There were a lot of talented people during the weeklong process. One of whom was a girl named Natalia. She had long, straight brown hair, and stood about two inches taller than me with flawless skin. Her choice of clothing was always on the risqué side with small touches of white trash influences that you couldn’t quite pinpoint but knew they were there.
We began our friendship over the uncanny similarities of our mothers. We joked about leading parallel lives as our childhood stories continued to practically mirror each other. Natalia and I shared the same adventures with our mothers’ inability to get out of the welfare system and out of the bars. I was hardly surprised to learn that she was the elder sibling of a sister the same age as mine, whom she too had affectionately nicknamed Bean. Our friendship was instant, to say the least.
Another common ground was our powerful voices and love of the craft. She claimed to have been the lead singer in a punk band and wanted to take it further. We blew the crowd out of the water when we sang our chosen songs. Natalia and I received the same compliments, and both of us made it into the 2001 Army Soldier Show.
Rehearsals were grueling. Seven in the morning to seven at night would have been a luxury. Our hours varied. The sixteen soldiers who made the cut rotated through voice lessons, choreography, setup, costume fittings, and constant changes to the production. Everyone had assigned places to be throughout the day for maximum efficiency. It was the most organized mess of my military career.
The songs chosen for each soldier were selected by assessing the soldier’s vocal range ability and stage presence. They were then assimilated into groups or sections intermingled with dance numbers and comedy to create a ninety-minute variety show. It had to have an aesthetic flow and be kid friendly and entertaining for teenagers, family members, soldiers of all branches, parents, retirees, and veterans. The entertainment branch had big shoes to fill. The directors worked endlessly to give everyone stage time and maintain the integrity of the show, but numbers were thrown out for a number of reasons. I worked hard to memorize a new dance routine when the order of songs changed, even though it was impossible for me to dance and then come back onstage with a complete costume switch for the next number. Needless to say, this was one of many numbers my name was cut from.
Everyone was affected by the constant rearranging. The wardrobe lady, Miss Sue, purchased material and worked nights to make eleven shirts that were worn twice during rehearsals and thrown out. The directors never told us why, but Miss Sue bluntly explained, “You American girls have big hips and flabby arms! Director Vic say you arms too fat in shirt and he say we no have money to buy girdles.” Miss Sue pointed to me and continued, “And why you get that tattoo on you arm? You tattoo is like, POW, look at me… I’m a tattoo on arm. And you little! How you have big hips when you look like chopstick?” Traditional Japanese ballads played on a crappy little cassette player she had set within a nook by the sewing machine.
I was utterly shocked by her candor because I had never heard her say much before, let alone cut us down. “Dang, Miss Sue, that is so bold,” I said as she moved me out of the way so another thicker girl could be measured and pinned.
“Well, Miss Sue no have fat arms to hide.” She tugged at the soldier’s shirt. She stopped to look up with a pin hanging from her mouth. “You no eat today. You give it to Chopsticks over there, okay?” The girl’s mouth hit the floor as mine did, but we didn’t say anything.
Everyone adapted to change, even Miss Sue, with much dismay. Eventually, a production began to form from nothing. We were constantly told that the show would develop from us, but we didn’t understand what that meant until a show was pieced together in two months with no theme or direction, just raw talent. The third month was finalized with dress rehearsals as we learned how to set up and tear down the stage. We became our own roadies and had the privilege of learning from professional lighting technicians, audio guys, and prop masters in “The Biz.”
Natalia and I used to joke that “Madonna ain’t got shit on us” because she had others do all her hard work. During those first three months, we were practically inseparable. On one of my rare phone calls back to Germany, I told Doug all about her.
“She is so pretty and you should hear her sing! She said if she were to sleep with anyone in the show, it would be me or this other dude, but he is a total queen! I don’t know how she can’t see that! He is so fucking obvious, but she is head over heels for him. I don’t get it.”
“So, do you think you will get to bang her?” Doug asked.
“God, you are so vulgar… but I sure am going to try,” I said, my voice turning sinister.
Always the pervert, he replied, “That’s my girl. Do you think she will want to do me or a threesome?”
“I don’t know. Gross, I’m not trying to pick up girls to bring home for you. Get your own ho.”
“You can’t hook a brotha up?”
“Gross. Get your own. I got to go practice, but I love you, honey. I’ll call back in a few days.”
“Okay, how much do you love me?” He waited for the familiar answer we shared in our three-and-a-half-year marriage.
“Theez much,” I exaggerated.
“Do you miss me?”
I didn’t think before I answered him. With much regret I said, “No. I mean, honey, I am busy from the time I wake up to the time I get home. Then, I practice on my own before I go to bed. I don’t have time to miss you! I’m just on the go all day long.”
Doug was silent at my unexpected honesty. I tried to lessen the hurt I had caused, but it only made the dig worse. “I mean, I miss you, of course, but I’m glad I don’t have time to think about it or I would be miserable, you know?”
“Yeah, well I miss you…a lot.” His saddened tone was heartbreaking. I had made a huge mistake.
“I’m sorry,” I added, but it was too late; the damage was done.
“I know you have a lot going on, but I miss you and I love you,” my loyal husband confessed. We talked about the scheduled shows and made plans for Doug to watch a performance at the Arizona venue, our old stomping ground. We ended the call on a much lighter note with words of love and a few shared giggles.
A few weeks later, our opening night filled every seat in the theatre. Nearly every show thereafter packed the house. The entire Soldier Show cast, including technicians, traveled on buses to each venue across the states. These long trips afforded Natalia and me plenty of time to bond.
My subtle hints to show interest in more than friendship were not exactly received. I did little things like open doors, buy gifts, inconvenience myself for her sake, and dote over her every move. Armed with knowledge of her one-time lesbian experience, I took things extremely slow. My intent was not to scare her away. When I openly expressed my feelings once, she brushed it off as if it were a joke, but she let me flirt a little and continued hanging out with me. When we finally had time off at selected venues, we dined in sushi restaurants to relax. This became our tradition and my wonderful excuse to spend quality alone time with her. We started calling our little excursions “dates” and sometimes extended them with shopping or a movie. On a few occasions we held hands. Each outing ended with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. For Natalia, we were really good friends. For me, we were hiding a budding connection. This behavior had been consistent since the beginning. It was only a matter of time before someone made the first move. Unfortunately for me, Natalia was completely shit-faced during our first kiss.