Okay, so L'Atrice came through and made the call, and now I sit in front of this guy, Lucio, your typical studio laborer who's been here for forty years. The little hair he's got left is slicked back, he's rotundly fat, puffs a cigar, but wears an Armani shirt with a beautiful Seiko watch. He's like a piece of bologna in a Chardonnay sauce.

"So you never worked on a set?" He says between puffs.

I think hard back to that communications class in college, the chapter on interviews: eye contact, posture, and non-verbal communication.

Maybe if my answer was about to be yes, my shoulders wouldn't droop and my chin would be perpendicular to my chair instead of embedded in my chest. "No," I said, desperately trying to think why I hadn't worked on a set before.

"L'Atrice says you want to be a designer, is that so?"

I pop my little head up and sprout my shoulders, "Yes, that's true, I want to design."

"Well, we already got a designer so don't be thinking of coming in here and making some headway or anything."

I return to my adolescent-in-trouble position. Now all I need is a big red zit in the middle of my forehead; I can feel it bulging as we speak. "No," I say, "Of course not."

"Well, all right. L'Atrice says you're gay. That true?"

"Excuse me?" I feel my stomach start to curdle.

"Lesbian, are you a lesbian?"

"What?" Holding the shock that is brewing in my gut.

"A dyke, are you a dyke?"

My sardonic laugh outweighs my effort at control.

"Guess that mean yes." He looks back down at my resume and says, "Well, we'll call you."

"Hey!" I could form no other words in my mouth.

"What's the problem?"

"I don't think you can ask me that," I said sitting up in my chair.

"I just did. And like it or not, you answered me. Listen, I got four other people to see and then I'll call you." He puffed again.

"You haven't even told me what the job is. I mean, you're not going to call me or you wouldn't have asked me that question."

"All right, the job is to dress a touchy personality and I have to be very particular. We've gone through four dressers already."

I can't take anymore. Tears form and last thing I want is this misogynistic asshole to see me vulnerable. "Thanks a lot." And I leave, get in my dilapidating insect of a car, go to the gym, and majorly sweat for the next two hours, fantasizing about suing that guy, Warner Brothers, and whoever the star is that refuses to have a dyke dress her or him. Of course, I would never work in this town again but maybe I'd have a million dollars. But I realize discriminated lesbians don't get a million dollars. They only give a million, if they're lucky, to gay men who are dying of AIDS.