Last night E.S. and I finally saw Wicked, the musical adaptation by Stephen Schwartz and Winnie Holzman of the novel about how the Wicked Witch of the West got to be wicked, be a witch, and live in the west. The Wicked Witch (who in the book and the musical is named Elphaba; this may in fact be her name in the Oz books but I’ve never read them so I don’t know) and Glinda the Good meet in college, where they share a room and get to be friends. Glinda is of course graceful, charming, and beautiful while Elphaba is awkward, off-putting, and green.
During intermission, E.S. and I were talking about how much we loved the show. “At least now we know what we’re going as for Hallowe’en,” I said.
“Didn’t everybody already do that last year?” he asked.
“Hmph,” I said. “Well, I don’t care. The only question is which of us is going to be Glinda and which is going to be Elphaba.”
“Oh, please,” he snorted. “Everybody knows I’m Glinda and you’re Elphaba.” I gasped, I called him a bitch, and then the lights dimmed to indicate the imminent start of the second act.
Afterwards, we revisited the issue on the subway home. “Maybe you are Glinda,” he said, “and I’m Elphaba.”
This wasn’t much better, given that Glinda is annoying and untalented. “Why do you say that?” I asked, my eyes narrowed.
“Just to annoy you.”
“That’s it,” I said. “I’m Glinda and Elphaba.”
“Then who am I?”
I thought for a moment. “You can be Elphaba’s paraplegic sister Nessarose.”
“Do you want me to drop a house on you?”
Then I spent the rest of the evening calling him “Nessa” until he made me stop.