I Was A Disillusioned Waiter In New York. A Chance Encounter With Catherine O'Hara Changed My Life.

"I was standing in swanky restaurant in New York City wearing a black dress short enough to satisfy management, and I had just broken the most important rule of the job."

“What’s your name?” Catherine O’Hara asked me, leaning forward in the booth. “What’s your story?”

I was standing in a swanky restaurant in New York City wearing a black dress short enough to satisfy management, my hands clasped behind my back in case a manager appeared. I had just broken the most important rule of the job: Never acknowledge a celebrity.

Three months earlier, I had dropped off my resume anywhere I could in hopes of securing a job that would supplement what my $35-a-week publishing intern stipend wouldn’t get me, which was, of course, everything but my subway fare.

I was hungry in every sense of the word. By the end of the day, I was offered three serving jobs and took them all. One was at this legendary restaurant continuously full of rock stars, Oscar-winning actors and models.

During my interview, the manager had ignored my flimsy (both in substance and content) resume and assessed my body instead. My waist. My chest. My legs. He said they had a place for me as a cocktail server in the private lounge where the windows were tinted, the tables were low and loungy, and the only clientele allowed in were ultra-wealthy patrons and celebrities.