At the time of our encounter I was ushering a door in my mandated khaki best and a collared shirt with all the erotic energy of a public middle school band concert. The event was a movie premiere at Lincoln Center. Some Matt Damon/Ben Affleck flick watched exclusively by dads in those wrinkly leather recliners that smell faintly of Costco peanuts, whisky, and an underlining fear of the great beyond.

As ushers, our main job is neutrality. Essentially, human-shaped signage. I’ve developed a few techniques to survive this gentle psychic erosion. One of them lies in the pre-show playlist. Music helps the brain from dissolving like an aspirin tablet. With no playlist, the dissociation can lead to panic if I’m idle and on-display for too long. I imagine myself as a bobbing iMac jellyfish screensaver who’s little squishy head might explode if I’m even, for a moment, reminded of my own consciousness. But with music? Oh, I bob. Blissfully unaware.

Row H, about five seats in. I told a man on that particular night in a logoless grey sweatshirt with a thread count higher than my credit score.

This particular dad movie arrived armed with the daddest dad rock imaginable. Ventura Highway, Harvest Moon, Brothers in Arms, all arriving to me like affectionate uncles whose hands linger on your lower back for a beat too long. I began swaying slightly.

Wait a second.

I think I just ushered Sebastian Stan.

You arrived weirdly early. Celebrities usually materialize at these events at the last possible moment to avoid being seen and thus… bothered, I know, a fate worse than death. But you came early, Sebastian Stan, and stayed. You sat with your friends in an empty auditorium, unguarded, seemingly unaware that Tumblr users have written a collective 14 million words about your cheekbones.

Now, as a girl living in New York City, my chief governing principle tends towards delusion. So when I found out I’d be working a premiere, I got a little dolled up. Yes, I still had to wear the proletariat uniform, but on top of that polyester prison was blush, mascara, and red lipstick.

Because maybe, just maybe, someone important would see me and think:

“What is this obviously brilliant and beautiful woman doing in khakis?!”

“Look at her brave little unmoisturized hands.”

“I must free her immediately through marriage!”

Ridiculous? Yes. Healthy? Probably not. But work a service job for an easy year, especially one where you must watch hedge fund managers push on a clearly marked “pull” door and then tell you the door is broken, and let me know how you’d survive?

Anyway, you sat down and I resumed ushering. Then… Talking Heads came on. The song? “The Must Be The Place.” And my body? It answered. I closed my eyes and left reality.

You know what I think about a good song, Sebastian Stan? I think there is a heaven available to us and it lives just behind your eyelids when the right song comes at the right time.

I don’t know what compelled me to open my eyes but when I did you were looking right at me, a smirk blooming on your face.

CAUGHT! AVOID EYE CONTACT! CAUGHT!

Immediate. Consuming. Nuclear-grade embarrassment. My soul left my body and my gaze dropped to the hardwood floor.

But my body betrayed me. Still bopping. David Byrne had me like that little rat chef in Ratatouille. I looked up again.

OH GOD! THE HUMANITY!

STOP LOOKING AT ME!

NO ONE LOOK AT ME!

STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!

You leaned toward your friend and whispered something. The friend turned to look at me. Then another person turned. Then a woman rotated fully in her seat.

Dear reader, have you ever caught mean girls talking shit about you? Now… have you ever caught SEBASTIAN STAN TALKING SHIT ABOUT YOU?!

Okay, maybe you weren’t talking shit.

What I do know is you and your friends seemed amused, curiously. Like you’d suddenly noticed the restaurant pianist was absolutely shredding.

So I’m asking plainly, here, publicly:

What did you say about me, Sebastian Stan?

Now I have to live with the uncertainty forever. My brain will continue making theories, corkboard and red string until I die.

Tell me I was charming.

Tell me you also love Talking Heads.

Tell me you turned to your friend and said, “That usher is fine as hell and has great taste.”

Tell me we’ll slow dance at our wedding while David Byrne officiates in an oversized suit.

Until then, I remain,

The woman in khakis.

I’ll see you in my dreams/nightmares.

————

Madelyn May is an essayist, playwright, and poet based in New York City, with a BFA in Screenwriting and History from Chapman University. She has worked across television, film, and journalism, and currently works in the Art Department at HarperCollins Publishers. Her work has appeared in Dreamworldgirl Zine, Local Wolves, and Outside Berlin.