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washer, which miraculously come out clean, and she gets a huge hug from her approving husband.
    The commercial was supposed to be funny.
    They thought I was taking myself seriously as a choice, when I was honestly trying to sell myself to them as a perfect person with a perfect life. If I’d understood it properly, I would have played it differently. I would have played it more obviously sarcastic or something. I would have tried to let them know that I realized it was comedic, to show them I understand funny. But I played it trying to be serious, and they laughed anyway. Which either means I don’t understand funny at all, or I understand it better than I think I do.
    They thought I was funny; isn’t that all that matters? Does being accidentally funny count as being funny? I’m not sure what happened in there. Today was either a great success or a terrible failure. I wish there were someone I could call and ask, some sort of all-seeing audition judge in the sky, the omnipotent God of Funny, who could help me decipher this endless parade of baffling incidents. But all I have today is myself on a bench, with a crumpled piece of paper and an unlit cigarette, hoping for some clarity, or maybe just a light.

4
 
    Most of the streets in Manhattan go in just one direction. Some of the larger crosstown streets and some of the major north—south avenues have two-way traffic, but in general, the odd-numbered streets go west, toward the Hudson River, and the “evens go east,” as Jane, the native New Yorker, taught me. Even our neighborhood in Brooklyn has mostly one-way streets, so I must see the sign with the familiar white arrow and bold black letters a hundred times a week, but I never take it for granted. For most people it’s an indication to look for the traffic coming from one direction, but I always take care to look both ways, in case someone missed the sign and is accidentally going the wrong way. It’s been this way for most of my life. I check not once, not twice, but three times before I cross a one-way street. And that’s how, one Tuesday afternoon before class, I see James Franklin.
    I’m sure he wasn’t there the first two times I checked the traffic headed west on 45th Street, but when I check for the third time, there he is. James Franklin, the working actor who’s still in class, the one who got the part in the Arturo DeNucci movie. He’s wearing a green army surplus—type jacket and faded jeans and has a long blue and red striped scarf looped around his neck. His hair is dark and a little wavy. He’s so handsome that it almost hurts my eyes. Even from across the street he stands out like the sun is shining just a little more brightly on him, giving him the slightest bit more attention and warmth than everyone else.
    He’s across Sixth Avenue heading west, and I’m about to head north. If I can cross 45th before the light changes, and stall convincingly for a moment, there’s a chance we’ll accidentally run into each other. Maybe he’ll recognize me, maybe even remember my name, although he’s been back in class only a month or so after being on location and I’d just started with Stavros when he left. But if he does recognize me, maybe I’ll ask him for a light, and we’ll stand on the corner having a smoke and talking about class, or maybe he’ll ask if I want a cup of coffee, and we’ll go to a diner and sit down and talk about …  Shit . What will we talk about? I’ll think of something. I’ll think of something funny to say and he’ll say, “You’re funny. I never realized how funny you are. I’m so glad I ran into you.” And maybe we’ll go out sometime, and maybe we’ll fall in love. And someday we’ll happen to be walking down this very street and he’ll say, “Remember that day when we accidentally ran into each other here?” But none of that can happen if he walks by me on the street today.
    I make my way across 45th Street and hover near a trash can, digging