Tim on Broadway: Season One (Episode 1): Season One, #1

Acknowledgements

Writing can be a very solitary endeavor, but thanks to the following people I never felt alone in the process:

Phil, my best friend, has been the reason why I write. Not only has he been my friend since we were in kindergarten, he has been an inspiration. Thank you, Phil, for all those long, phone calls about Tim’s happenings. Our conversations were nearly as funny as the book.

Deb McGowan, at Beaten Track Publishing, gosh, what would I have done without you? How many times did you read the manuscript? I lost count. All the things you have done for me have not gone unnoticed. Hugs! Someday I’ll get you to pronounce Javier correctly.

A special shout out to all my beta readers (Alex, Gywnn, Laura and Wart), for putting up with some really rough rough drafts, while still letting me know your honest opinions.

Faith, from The Atwater Group, for proofing the final manuscript. Another knockout job. (Look two incomplete sentences.)

I’d also like to express gratitude to my parents, who are both, now, with us in spirit. I love you. Thanks for raising an okay kid.

Episode 1

America’s Got Divas

I put down my doughnut, picked up my iced coffee and took a sip. The extra-extra cream and extra-extra sugar gave me a nice little rush. It wasn’t quite as good as Starbucks’ but being unemployed I had to make the best of my homebrewed pot.

I had my cell phone cradled in the crook of my shoulder, talking to my best friend Julia. With my Kindle, I said, I can read them without people staring at me on the subway.

I still can’t believe you like girly romance books, Julia said. I could hear her slurping her own coffee, probably an iced Double Mocha Grande, being that she was at our old Starbucks in Salem. You’re the only guy I know who has every Chippendale Publishing book ever released.

I didn’t really but I didn’t want to quibble over details. Oh my God, I said, as a bit of powdered sugar sprayed from my mouth and landed on the blanket I had covered over me. I was getting ready to watch TV. I almost forgot to tell you.

She slurped some more of her coffee. What?

Guess who’s doing a comeback concert? I brushed the sugar dust off the blanket.

Who, Cher?

No, I said, raising my voice.

I don’t know. You got me, she said, and from her muffled speech, I could tell she was eating, probably a slice of carrot cake or a blueberry scone. I know what Julia likes. When she eats desserts, she usually goes for something that has a vegetable in it or some antioxidant fruit, because, of course, they’re healthier than my powdered doughnuts.

I pulled the blanket closer to me. Carolyn Sohier, I said. She’s finally coming out of seclusion and doing a concert.

Carolyn, who? I heard the clinking of the fork against the plate. Carrot cake, I bet.

"Carolyn Sohier― you know, the singer who was in Witches of Salem, that movie we saw the night I slipped on the ice in Danvers? And she was also on Broadway in―"

Oh, her. That movie was terrible. I could practically hear her nose wrinkle in disgust. Julia was brutally honest.

Well, I liked it, I said. She’s an amazing singer."

She didn’t even sing in that movie, she said, with her voice trailing off at the end.

"Well, it wasn’t a musical. But she did sing the theme song. Remember, we saw her on last year’s America’s Got Divas. She was the guest judge."

I suppose you’ll want me to go with you, she said.

I clicked the remote control. We’ll see. Tickets are expensive. She’s decided to come out of seclusion, out from her Greta Garbo cocoon. It’s a one-night only performance up in Bar Harbor.

Maine? Who the fuck gives a comeback performance in Maine? Bar Harbor, nonetheless. What, is she going to come out on stage riding a moose? She laughed.

My neck was beginning to ache. I rubbed it. I guess that’s where she lives. It’s a benefit of sorts.

So are you going to take the train or bus your ass up here to see her?

By here Julia was referring to New England, where we had both grown up.

You wanna go? I asked.

You mean will I go? Julia wasn’t a huge fan of divas like I was, but she knew I had no one else to go with and wouldn’t travel alone.

C’mon, you like her, I said. You even said her rendition of that Barry Manilow song was better than his.

Is that the song she sang when she shit herself on stage?

Whatever, I said and tossed the remote onto the seat cushion next to me. Julia was referring, of course, to Carolyn’s fairly well-publicized stage fright. Carolyn had suffered a particularly bad spell several years back and, well, embarrassed herself on live television. It was pretty sad. Julia thought it was funny.

I turned as an ambulance’s siren rang out from the street below, followed by a blare from its horn. I hated the sound of ambulances. I got up to shut the window as it took a turn down Charleston Place.

Five floors up and it sounds like the cops are right next door, she said. I don’t know how you can stand living in New York City.

It was an ambulance and I’m in Brooklyn.

Whatever.

I looked at the wall clock, a gift I bought myself. It had logos from nearly all the big Broadway shows over the past two years. "Shit. It’s almost time for America’s Got Divas and I haven’t even set the DVR."

Alright, I’ll let you go. Besides, I should check the dryer. She was at our old Starbucks across from the Laundromat. "Oh and how are you going to come up with the money to buy tickets for this reclusive diva? Didn’t you just get