Chapter 3 It’s showtime, Cap’n!
It’s showtime, Cap’n!
Sean
I EASE BACK into my chair in the green room and take a sip from my tumbler of iced mineral water.
I’ve got three more pounds to lose before my movie audition, so alcohol’s on the no-go list for now.
Besides, the studios never invest in anything nicer than Wild Turkey.
A good Johnnie Walker Blue Label… now that’s worth an extra one hundred sit-ups, not the watered-down dishwater in Jason Connor’s glass.
I peek at my phone. Five minutes until the online auction wraps up. I’m still in the lead. Some jerk-off could swing in and snipe it from me at the last minute, but so far so good.
I swipe around to the main photo and have to bite back a huge grin from just looking at the item I’m bidding on: Christopher Jackson’s hat from his role as George Washington in the original Broadway production of Hamilton.
The thing is epic. It’s huge. It’s iconic.
It’s got that weird little bow thing on the front right side. I gotta have it.
Four more minutes until the auction ends.
Jason leans over. “Whatcha doin’?” he asks.
“Nunya bidness.” I slip my phone under my thigh.
“Do you always swipe with your ring finger? I’ve never noticed before.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me?”
“Nope!” He grins, and I know he’s being honest. We’re in a holding pattern here. “By the way, did you get everything taken care of?” he asks.
“What are you talking about?”
“The gaping hole in your dance card since Vera went to the hospital.”
“Oh yeah, right.” I peek at the phone. Shit! Someone’s outbid me—@cosplayhero92. Well, we’ll see who the real hero is. “Uh, Emmy’s friend is filling in.”
“Which one?”
I know her name, I do; I just can’t think of it at the moment as my ring finger stabs in a higher bid. I could wait until the last second, but then I run the risk of bad Wi-Fi ruining it for me. “The pretty one who works on set. Alien makeup girl.”
“Josie?”
I snap my fingers. “That’s the one.”
He cranes his neck at my phone. “What are you doing? Shopping for women’s hats?”
What a pleb. “It’s a men’s Revolutionary War–era tricorn hat.”
“Oh yeah,” he replies. “Like the one that was stolen a few weeks ago in New York City. It’s all over the news.” His eyes go wide. “Maybe it’s that one!”
My stomach lurches. I didn’t expect Snack to be versed in any current events that didn’t involve American football. “That’s a stupid thing to say. Do you think I shop on black market auction sites? What do I look like, a criminal? Besides, this is just for research.”
A quick peek reveals that @cosplayhero92 has outbid me again! Who does this guy think he is? I up my bet to something outrageous, something that would make Christopher Jackson blush.
I do shop on black market auction sites—at least, I have been lately—but I’m not a criminal. I’ll turn the hat in after I win it. I just want to see it up close. Touch it. Wear it. It’s Christopher Jackson’s hat, for crying out loud. From Hamilton.
“Research for what?”
God, is he still here? “Just something my agent found,” I lie. “Soldier, secondary character, takes a bayonet in the chest.”
“And you’re interested in that?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I want to die on-screen, tragically. It’s on my bucket list, right next to a sweaty, passionate night with you.”
He grins and downs his drink. “I’m flattered, Sean. I didn’t figure you were passionate about anything.”
“Ha ha,” I deadpan. I don’t owe Jason any explanations, and besides, no matter how I try to explain it, it’ll sound stupid. I know it’s just a hat. A silly indulgence, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Unimportant in the not-so-grand scheme of things, too. But it’s important to me.
Christopher Jackson’s original hat from Hamilton is one of a kind.
It’s special. Unique. Priceless. I love that show, and it would look great on me.
I could wear it to the Hamilton on the Roof gig in Van Nuys before returning it.
Of course, I alone would know it was me, Sean O’Sullivan, wearing Christopher Jackson’s original hat to what amounts to The Rocky Horror Picture Show for Lin-Manuel Miranda fans, but that would be enough.
I wouldn’t even care if I didn’t get reimbursed by insurance.
Everyone around me is standing up, setting their drinks down, and checking their looks on their phones.
I confirm my bid and curse as @cosplayhero92 outbids me immediately.
Who the hell is this guy? My costar Andrew Valentine steps across my lap to get by me, pausing with his chinos-clad package squarely in my face.
I lurch backward. “Do you mind?”
His shit-eating grin tells me it was on purpose. “It’s showtime, Cap’n!”
“I need a minute.”
“Minute’s up.”
Andrew’s right. I’ll look like a douchebag if I miss my entrance, but I can’t let @cosplayhero92 get George Washington’s hat! I shuffle into line with the others, still scrolling on my phone.
Two minutes until the auction ends.
I raise the upper ceiling of my bid to a new number. A shameless number. The floor should open up and plunge me straight into the fiery depths of rich people hell for this number. I count and recount the zeroes, because if I make a mistake, I’ll be eating dinner at the Salvation Army tonight.
Now we’re all lined up in the wings, a herd of well-dressed cattle radiating adrenaline and cologne.
“Hey, Sean, look at that.” Jason points up into the rafters. When I glance up, he snatches the phone out of my hand. I should’ve seen that coming. Shit, and right when the auction’s about to end, although there’s no way I could bid any higher.
Jason scoffs. “This isn’t research. It’s an online auction. Jesus Christ, is that your bid?”
I snag the phone back, my heart in my throat as I check the results.
I won! Christopher Jackson’s hat is mine. The victory tastes as sweet as Mam’s trifle, and it feels like helium’s been pumped into my veins. I don’t even look at how much it cost me. Whatever it is, it’s worth it.
“No, of course not.” I pocket the phone, glancing past Jason, my face neutral. It’s a power move I’ve learned—deflection, part of controlling the narrative. “That would be ridiculous. Now quit messing around. It’s a fundraiser, after all.”
I won the auction! The hat is mine. All mine. I wish I could shake @cosplayhero92’s hand. He put up a good fight.
The grip waves us in, and I launch into a roundoff backflip across the stage to outrageous applause.
It’s the only way I can think of to burn off some of this pent-up energy.
The audience is on their feet, screaming their heads off.
I jump up, touch my toes in the air, and then take a bow before settling into my seat between Andrew and Jason Connor.
“Show-off,” Andrew mutters.
“Eat your heart out, cowboy.” I lean back in my chair, tuck my plum-colored scarf back into the neck of my shirt, and straighten the lapels of my lilac Comme des Garcons tweed jacket.
The suit was surprisingly stretchy and accommodating during those stunts.
I give my pompadour an exploratory pat. It doesn’t feel like it suffered any casualties.
Well, that was fun, but now it’s back to work. I force my face into nonchalance as I turn to the sea of women before me and await my fate.