Chapter 10
Target. They’re chatting and laughing, and they all look a little sweaty.
At the sight of Booker, their cackling turns to murmuring, and, if I had to guess... admiring.
“Booker Hayes,” one of the women practically purrs.
“Ladies.” Booker smiles and takes his hat off, and it’s the first time I notice his messy, wavy, dark blond hair. It’s nice.
He runs a hand through it, and I swear I can feel the ladies’ knees collectively buckle.
Or maybe those are just mine.
“Are you all coming from a class?” Booker asks.
“Tap class with Veronica,” one of the women says. “Finally got my time step down.” She does a little shuffle that is definitely
not a time step.
“Who are you?” A short woman who reminds me of Sophia from The Golden Girls takes an aggressive step toward me. Then a side-eye to Booker. “Booker, you’re not cheating on my Lydia, are you?”
Booker squints over at her. “No, Evelyn, I’m not, since I’m not dating Lydia.”
She points at him. “But you should be. She is a catch. You’d be lucky to have her.” She steps away from me and turns toward the woman next to her, muttering something along the lines of, “These men today don’t know a good thing something something something .”
Booker leans closer. “Lydia is her daughter. She’s eighteen years older than me and lives overseas.”
“Oh, Evelyn, don’t be ridiculous,” one of the other women says, eyes fixed on Booker. “How can he be cheating on Lydia when
he’s clearly hung up on me?” She laughs, her hand lingering on Booker’s bicep.
He gives her a very brotherly pat on the shoulder and says sweetly, “Betty, it would never work out. And to think that a woman
like you would even want attention from a poor guy like me. You deserve so much better.”
She giggles and preens.
What am I even watching right now?
One of the others walks right up to me. “I’m Sadie Sullivan.” She sticks her hand out in my direction, and I shake it.
“Rosie Waterman.”
“She’s the new theatre director,” Booker says.
The aggregate gasp and chatter rivals the best chicken coops, as the women all start overlapping their reactions. There’s
no way for me to make out full sentences in the barrage of comments.
“Oh my goodness, just in time for auditions...”
“I would make an excellent Cinderella...”
“...Edgar as the prince, then you’re crazy...”
“...hope you’re better than the last director...”
“Belinda’s not gonna like this...”
I frown. “I’m pretty sure I’m on the creative team, but I don’t know if I’m actually the director.”
As I say this out loud, yesterday’s realization returns: I should’ve asked more questions before accepting this job.
“Oh, that’s adorable,” one of the women—Betty maybe?—says. “Sweetheart, you are the creative team.” She blinks at me.
I stare back blankly. “What do you mean?”
“You do it all!” She waves a hand like it’s a magic wand. “Lights, sets, choreography, music.”
“Well, you and whatever volunteers you can rustle up,” the one with the daughter—Evelyn?—says.
“You tell us where to stand, when to sit, and, oh! You’ll have to meet with Ginny about costumes. She’s really slow and partially
deaf and blind in the one eye, so don’t stand to her right. I’d talk to her right away.”
The other women nod as if this is common knowledge about Ginny.
Evelyn starts walking toward the door. “Come on, girls. I’m starving! Let’s go eat.”
“We’ll see you at auditions, Rosie!” one of the women—Sarah? Sheba? Sadie?—says as she walks by.
The others offer various versions of the sentiment as their voices retreat down the hall. Booker seems to notice a stunned
expression on my face because there is, in fact, a stunned expression on my face.
“You okay?”
I take a breath, pause, then say, “Are they... are they all auditioning for the show?” I ask.
“Oh yeah,” he says enthusiastically. “They’re diehards. They’ll definitely be there. But be aware, they’ll boss you around if you let them, so you’ve got to stand up for yourself. Remember, you’re the expert.”
A slow, creeping realization starts at the back of my mind and begins the trek toward the front.
I glance at Booker, back to the hallway where the women exited, then back to him. “I’m sorry, I have to ask, because I noticed
it yesterday too. Why is everybody here... old?”
Booker studies me like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” I say slowly. The realization is about halfway through my brain, and I can just start to make out its shape. “I don’t think we’ve seen one person under the age of seventy since I got here, except for you and Daisy and that girl in the clubhouse with Connie.”
He squints at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
I start to panic. And when I panic, I talk. Just open mouth, say stuff, or launch into a song-and-dance number, as evidenced
by my previous nervous outbursts.
