country. I never had a clue where we were exactly, as I wasn’t driving, and I didn’t have a map. All I knew is I was thrown into a van with a bunch of tired and crabby dancers who, at the end of the long ride, would likely be accosted by a bunch of barely-teen boys.
These kids loved us, and if one kid had Celebration Magnifico at his bar mitzvah, then all his thirteen-year-old pals wanted us at theirs, too. I’m not sure if they found us entertaining so much as fair game for abuse (and, oh, they did love to push their boundaries, test the hormonal waters, and yank on our costumes), but no self-respecting parents wanted their son’s shindig to be out-partied by the festivities of their friends, so we saw a lot of the same kids over and over again.
In addition to keeping me in the black financially and sparing me from becoming a pitiful shicksa recluse, Celebration Magnifico exposed me to a variety of settings and eye-opening experiences. It was fun to see all the elaborate parties with gorgeous flower arrangements, balloon-sculpture monstrosities, and exquisite table settings. Our gigs were everywhere from the elegant Marriott Marquis located in the heart of Times Square and the Broadway theater district to a no-frills, drab, gray banquet hall in the Bronx, where we served as entertainment for a wedding. Those dreary nuptials were particularly memorable, because we traveled there via train through the infamous Harlem. Peering out from the safety of the boxcar, I was both frightened and curious as I watched homeless people crowd around trash cans aflame for warmth.
A local highlight for me was the bar mitzvah we performed for at the Copacabana, the famous nightclub on East 60th Street that Barry Manilow sang about in his 1979 Grammy Award-winning song of the same name. My life wasn’t too far off from that of the song’s protagonist: Lola, the showgirl “with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there.” I was simply in love with dancing at this renowned hotspot and getting paid for it, no less.
Wherever and whenever we had a gig, there would be a specific meeting spot in Manhattan—generally in front of the home of one of the dancers, who had a list of people who were supposed to show up. We would gather on the sidewalk at the designated pick-up area until our van or limousine arrived. (Yeah, sometimes it was a limo—a nice bonus.) I got to experience all different parts of Manhattan at all hours of the day and night thanks to the varied pick-up spots. Sometimes we had to arrive at an ungodly hour like 5:00 am, if we had a morning start time and a long way to travel. Even in the “City that Never Sleeps” there are not a lot of people out and about that early in the morning (at least not a lot of people you would want to meet), so it could feel isolated and scary.
One such morning, a large and threatening-looking, highly inebriated, off-his-rocker man shouted at me from across the street as I waited for the other dancers. Like any typical New Yorker, I ignored him. He kept right on yelling. I continued to ignore him. His rantings grew louder and angrier. I became concerned, because I could sense the tension escalating like a boiling teapot ready to blow steam. “What do I do?” Recalling those National Geographic shows of animals in the wilderness who go into “fight, flight, or freeze” mode when they realize they are being stalked as prey by a bigger and stronger animal, I held my breath and stopped dead in my tracks figuring that, given his size and supposed speed, freeze was the logical option.
Next thing I knew, he was standing beside me, shouting defensively, “You too good for me, lady?” Ignoring him had obviously been the wrong choice, so I meekly responded, “No. I didn’t mean to make you mad.” Having been sufficiently validated, he nodded his head in approval and walked away. I breathed a sigh of relief, but the altercation made me anxious.
My favorite meeting spot was in front of this dumpy, twenty-four-hour Polish restaurant that served the most delicious homemade vegetable soup with thick slices of eggy Challah bread. We would sup on the scrumptious comfort food or take-out containers stuffed with chewy pierogis. If one had a hunkering for Polish delicacies at any time, day or night—even at 3:47 am—this place was open for business. No wonder New York is considered one of the greatest cities on earth. The restaurant felt like a homey, albeit homely, safe haven.
When we arrived at our destination, we were shuffled off to our “dressing room,” which was inevitably some makeshift costume-changing area, usually at a hotel or country club. Surprisingly, the guys and girls weren’t separated; we were all just expected to change clothes in front of each other. I supposed this lack of privacy wasn’t such a big deal, as most of the men were gay, after all. But when it became routine for our bosses, our D.J.s, and our “Schleppers” (the Celebration Magnifico term for the guys who lugged costumes and equipment around) to also roam free-range, I felt a tad violated.
It was a real challenge to get into and out of a myriad of garments throughout the night without mooning someone or letting a nipple peek out. Thank God for that handy trick from the movie Flashdance where you take off your bra without removing your shirt: pull one bra strap down and slip arm out, do the same on with the other strap and arm, and then pull the bra out one of the sleeve holes. I felt like Houdini slipping out of a straight jacket. With the bra out of the way, you could sneakily slide your costume top on underneath the shirt you were wearing. Take outer shirt off and voila! All dressed without going topless and giving the guys an eye-full. These attempts at modesty took enough extra effort that many dancers gave up and let it all hang out. I didn’t think I was getting paid enough for that. Still, I could see why the others didn’t worry about bearing their bits, as we changed in and out of costumes a lot throughout the event.
