“MY NAME IS THOMAS. I’m an independent filmmaker with Vagabond Productions and you sent me your headshot.”

I’m walking to work, my cell phone held tightly to my ear. I remember sending my headshot to this production company. To get my mind off of Alex, who I’ve decided is in complete and total emotional denial, I’ve been doing exhaustive research and sending my headshot to every production company in Los Angeles, just as Suzi Simpson recommended in her book. (“I know you’ve got a good brain because you bought this book. Go ahead and use it, kiddo! Research the production companies. Get their addresses. Be a bloodhound!”) Suzi Simpson also advises her readers to use other people’s doubts as fuel to work even harder. Alex has certainly given me that. Once I’m famous, once Alex sees how talented I am, he will regret treating me the way that he did on the phone.

I know from my research that Vagabond Productions formed in 2012 to make political films. Last year, they produced a small film called Clotilde that won several awards at festivals. I hadn’t exactly heard of the festivals where it won awards, but I was still impressed. It was reviewed by the LA Times, and one of the actors went on to get a part in an HBO drama. I started reading the reviews and found myself swept up in the film’s purpose, which was to expose our internalized racism. In my cover letter I said their work was courageous, ambitious, and necessary. Let Alex play his stupid guitar within the ivory tower of Stanford. While he’s paying insane amounts of money to hide from the world, I’m out in the city, among artists like the director on the other end of the phone.

“We’re auditioning for a new film and we’d like to see your work,” Thomas says.

“Oh, I’d love to. Clotilde sounded amazing. I was moved by the reviews alone.”

“Thank you. You’re the only one who wrote a letter with your headshot. A very well-written letter, I might add. It made a big difference that you were familiar with our work. I probably wouldn’t have called you otherwise, as it seems you haven’t started your training in earnest.”

“I’m going to start taking classes soon,” I say. Once I win the lottery.

I really would love to take classes. I’ve even called a few studios around town (“around town” is an expression I picked up from Suzi Simpson). But they all cost way more than I can afford. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pay for them and all of my living expenses. November’s rent nearly wiped me out completely.

I have five minutes to get to work, which is three minutes less than I need to get there on time. But I pick up my pace when it dawns on me that my headshots and cover letters are working. Just like Suzi Simpson promised, action equals results. I pause at the curb and then dart across the street, hoping I don’t get a jaywalking ticket.

Thomas continues. “Let me tell you a little bit about the project. It’s titled Hamlet Lives.”

Ohh, Shakespeare!

He tells me that its purpose is to bring art to the people with the hope of sparking political action. “Art has become cake for the elite, but it should be bread for the masses. If people see actors transforming themselves, they feel that they have the power to transform their own lives, and maybe even their government.” Even when diluted through a cell phone, Thomas’s voice is full and rich—and vaguely British. His natural speech pattern has a strong rhythm. “And where are the everyday people every day?”

“Um, every…where?” I round a corner onto Vermont, breathless as I pass a man whose stride is twice as long as my own.

“Yes, but how do everyday people get everywhere every day?”

“Every…which way?”

“The Metro,” he says.

“In LA?”

“Touché,” he says, and laughs. “We can’t shoot an inspiring, modern Hamlet in someone’s Kia Soul, can we?”

“I guess not,” I say.

Thomas explains that this abridged version of Hamlet will be shot entirely on the red Metro line using the latest iPhone. All rehearsals, filming, and meetings will happen on the subway. The only compensation for the actors will be an unlimited monthly bus pass.

“You’d be amazed at the industry attention our last film received,” Thomas says. “My lead from Clotilde is now—”

“On that show about the prison guard, I know!”

“Becca, do you want to be a Vagabond?”

“Yes, I do.” I don’t know how I’ll pay my rent if I have to miss waitressing shifts, but if I get the part, I’ll find a way, as Suzi Simpson says. (“We actors are a scrappy bunch!”) In about six heartbeats, I come up with a plan. As soon as I get the shooting schedule, I’ll trade shifts with someone. And if that doesn’t work, well, now that I have some experience, I might be able to get a different waitressing job. And the job won’t hurt as much, because I’ll have this secret, private, other life that has nothing to do with waitressing. I’ll be a working actress.

“Great,” Thomas says. “You’ll be auditioning for Ophelia.”

“Awesome.” Ophelia is a lead—hardly a character part. In your face, Theresa!

“It’s a group audition, so there’ll be a couple of other Ophelias there as well. Meet me tomorrow at three at the Hollywood and Vine Metro station. I’ll be wearing a brown derby, just like the famous old Hollywood club. I’ll be providing you with sides then.”

“Perfect.” I’ve learned that sides are a few pages of a script that are used in an audition. We say our good-byes just as I reach the restaurant. I stand outside the frosted-glass door and glance at my watch. I’m already one minute late, but I don’t care because I have my first LA audition. An old lady passes me, wheeling a personal shopping cart. She smiles at me, craning her neck to maintain eye contact, and I realize that she’s reflecting my own expression—I’m emanating happiness.

I take a minute to enjoy the moment before I enter restaurant hell. I text Marisol.

Me: I have an audition for an indie film!

Marisol: Yaaaaaaay!

A crisp breeze wraps around me. People say that there are no seasons in LA, but that’s not true. The trees are turning red and gold. The sky appears to have been swept of all atmospheric dust; it’s the cleanest shade of blue. The city seems like it’s getting its act together, almost like a secretary is organizing it. Fewer people are wearing flip-flops. Even the homeless man who hangs out on the corner of Vermont and Franklin is more motivated. He usually mutters nonsense in circles, but now he’s walking back and forth in front of the library with a mantra: “I’ve got to get back to Dallas. I’ve got to get back to Dallas.”

I take a deep breath and open the glass door, fully prepared for Gloria to bitch me out. Instead, I enter some alternate version of the restaurant. The energy of the place actually matches the decor. The music is twice as loud as it usually is. Chantal is dancing near one of the jukeboxes with a can of whipped cream in her hand. Marvin is lip-synching into a broom. An open beer sits on the cash register.

“Guess who’s not coming in tonight,” Chantal says, and dances over to me.

“No! No? Really?” I start jumping up and down. Chantal nods. “Where is she?”

“She called in sick.” I join Chantal in her dance of joy.

“Oh, this is a good day,” I say. “This is a great day.”

“Tell me about it,” she says. “My boyfriend and I had sex twice this morning, and I got off both times.” Then she sprays whipped cream from the can into her mouth. She points the nozzle at my face. “Want some?”

“Oh, no thanks.”

“Yes, you do,” Chantal taunts me, grabbing my T-shirt.

“No, no, Chantal! Stop!” I try to squirm away, but she’s a lot stronger.

Peanut emerges from the swinging kitchen doors chanting, “Girl fight! Girl fight! Girl fight!” This would usually gross me out, but I can’t stop laughing long enough to be disgusted or mad or to fight off Chantal as she backs me into a booth. Her face shows both a wild glee and seriousness of purpose as she points the nozzle at my mouth and says, “Open up, white girl!”