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| Angela |
| 04.29.04 (10:14 am) [edit] |
Angela is a waitress at a hole-in-the-wall bar in West Hollywood, and she feels out-of-sync. The city is so big and she is so small. Her arms dangle, her hips are diminutive, and her breasts aren’t quite developed. She hasn’t grown into her body, and she knows it. But she doesn’t mind because she wants to be a star.
She is from a midwestern town with a population of five hundred and twenty-three. Her high school theatre teacher, who was also her english and history teacher, said she had a chance to make it big. But how could he know; he had never traveled outside the state.
She believed him anyway. So she quit high school and traveled to Hollywood. She doesn’t have any money or family here, and she’s only seventeen, but her morale is high. All great actresses begin their careers as waitresses, she’s heard.
And though she hasn’t yet been to an audition, and she doesn’t even know what headshots are, she is brimming with a confidence unusual for a girl of her age and demeanor. Despite this confidence, she is not a good waitress.
She is clumsy. She can’t even balance a serving tray with one hand. And already today, she has spilled champagne on a customer and hot mustard sauce on another. And when the cooks or customers look at her in ‘that way’, she doesn’t quite know what to do. She is shy and doesn’t understand the power of her beauty.
A boy at the bar is calling for her. He is holding a beer and smiling innocently. “What’s your name?” he asks. His voice is youthful. She is not frightened. He can’t be much older than twenty-one or twenty-two, she thinks.
“Angela,” she says.
“That’s a pretty name,” he replies. She smells alcohol on his breath and wonders if he is drunk. “I think you’re very pretty, Justina. Do you think, maybe, you’d go on a date with me sometime?” His eyes are deep and dark brown. There is something fascinating about him, she thinks.
“I don’t know,” she says. He lowers his eyes to the ground.
“Angela, my mother says that to get a date with a girl as pretty as you, I have to act like someone that I’m not. She says I should forget to shave for a few days and act like nothing matters. But I can’t do it. It’s not me. It does matter. There’s something about you.”
She smiled. She wondered what that something could be. But she didn’t want to think about it too much, because she feared she might lose it. So she blushed. “Just do what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re doing fine.” And she walked away.
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