At the gig, we’d receive the all-important costume list revealing which costumes each dancer was to wear and, hence, what parts we would each be playing for the evening. This news elicited either groans of despair or sighs of relief. The costume assignments were a big deal, as certain outfits could make or break your night; they could spell “e-a-s-y s-t-r-e-e-t” or “d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r.”
Kristi Lynn Davis as Joan Rivers
While there were innumerable ways in which to embarrass oneself in Celebration Magnifico, the costumes were one of the best. It wasn’t so bad if you were incognito, like when you had to wear what we called a “giant head”—a hugely oversized facsimile of the head of a famous celebrity like Richard Nixon, Joan Rivers, Sylvester Stallone, or Steve Martin. These bulbous orbs completely covered your own relatively measly head save for a minuscule peephole out of which to see. Therefore, it wasn’t uncommon to bump into patrons, walls, or other giant celebrity heads. Although I didn’t particularly like shoving my face into these stuffy, smelly, big balls of fiberglass with dangerously limited vision, at least no one knew it was me inside.
But on many occasions, we would have to wear absolutely ridiculous get-ups that left our faces totally recognizable. I particularly hated when we had to dress up as giant alcoholic drinks and mingle with patrons during cocktail hour. I’d cringe when my name showed up on the list of beverages, dictating that I’d have to become a super-sized strawberry daiquiri, my head serving as the cherry atop the fake whipped cream.
I was wearing just such a fruity concoction at a party once when I bumped into a big time entertainment accountant from Los Angeles who was best buddies with a friend of mine. “Kristi? Is that you?” the man shouted from across the room. My face turned as red as my cherry head. In this case, I would have opted to take “flight” instead of “fight or freeze,” but my legs were so tightly squeezed into the spandex stem of my cocktail glass that I could only slowly shuffle away. Making a run for it was out of the question. I merely hoped he’d had too much to drink already and either wouldn’t remember the next day or think he was hallucinating. “Oh, hi, Mike,” I said as nonchalantly as I could, smiling and trying to convince myself (and him) that there was nothing unusual or embarrassing about standing inside a large-scale libation. Who needed the drink now?
Kristi Lynn Davis as a carousel horse
Then there was the time I was playing Carmen Miranda (see featured pic up top) for an opening of a new high rise building in Atlanta, and I ran into newscaster Dan Rather. I wished I had been there dressed in some beautiful ball gown like the other partygoers, but instead I was balancing plastic fruit salad atop my head, shimmying my shoulders, and failing miserably to fake a Spanish accent. I rolled my “R”s saying, “Arrrrrrrrre you Dan Rrrrrrrratherrrrrrrr? I’m Carrrrrrrrmen Mirrrrrrranda.” He gave a socially polite chuckle, and I shimmied away in shame.
But even worse than the embarrassing costumes were the life-threatening ones, like the carousel horse. The idea was lovely: a herd of human carousel horses prancing about in a circle forming a real, live merry-go-round. The spandex leotard body suits were tolerable, but the real problem was the horsey head: a large, heavy, flat, carved and painted piece of wood into which I had to carefully wedge my face. It was such a tight fit that they practically needed a giant shoehorn to get me in and the Jaws of Life to get me out. I nearly had a nervous breakdown being trapped in that contraption.
Another headpiece horror happened at the Chicago Hilton, where we were presenting a fancy, French Victorianscene. Donning an elaborate floor-length black and silver lace gown and massive hat, my job was to pose on a pedestal and look pretty. Usually it was great if you were assigned to a pedestal, because you didn’t have to work as hard. While everyone else had to dance with the patrons, you simply stood on your post and did “armography,” which entailed moving your arms to the music or gesturing gracefully. For some of the larger costumes, this was a matter of safety. Our “New York, New York” set, for instance, had gargantuan costumes like the Chrysler Building or the Brooklyn Bridge (which required two people: one for each pillar with the bridge draped in between) that were so cumbersome you were actually a liability on the dance floor, knocking patrons over with your big buttress.
Kristi Lynn Davis in French Victorian costume
In this case, my costume was more of a hazard to myself than the patrons. The over-sized hat cinched my head like a vice and was so heavy I got a migraine headache. It also had a tight bodice that squeezed my diaphragm like a corset and a weighty veil that completely covered my face. Consequently, I could barley see and wasn’t getting much in the way of fresh oxygen either. This deadly combination made me feel dizzy and faint. I soon realized that I’d better get this costume off pronto or I was going to pass out and plunge from my perch.
The problem was I couldn’t just leave on my own accord, because I couldn’t see well enough to safely step off the pedestal. Even if I could, I required help climbing down. I needed both hands to hold up my long, puffy gown, or I’d surely trip on the fabric and fall to my death. And I couldn’t just blurt out, “Help me!” over the roar of the music, without alarming all the patrons. How was I going to get out of this predicament without drawing attention to myself?
