“This is just ridiculous,” says Mom, shifting her considerable weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t understand why we’re still waiting. We never have to wait like this in New York.”

Christopher isn’t listening. He’s got his head bent over his iPhone, and he’s scrolling through his Facebook notifications. “Neil posted on my wall,” he says. “Do you think I should say something back?”

Mom doesn’t answer. Her bright pink shrug is slipping off her shoulder, and she tugs it up with a grunt. It never gets cold in California, not like it does in New York, but she had to wear the shrug. It matches her floor-length gown.

“I posted on his wall,” says Christopher. “I asked if he was coming.”

“Tell him to bring some coffee. You could have gotten us some coffee. I could have used the bathroom. I can’t believe how long we’ve been standing here.”

Christopher puts his phone away. A group of women pass, and Christopher says, “Hey there’s the actress from that show.”

“What show?” asks Mom. She cranes her head and looks behind her, but all she can see is the line, people in jeans and t-shirts. It’s disgraceful. No one in New York would show up looking sloppy.

That show, Ma. You know, the one I pitched to?”

Mom huffs and shakes her head. “I’ll bet you she won’t have to wait.”

Christopher takes his phone out.

“We wouldn’t have to wait if someone liked your script. You must not be pitching it enough.”

Christopher scratches his ear.

“You know, in New York, if you have a ticket, they just let you inside. I don’t understand what the problem is, Christopher. We’ve been waiting out here for ages.”

Christopher tucks his phone back into his pocket. “Neil wrote back,” he says. “He might not come after all.”

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