“BUT I DON’T want to hibernate! I can’t BEAR it! I want to stay up and celebrate Hanukkah with Goldie Lox.” I sit on a chair, taking a dramatic pause, and continue. “Tell us, Goldie, what is Hanukkah?”

I’m at a small theater on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood. It’s situated across from a gas station and between a Delish Donuts and a medical marijuana shop. I’m auditioning for my first paid acting gig, which I found listed in Backstage just this morning. Since my suspension, I’ve been more determined than ever to audition for anything and everything: “Seeking all types for series of children’s holiday play Baby Bear’s First Hanukkah. Auditions from 12 p.m.–5 p.m. Come dressed to move. Pay is $350/wk.”

Three fifty a week sounded really good to me. Three fifty a week would mean I could cut way back on waitressing. I knocked on Marisol’s door and brought her along with me. We had to wait in line for almost two hours to audition, and Marisol didn’t make it past the first round, but the director, Dawn, has asked me twice now to stick around. Marisol, who apparently just isn’t bear material, is waiting for me in the back of the theater. I’m surprised to have made it this far, hopeful that they want me to stay, and excited by the prospect of being chosen.

“Cut!” Dawn says now, using one hand to pull back her long, wavy hair, which hangs past her waist. Before I went on, the stage manager warned me that Dawn was in a bad mood after a long day of auditioning. “Don’t take it personal,” she said.

Papa Bear bulldozes past the command to cut. “Don’t be silly, Baby,” he booms as a fine spritz of his spit settles on my forehead and nose. His odor is 80 percent cigarettes, 10 percent booze, and 10 percent everything bagel.

“Time out! Time out!” Dawn makes the T-sign with her hands. Papa Bear, immersed in the scene, pushes me back in the chair and continues.

“We BEARLY know anything about Hanukkah,” he bellows with both hands on my shoulders.

Dawn waves her hands in the air. “Hello, Jeff. Earth to Jeff. Stop. Jeffrey Peter Plotkin. Stop.” Papa Bear is silenced. She shoots him a frustrated look, exhales through her nostrils, and turns to me. “Please stand up,” she says. I do. “Don’t ever, ever, ever”—she bobs her head for emphasis, holding her hands in a prayer position—“ever use a prop that isn’t yours. It’s like someone is touching your body without permission.”

“Oh.”

“How would you like it if someone just walked up to you and touched your body, just touched you all over your body without your permission?”

“I wouldn’t like that. But, um, what prop was I touching?”

Her eyes widen with amazement. She holds her arms out in a questioning position, stomps a foot, and leans forward, the choreography of someone asking a question. “Where were you sitting?”

“On a chair?”

“AHA!” She says, pointing a dramatic finger. “A chair is a prop.”

“Oh.”

“That chair doesn’t belong to us. That chair belongs to Eat Me, the incredibly hot show who’s very generously letting us use this space for auditions. For all we know, that chair could be designed to break the moment someone sits on it.”

“Okay.” That seems unlikely. I can see Marisol in the back, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Okay. Enough for Stagecraft 101,” says Dawn. “Let’s take it again from page fifteen, ‘Papa Bear! Papa Bear!’”

We go through the scene again. At the end of it Dawn whispers with the stage manager and an assistant, consulting on my performance.

“Jeffrey, get down here,” she says to Papa Bear. She announces to the room that she can talk to him like that because he’s her husband. Papa Bear hustles off the stage and joins the huddle. I’m left alone to contemplate the set of Eat Me. Forgetting my lesson in Stagecraft 101, I sit down on a sofa but stand up before anyone sees me except Marisol, who laughs at how quickly I’ve hopped to my feet.

“How tall are you?” Dawn asks me.

“Five feet.”

“Are you willing to wear a bear suit?”

Never did I think I would be asked this question, or that my answer would be an unequivocal yes.

“And you can rehearse and perform during the day?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. I’ll have to just work weekends at Rocky’s, the dreaded Sunday brunch, but at least I’ll be making most of my money as an actual actress.

“And you have reliable transportation? Preschoolers will be counting on you. All of my bears must be on time.”

“I’m extremely punctual,” I say, avoiding the transportation question altogether. The bus is reliable, right?

“It’s twenty hours a week of rehearsal, and starting November fifteenth, it’ll be four shows a week. Can you commit to all of these performances?”

“Yes.”

“Looks like you got yourself a part.” She consults my headshot. “Becca Harrington.”

At the back of the theater, Marisol gives me a standing ovation. I’m smiling so wide that it hurts. I know it’s just a children’s play, but I’m so happy that I’ll finally get a chance to do what I’ve come here to do. I have a part. An actual part!

“We have to celebrate,” Marisol says when we head back out onto Melrose. “Where should we go?”

“First stop, Delish Donuts,” I say.

“Good call. Those sprinkles are calling my name,” she says. The doughnut shop is weirdly connected to a liquor store. “You know this is going to help you get an agent.”

“You think so?” I ask, browsing the doughnuts, which are glistening with sugar.

“They have kids, too,” Marisol says, and digs into her purse for quarters.

“I’m buying you yours.”

“I can buy myself a doughnut,” Marisol says, though the fact that she’s counting pennies makes me think she’s really struggling.

“Come on, let me be your sugar daddy,” I say. Marisol bursts into laughter. I turn to the kid behind the counter. “The young lady may have whatever she likes.”

“You slay me,” she says, and puts her change away.

Once we have our wax bags of sprinkled snacks, I throw an arm around her shoulder.

“Now to Hotel Uno!” Like most of the moments I share with Marisol, this one is so much sweeter, bigger, and brighter because she’s here. “But we need to get our bathing suits. The pool there is sick.”