“In theatre, we call them the ‘blue hairs.’ They show up for the Saturday matinee because they want to get out in time to
eat dinner at four. They’re the ones who buy all of the tickets and then complain about not being able to understand what
anyone is saying.” I look around the empty space. “I love them, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t usually see so many of them
all at once. I mean, I guess if we got here just as a seniors’ class was ending or something, it makes sense, but it’s not
just here—it was also the golf course, the clubhouse, even the tennis courts—all old people.”
He’s still eyeing me. “Rosie, do you know what this place is?”
My face must’ve answered before my mouth could, because he continues.
“You don’t, do you?” He cocks his head. “When you applied for this job, did you read the listing?”
I wince. “No! No, okay?” I take a breath and spill everything out. “I applied for a ton of jobs—anything having to do with
acting, directing, music, or theatre. I also sent out ten times as many self-tapes as I usually do. I needed a job, I didn’t
know where my next paycheck was coming from, and I was behind on my rent, and I don’t even remember applying for half of them.
And then Connie’s email came, and it looked great, you know? A job at a professional theatre, and...” Why am I telling
him this? I’m sure it makes me sound every bit as pathetic as I feel.
But there’s something about Booker that makes me want to confess things, which I need to put a lid on right this very second.
I snap my jaw shut.
“Oh boy,” he says. “Maybe you should sit down.”
I don’t move. “Just let me have it.” I widen my stance, bracing like he’s going to sucker punch me.
He lifts his eyebrows as if to ask if I really want the truth.
I make a motion like bring it on and close my eyes.
“Sunset Hills is a retirement community,” he says.
My eyes pop back open. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Like a very upscale old folks home, but with independent living options,” he says. “Everyone who lives on the property is
either part of the community or part of the staff.”
“Everyone who lives here is...”
“Old, yep.”
“Old,” I echo.
“You really didn’t know?”
“So this production... it’s going to be cast with...”
He nods. “Old people.”
“And I’m going to be working with...” I gesture for him to answer again.
He nods again. “Old people.”
“If I ask another question, is there any chance you’re not going to say ‘old people’ again?”
He squints at me. “Now do you want to sit down?”
“But I looked up Sunset Playhouse,” I implore, ignoring his question. “It’s a legitimate theatre!”
“It is,” he says. “But this is Sunset Players . I can see how you got the two mixed up.”
I point at him with one finger and use the other hand to dig around in my giant bag without breaking eye contact. I pull out
a Twix bar, a pair of 3D glasses, and chopsticks before I finally use both hands to find my phone. I pull it out and google
Sunset Players.
What comes up is a website with a tagline at the top: “Door County’s Premier Theater for the Young at Heart!” Underneath is a photo gallery of past productions—and just like Booker said, all the performers are old.
“They spelled theatre like a movie theater,” I say, as if that’s the headline here.
Booker frowns. “Is that a big deal?”
I try not to be truly offended. “Is that a...?” I stop myself. I know it’s a hill I’m willing to die on, spelling it theatre instead of theater , but I don’t have the brain power to educate him on why right now. The important note here is that I now live and apparently
work in a retirement community.
“They did Hair ? Cabaret ? A Chorus Line ?” I shake my head, trying to picture it while also trying not to picture it. “ A Chorus Line ? How did they do a kick line?”
“Probably very slowly.”
It’s funny. I laugh, but the kind of shocked, unbelieving laugh that happens when you find out you’re the director for a production
of Cinderella at a retirement community.
“You really don’t like old people,” he says—a statement, not a question.
I’m momentarily taken aback. “No, it’s not that!” I’m just trying to compare what I’ve experienced to what I’m envisioning...
and it’s like trying to do long division with a potted plant as a pencil.
I just can’t seem to work it out.
“You sure?”
I feel defensive. “Old people are great. I’m not prejudiced against old people,” I say, stopping short of giving the classic
and misguided “some of my best friends are old people” excuse. “I just... don’t understand how to do a show like Cinderella —or any musical—with only senior citizens.” I sigh. “I’m having trouble wrapping my head around this.”
“I can see how that could be an issue if you, you know, didn’t read your email.”
I make a face. “I get that now, thanks.”
He shrugs his hands and shoulders. “But hey, maybe this job could be fun.”
I slump. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“You’re one of those people.”
He raises his eyebrows. “One of what people?”
I cross my arms. “Make the best of it. Silver lining. Lemonade.”
