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Between midnight and 6 am, Denny's on Hollywood Boulevard hosts a strange pantheon of wanna be's, maybe's, has beens and the waiting staff that's seen it all.
It's the morning following the Oscars.
Table nine entertains a group of young agents too poor to tip; however, each sports some type of expensive promotional gadgets with brand names like Chanel, Gucci, etc. They jest each other, trying to outdo each other with a bigger fish story about their job and prospects. They are practicing what they see their bosses do.
Booth seventeen cradles the young rock star who hitched 500 miles but now nurses a cup of coffee while scribbling away at the worn notebook. His hair and almost derelict style sing an odd melancholy that's both angry and sad at the same time.
Then there is the young woman crying in the corner. For her, his dream of riches and glory is about to take a turn. This evening somewhere in one of the mansions in the hills, she strikes her pose at the balcony looking at the stars and she finds herself in the charming company of one of them celebrity director-writer-producers. She smiles her million dollar smile and learns that her pretty looks, her mother's cocktail dress and her great talent combined is nothing unless her body comes as part of the sale.
She wrestles with her mid-west Christian values against her heart's desire.
Outside, the sun begins to color the night sky a dusky rose. She puts the number of the producer inside her pocket.
Later, she tells herself. For now, she needs sleep and be ready by noon for her job with the caterer as a food-server.
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