Instead of going to class, I would walk down to the Formosa Cafe for lunch every day and stayed through happy hour. I had recognized the place from the gossip rags. I knew famous people hung out there. It was right next to a movie studio. The red building with cursive writing and a black awning became my daily spot. I knew it was a lame move, but it was the only one I had. If I wanted to be an actress, I would have to be discovered. And I wasn’t sure how you went about that, except by hanging around the spots where movie people might be. So I went there every day and nursed a glass of Coke. I did it so often and for so long that eventually the bartender got sick of pretending he didn’t know what gamble I was running. “Look,” he said to me about three weeks in, “if you want to sit around here hoping Humphrey Bogart shows up, that’s fine. But you need to make yourself useful. ’'m not giving up a paying seat for you to sip a soda.” He was older, maybe fifty, but his hair was thick and dark. The lines on his forehead reminded me of my father’s. “What do you want me to do?” I asked him. I was slightly worried that he’d want something from me that I had already given to Ernie, but he threw a waiter’s pad at me and told me to try my hand at taking orders. I had no clue how to be a waitress, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that. “All right,” I said. “Where should I start?” He pointed at the tables in the place, the booths in a tight row. “That’s table one. You can figure out the rest of the numbers by counting.” “OK,” I said. “I got it.” I stood up off the bar stool and started walking over to table two, where three men in suits were seated, talking, their menus closed. “Hey, kid?” the bartender said. “Yes?” “You're a knockout. Five bucks says it happens for you.” I took ten orders, mixed up three people’s sandwiches, and made four dollars.