Comma After Dearest

2016

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~Grace, Ella, and Phoebe.
AKA The Ham Fam

I should get a better job.

But apparently dressing up in colonial clothing and acting like I just toppled heads-over heels out of 1776, is the only thing I'm good at. When I said I wanted to be an actress, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind. I want to be on Broadway, but I barely have enough money to feed myself anything other than ramen noodles, much less have enough money to fill out an actor's equity form, so that dream will have to wait until I get my shit together. Granted it's not like I mind dressing up like Molly Pitcher on Mondays and Fridays, and Eliza Schuyler on Tuesdays and Sundays. In fact, most days I actually really enjoy it. Just not today. Today is not a tourist's ideal day for a historical tour. Today, Boston is cold, wet and obscured by black rain clouds which brood, and boil above the greyish-green water of the bay and the skyline. Literally almost no one is outside, probably tucked beside a roaring fireplace in a pub, enjoying a pint or four for the sake of a "historical experience".

Those who are outside huddle together, shielded by every different color of umbrella imaginable.

Except for me.

Well, me and a few other unfortunate broke college kids, dressed in petticoats or too-tight white man-spanx.

Despite all the clothing I have on- the dozens of petticoats, the top, the period coat and the fucking bonnet- I'm shivering, trying my best to smile and not to flip off everyone who comes within a five foot radius of me. I want to be inviting and make some kind of profit today, but I find that it's harder than I expected. Cold rain bleeds through the heavy fabric of my coat, dampening my top and leeching out the body heat, I'm trying to conserve for the next 5 hours. I'm cranky, I'm cold, I have someone waiting at home for me. I know no one is going ask for a tour on a day like this, and yet here I am standing in this fucking rain. I resort to people watching. They come and go, some in suits with their coffee and cellphone in hand, while others are donned in boots and rain slickers, chattering excitedly to one another and snapping pictures. I wonder about their stories.
Maybe the black girl in the yellow rain slicker just graduated from law school and just bought an apartment in manhattan. Maybe it's freshly painted and littered with housewarming gifts from her parents and relatives and boyfriend and boyfriends parents and relatives.
Maybe the middle aged white guy waiting anxiously at the crosswalk had a fight with his wife and is on his way to buy her roses and takeout from her favorite Italian restaurant as an apology.
Maybe the smiling little girl romping beside her mother donned in bright blue rain boots and a hijab will grow up to be a doctor or a fitness instructor or a civil rights activist.
Maybe the short pregnant lady holding hands with a pretty red headed woman who is presumably her wife is having a twins. Fraternal. A boy and a girl with big dark eyes and curly red hair.
I'm observing a pair of presumably Korean girls, grinning pretty, white smiles for an iPhone camera, when a man catches my eye. I quirk an eyebrow in bemusement. Like me, he's dressed in period clothing, a white cravat, a tail coat, boots, and stockings, but unlike me, he doesn't look bored or pissed- just plain lost. He wanders aimlessly about the streets, looking simultaneously terrified and completely awestruck, even as his eyes carefully scan each person he passes.