Page 38 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“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’lldefinitelybe there. But be aware, they’ll boss you around if you let them, so you’ve got to stand up for yourself. Remember,you’rethe 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 likebring it onand 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.

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