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track on a job. “How are you, Bob-a-lou?”
    â€œI’m fantastic,” he says. Bob is always “fantastic.” He puts me at arm’s length. “You look tired, Maggie, are you burning the midnight oil?”
    Now,
I
can think I look tired and even
say
I look tired, but when someone else says I look tired, I get very untired and very defensive. “I didn’t have time to even wash my face this morning and I just have voice-over things and I feel great actually, in fact, I’m in the pink. But I’ve got to run.” I kiss him quickly on the cheek. “How’s Piper?” Piper is Bob’s teacup poodle.
    â€œKidney stones.”
    â€œOh, no.”
    â€œBut he’s going to be fine and dandy. So what are you up to?”
    â€œYou know, the usual, voice-overs, kiddies’ theater? I have a
Snow White
coming up.”
    â€œWho do you play? The evil stepmother?”
    â€œNo, I’m Snow White,” I say. Bob looks at me and then lets out a huge laugh—a guffaw actually.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?”
    â€œNothing. I was just thinking about you as Snow White. I bet you’re great. You must bring quite an edge to the role.”
    â€œI do, and I’m damn good. She’s not just an ingénue, she’s a woman caught in the political machine of autocratic matriarchy. The kids fucking love it.”
    â€œSounds great,” Bob says, suppressing another guffaw.
    â€œCatch you later, Bob, got to run,” I practically spit at him as I head across the street. A car honks at me. I back up onto the curb.
    â€œCareful, Mags,” Bob says. The light turns and I run to the other side. Ogre is what I would cast Bob as. A big, mean, thoughtless ogre. In spite of the ten million plus people in the New York area, it’s really a small town and you can never get from one end to the other without running into someone you know.
    When I arrive at Don’t Tell Mama, three people are sitting at the bar. The place doesn’t officially open until four p.m., but a couple of hangers-on are always lounging on the barstools. I ask Freddie, the bartender, if Sidney is in his office.
    â€œJust arrived.” He tosses the words in my direction, continuing his housecleaning in preparation for the night ahead. Bars are dreary places in the daytime; they look embarrassed, like a middle-aged woman without makeup caught in bad lighting. God, I know the feeling . . . and the look.
    Sidney is sitting at his desk eating a turkey and cheese on ryeand sipping a large coffee, light and sweet. I know because I used to bring him one whenever I was doing a show. Sidney is a caffeine freak—I’ve never seen him without a cup somewhere within reach.
    â€œMaggie, how are you?” he says when I poke my head in the door. “Come on in. Long time no see.” He stands and extends his hand.
    â€œI’m okay. How about you?”
    â€œBusy. Always busy.”
    â€œThat’s good, isn’t it?”
    â€œYou bet. Idle hands are the devil’s playground or something to that effect.”
    â€œPlease don’t let me keep you from your lunch.” I motion to his sandwich. “I was wondering about booking a couple of dates. I’ve decided to get back to my old act. Or rather, my new solo act. Anyway, shake my booty again before everything breaks down and my vocal cords retire.
    â€œIt’s been a while,” Sidney says.
    â€œYeah, but I’m still game and I’ve still got my money note, as they say in the biz.” I know I’m smiling too much. “Look, why don’t you finish your lunch and we can talk. I’ll be out at the bar.”
    The phone rings.
    â€œGreat,” Sidney says, picking up the receiver. “I’ll see you in a few.”
    I order a bottle of Rolling Rock from Freddie. I’ve run into Sidney off and on over the years, and he always says that when I feel like it I should