He frowns.
“I bet you are a morning person too.”
He looks a little crestfallen. “I am a morning person,” he says, not taking my point.
“I knew it.” I say this like Seinfeld said “ Newman... ”
He appears to be unfazed. “Dunno. Could be fun.”
I shake my head. “You actually think this could be fun?”
A shrug. “It will be if you want it to be.”
He did pose the question yesterday—“C an’t your career be fun?” —so I shouldn’t be surprised it’s resurfaced, even if it’s exasperating.
I look away. My job is never fun. Not anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but I never admit it. In college, acting without
the pressure of getting hired for a job that would help pay my rent was fun. Daring to fail gloriously. Digging into a character.
Taking all the time I needed to figure out what she ate for breakfast, where she shopped for clothes, how she walked, how
she talked—it was a luxury, it was good , and I took it for granted.
George Bernard Shaw was right when he said that youth is wasted on the young.
Making a career out of the thing you love is tricky. When it’s not going your way, joy is hard to hold on to.
I walk over to a little seating area in the lobby and plop down into the small armchair. “I can’t believe this.” My mind races—I’m more than a bit panicked—like I’m about to go onstage and I forgot to memorize my lines.
My first real job in ages, and it’s not at all what I thought. I’m not even sure I can do this. I’m the whole creative team?
That is not how Connie made it sound. I can’t put an entire show on by myself. I might have a degree in theatre, and yeah,
I took directing classes, but this? I’m not qualified for this!
I stop and realize I’ve said all of this out loud.
And Booker is now standing beside me, staring.
He must think I’m a lunatic. Who applies for a job without carefully reading the description?
But he surprises me when he sits down across from me, nothing but kindness on his face. “Hey. I get it. It’s a lot, and maybe
it’s not what you thought. But these residents? They’re all really invested in this theatre thing,” he says. “And some of
them are actually pretty good. I mean, I’m not a theatre guy, but... one lady—Belinda—she was a professional singer. There’s
another guy who’s a really great tap dancer. His muscle memory is incredible, and physically, he’s in great shape for his
age. Then there’s Sal, who refuses to audition but who always somehow ends up in the shows.” He looks away. “And for some
reason he’s always eating onstage.”
I try to look at him, but the sun is shining through the windows behind him, and I can’t really see his face. “This isn’t
how it was supposed to go. I don’t know if I can do this.”
He doesn’t move.
Thankfully, he switches to the chair across from me. And though it was appropriate for him to be divinely backlit, this is
a much better view. He leans back and props his ankle on his knee. “What’s going on in your brain?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I just met you yesterday, but even I can see the spiral.” He stares at me, face welcoming. It’s the kind of face that you can’t help but talk to about what you just wrote in your diary.
It’s unnerving to feel safe.
I’m an actor. I can manufacture feelings in an instant, but I’m having trouble faking it right now. Which is... disconcerting.
“No offense, Booker, but I don’t even know you.” I look away.
“Which makes me the best person to talk to.” He holds up his hands. “No judgment.”
If I’m a simmering pot, all kinetic bubbles just waiting for a few degrees of heat and pressure to increase before I push
my lid off and spill all over the stove, then Booker is more like a serene mountain lake. Calm. Easygoing. Relaxed.
“It’s just—” I clamp my jaw shut.
“Not what you expected,” he says. “I know.”
I shake my head.
“I get it.” He pauses. “I was going to work with professional athletes.”
I lift my chin to meet his gaze. “You were?”
“I mean, that was my dream,” he says, laughing more to himself than at something funny.
“So what changed?”
He shrugs. “My grandma moved here.”
I feel the restlessness inside me settle. Booker has a story, and I want to know the rest of it.
But then, everyone has at least one story, right? The old women who just walked out of here? They probably have loads of stories.
“I figured, you know, this was a way for me to keep an eye on her and still make a living doing what I love.”
“But...” I’m having trouble squaring him giving up on his dream. It’s not what I’d do. It’s not what I understand. “You
still want to work with athletes, right?”
Another shrug. “Honestly, it doesn’t really matter. I mean, I’m doing what I love, and these people are just as important as basketball players. Probably a lot easier to deal with too.” He frowns. “Well, some of them.”
I smile and pause. And after a beat, I ask, “And you don’t feel like you gave up on your dream?”
“Nah,” he says. “I just got a new one.”
“Hmm,” I say. “I don’t understand that at all.”