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harder still, no thank you to the money. One producer offered me $50,000. Ian and I were still struggling to make rent. But I said no thank you and went back to doing my little stage show.
    There was other interest but I now knew the reality of how hard it would be to get the screenplay produced.
    At the show on this night, Rita Wilson and her Greek mom, sister, and nieces laughed so hard that I had to pause and pretend to drink water a few times. I kept my composure, but inwardly, I was giddily enchanted that they related to my story. If the story had ended there, I would have been satisfied.
    After the show, I walked out through the lobby and Rita was waiting for me. Her first words to me were “I love you.” I was stunned. She is even prettier in person, and a beam of happiness seems to emit from her. She is vivacious and upbeat and kept hugging me. I was delighted by her and her warm family, very much like my own.
    Rita then exclaimed, “This should be a movie.”
    We always say I then handed her my screenplay so fast her hair flew back. She was going to read my script!
    The next day, I got a call on my “box office” home line. For the very next show, Rita purchased four tickets for the males in her family: her dad, brother, son . . . and her husband, Tom Hanks.
    On show nights, my husband, Ian, would sit in the box office area of this little theater and take people’s ten-dollar bills. The theater seating was first come, first served, but it was only ninety-nine seats, so all seats were good. But someone at the theater had heard Tom Hanks was coming to the show, so on this night they’d taped off four seats right smack in the middle. It was a small theater facing a small stage. I was the only one onstage. You could see and hear me from any seat, anywhere. You could’ve seen me from the lobby.
    Anyway, on this night that Tom Hanks was coming, there were many Greeks at the show. And try telling a Greek they can’t sit somewhere. I was standing what could technically be called backstage, but really was just behind a thin and fake wall. I peeked through a crack and saw hefty audience members gesturing at the taped-off four-seat area, as in, “Why can’t I sit there? Why? Who are those seats for?”
    I paced. I was worried. It was time to start the show. Ian came backstage and told me ninety-five ticket-buying audience members were in. Four patrons were missing. We stared at each other, not saying it: Tom Hanks was not there.
    Ian ran outside to see if there was a problem. There was—the tiny parking lot was full. He then saw a shadow: running up the street from a parking meter was a small group led by . . . Tom Hanks. Ian gulped, ran back inside, got it together, casually gave them their tickets, and showed them into the theater.
    I was on the other side of the fake wall peeking through the crack, watching the complaining Greeks—“But why can’t I sit there? Who are those seats for?” And then, I saw their faces as they saw him walk in. Tom Hanks. Tom. Hanks. They realized those seats were being saved for the one, the only Tom Hanks. Suddenly that was okay with them.
    The audience lights went out, the show music played, and I was in a tizzy. I stood backstage, not moving. At all.
    I don’t get nervous about performing—even in my years of improv, if a scene died, I could just shake it off and go back out there for the next one. But tonight was a ridiculous scenario. Here’s the thing: to me, Tom Hanks had always been The One. He was always my favorite actor. I truly loved his work. I had watched his movies over and over. I couldn’t even hear the theme music to Philadelphia without choking up at just the memory of his performance. I was about to perform for, never mind the world’s greatest actor, but for my favorite actor of all time? A guy I now knew was cool enough to marry a hot Greek chick? I could hear a raspy sound. It was my breathing.
    Then I told myself this: in seventy-five minutes I