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she started to pay by check, the photographer threw a fit and claimed she would have to wait three days until it cleared to get her photos.
    Leaving Debbie behind Joyce dashed across the street, got the cash out of an automated teller machine and ran back to pay the bill.
    Although they had been with him for more than three hours, the photographer had no other customers. His phone hadn’t even 40
    ENTR’ACTE
    rung. “I’ll be by to pick these up bright and early tomorrow,”
    Joyce said to him pointedly.
    When they got home they took Amelia for a walk and made supper, with the trade papers spread out on the kitchen counter.
    “Ingénues, that’s us,” Debbie grimaced. When Joyce wrinkled her nose in distaste, she added, “in some of these ads guys our age are referred to as juveniles. I think they’ve got it worse.”
    A network soap opera was casting an “under-five,” meaning the part called for five or fewer lines. The character would be a day player, appearing only in that one episode, the ad said.
    “That’s a bad sign because all the soaps have casting departments that keep files on people they’ve seen,” Debbie said.
    “If they’re looking for more it could be either that they want to build up their files, or the look they’re trying to cast is so exotic they’re having trouble finding it.”
    “We’re not exactly exotic-looking,” Joyce said. But she circled the ad and wrote the particulars in her daybook anyway. Most of the ads said SAG, AFTRA or Equity cards required, meaning the auditions were open only to members of those unions. It would be a long time before Joyce would qualify for membership, she knew.
    One of the quickest ways to get eligibility was to be cast in a union production, earning points toward membership. But since that meant being chosen out of open, cattle-call auditions, the chances were not great.
    “What’s an industrial?” Joyce asked.
    “That’s usually a variety show put together to highlight a company’s products or reputation,” Deb said, again assuming her voice of experience. “They’re usually done at trade shows or conventions, and they’re not bad if you don’t mind being a dancing fabric-softener bottle or something.”
    “Have you tried out for these?” Joyce asked.
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    “Yea. They ask you to sing. You bring your sheet music and give it to the piano player,” Debbie said. “They like to hear the standards, Porter, Gershwin, that kind of stuff. They might ask you to dance. If they do they’ll give you the steps, light, jazzy stuff.
    There’s no acting.”
    Joyce wrote in the industrial audition, making a note next to it,
    “I Get a Kick Out of You.” It was a favorite song of her grandmother’s, and maybe it would bring her luck.
    She chose two more ads to answer, one for a local commercial and the other for what appeared to be an agent. It was hard to tell since the ad only said “looking for new faces. Placements in radio, TV and film.” Joyce might have thought it was an employment agency except it mentioned bringing a photo as well as a resume.
    After a supper of spaghetti and sauce from a jar, Joyce got out the daily newspaper and searched through the help wanted ads.
    “I’ve got to have something to fill my afternoons, right?” she smiled. “My chances ought to be somewhat better here, I have had two years of college. I can do a lot of things.”
    But drama majors are not qualified to be secretaries, teachers or management trainees, the three biggest job categories. Joyce couldn’t apply for any nursing jobs, and nurses’ aides were paid less than some waitresses.
    She was thoroughly discouraged and about to fling the paper on the floor when her eye caught a column of ads under
    “Editorial.” Several publishing houses wanted proofreaders and copyeditors; no experience but a good command of English was required.
    “Some of these jobs are part-time,” Joyce read out loud. “I could earn half of $28K, which