The Stand-In(59)
The seats fill up rapidly, and after the warnings to turn off phones and that filming is prohibited, followed by the Indigenous land acknowledgment, the lights dim and the curtain rises to thunderous applause.
The first act takes place in a Chinese restaurant, with white-draped tables and black cane-backed chairs. Fangli appears wearing a blue dress with a tight waist, and her waved hair makes her look like a 1940s pinup. She is perfection as she moves around the chairs. Even silent, she manages to keep my attention with her sheer presence.
Then Sam comes onto the stage. I do my best to not stare at him, but it’s like trying to avoid gazing at the sun during an eclipse. I know I shouldn’t and that it will be bad for me, but I can’t resist a little peek because surely that can’t do any damage.
He’s dressed in a dark-gray suit, and they’ve styled his hair to reveal his face instead of his usual tousled look. When he tugs on the bottom of the vest, I add it immediately to the hot-things-hot-men-do list, which I fully recognize is a hot-things-Sam-does list.
Together, the two of them weave a story with more than their words. Their every action adds layers. I watch with avid eyes as they build their relationship around a multitude of secrets—his upcoming secret mission in Southeast Asia, her absent and despised fiancé.
Before the intermission, their chemistry has become a tangible thing, drawing in the audience. Fangli-as-Lin is powerfully attracted to Sam-as-Jimmy, although she knows he’s hiding something from her. Jimmy feels the same and is finding it difficult to resist her. I watch him, barely breathing, as Lin reaches out to touch his lapel and he moves from her with a quick step to lean against the wall.
Then the lights come up and the crowd relaxes in their seats with a collective sigh. The people around me file out in search of wine and washrooms, and I check my phone to distract myself from visions of a gray-suited Sam dancing in my eyes.
There’s a text from Mei. Change to tonight’s event. Attending children’s hospital for a meet and greet before gala. Leave one hour early.
Got it, I send back. Thanks for the ticket, the seat is great.
Silence. I’m left with the uncomfortable sense that I’ve offended her, even over text. I don’t see how—I’ve been faithful about doing my best, which I thought made her life easier. I’ll try to do better; that might help soften her.
The woman beside me sits back down with a sippy cup of white wine and turns to her friend, who is also holding a clear lidded plastic cup. They’re loud enough that I suspect those aren’t the first they’ve had.
“Beautiful story,” says the one next to me as she adjusts her polo shirt.
“A bit unrealistic.” Her friend downs at least a third of the glass in a gulp. “All the Asians were put in camps during the war, so there’s no way they could volunteer to fight.”
“Really? I had no idea. You learn something every day.”
My eyes shift over to them as if magnetized. I can’t believe anyone is this ignorant of history but I guess you care less if you don’t consider it your story.
“I knew a Chinese girl from book club.” The woman nods confidently as if this has given her the equivalent of a PhD in East Asian studies.
I have to interrupt despite Mei’s caution to keep a low profile. “Sorry, but that’s not true.” I settle the glasses more firmly on my face and lean over. “There’s a historical note in the program.”
Their faces freeze. “Why, thank you, dear,” says the one woman. That’s it. They turn back to each other, politely ignoring me, and chat quietly. Then I hear “The lead is quite attractive for an Oriental man.”
“He sure is. I wasn’t sure about these last-minute tickets instead of a musical but I suppose it’s quite cultural.”
They’re beyond redemption. I let them go back to their wine.
The curtain rises and the action blasts the two women right out of my mind. Much like when I watched The Pearl Lotus, I find it hard to stop watching Sam. He’s utterly compelling, and I remember what he said about navigating through an environment instead of simply getting from A to B. He’s not fluid like a dancer but so controlled his every movement is poetry. The Sam I watch on that stage is not like the Sam I know, and I wonder how he channels his energy. I’m awed at his ability to physically conjure emotions, and I force myself to stay away from thoughts of what he’s like in bed. It’s hopeless because when he reaches for Fangli and moves her against the wall, capturing her with his arms on each side of her head, Sam is so convincing I believe he’ll do anything to get Fangli to submit body and soul.
No, Jimmy. Jimmy and Lin, not Sam and Fangli.
When the show ends, there’s a standing ovation when the actors come out to bow, and I go out at the other end of the row so I can avoid the two women.
I leave the theater in a pensive mood. That I’m harboring these emotions toward Sam is unwelcome, and I need the steady beat of my steps to get my thoughts in order. The first and most obvious reason is that I don’t have a thing for Sam at all but for what he represents. Put any rich, handsome, and famous man in his place and I’d have the same skin prickles, like getting in an overly hot bath when you’re cold.
Except I was at a premiere last night with several rich, handsome, and famous men in attendance and I barely noticed. Apparently Chris Evans was there. Normally, Chris Evans being within a kilometer radius of me would have been enough to trigger a DEFCON level status change in my hormones but I didn’t know until I checked the celebrity gossip pages this morning. This is Captain America we’re talking about, the best Chris.