As I saw it, my choices were: 1.) stay where I am and eventually faint and fall to the floor (certain embarrassment plus possible major injury), 2.) attempt to climb down by myself (highly probable embarrassment, because there was no way to get down gracefully, and there was a good chance I’d trip and fall thereby possibly incurring injury), 3.) scream my head off for help (extreme embarrassment but no injury), 4.) spell S.O.S. with my hands (no embarrassment, no injury, but probably not effective) or 5.) wait for someone that works for Celebration Magnifico to walk or dance by me, discretely grab that person’s attention without being seen or heard by the partygoers, and beg help (very minor embarrassment and no injury, but it could take a while for someone to get near enough to notice me). I decided to start with number 5, but knew I had to make this plan work quickly or I’d be involuntarily invoking plan number 1.
I desperately tried to make out a familiar figure or voice through the thick fabric covering my face. After some time, I finally recognized Bart who was ambling in my vicinity. Like a shipwreck survivor stranded on a desert island, madly trying to alert the rescue boat just appeared on the horizon, I frantically did the universal hand-signal for “Come here!” and prayed the boss would glance my way. With luck on my side, eventually he did, and I was saved in the nick of time.
Some of the costumes were so elaborate that they were traumatic both on the dance floor and in the dressing room; it was often an overwhelming job to figure out where all your costume pieces were and how to affix them to your body. Costume racks and trunks were filled with assorted pieces, but all I had to go by was the costume list, which read something nebulous like “Kristi—Gold Fantasy.” I hadn’t a clue what that costume looked like or that it had forty-three parts to it to that I had to search for like a treasure hunt and then fit together like a puzzle. I was often forced to beg the veterans for help. This was my last resort, as they weren’t necessarily obliging, especially those who, as I said earlier, didn’t believe I deserved a spot on the A-team.
To make matters worse, after I did find what I was supposed to wear, I never knew if I’d be able to squeeze my body into it. While by no means fat, I was one of the bigger gals in the group, and the costumes were not one size fits all. It was disconcerting and uncomfortable when my love handles would hang over the side of my much-too-tight trousers.
In spite of all the costume conundrums, they seemed spectacular to me and were unlike anything I’d ever worn. I loved getting dressed up and instantly took on the role of whatever I was wearing. Much to the annoyance of the old-timers in the group, I excitedly had my picture taken in all my costumes.
The worst part about sharing costumes with other dancers was, well, sharing costumes with other dancers. Celebration Magnifico had weekends where they were booked solid with parties on Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday day, Saturday night, Sunday day, and Sunday night. While these weekends with multiple parties were heaven for my bank account, they were hell for my olfactory system, as the company had no time to clean the costumes between jobs. Oftentimes you’d have to wear costumes that were soaking wet with the sweat of other dancers who had danced the party before yours. I cringed every time I had to don yet another outfit with moisture and dampness that wasn’t my own.
Sweat swapping was one of the many issues the dancers enjoyed moaning about in the dressing room. Complaining was not only a highlight of the job, but practically a prerequisite. It was part of the company milieu. “These costumes stink like hell!” “When are they going to bring us food? I’m starving!” Usually we were offered at least a sandwiches, chips, and soda pop, which I often took home in my duffel bag along with hotel toiletries. I was grateful for any free food, but the veterans complained unless it was a really nice, hot gourmet meal. “Crappy sandwiches again? I’m not eating this garbage.” In between gripes, you’d often hear Southern Gent, from Mirmdance, squawking like a sick bird and calling the boss “an ‘ol’ buzzard” in his thick, Southern accent.
As a general rule, the dancers were bitter and jaded and didn’t appreciate any one who was actually enjoying their job (like me). My smiling face and good attitude were poison to the toxic atmosphere they loved and in fact created. I quickly learned to squelch my excitement so as not to by lynched but found myself jaded along with the rest of them soon enough.
While I found the dancers fascinating and highly entertaining, I had a hard time fitting in at first. I wasn’t used to the Jersey girls with their big hair, extravangantly painted long nails, and strong accents (“Oh my gawd…a-nuth-ah bah mitz-vuh on Lon Guy Lind? Fuh-git about it!”). Gay men were also still somewhat of a novelty to me and slightly out of my comfort zone. Many of the dancers were into crystals and metaphysics. Several even practiced Buddhism, which was completely foreign to me. They would find a quiet place to meditate and chant for money or something they needed. I didn’t get it. They might as well have said they were Martians. These people and their strange ways of life blew my closed, little Midwestern mind wide open.
To make matters even more intriguing, relationship drama was happening behind the scenes. Mainly, sometimes female dancers hooked up with the Schleppers or the D.J.s., even becoming official couples. The Schleppers and D.J.s were Jersey (pronounced “Joy-zee”) guys, all with names ending in “y” (e.g., Joey, Bobby, Danny, Tommy) who tended to stick with their own kind—the Jersey girls—which was fine by me, as they weren’t really my cuppa tea. I also heard rumors of girls sleeping with one of the bosses to further their careers, but I never believed it. How much did you really have to gain? You got to attend a few more bar mitzvahs dressed as the Chrysler building?
Life is a challenge. Life is hilarious. What can you laugh about or learn from? Thanks for reading.
Prance on,
Kristi
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