HOLLYWOOD—Jason’s cell phone broke up again. He had to redial, to maintain a veneer of kindness, and meanwhile had already commenced the aching process of taking stock in the wake of his mom’s harsh words:

When does an artist begin to dismiss themselves? Jason wondered. How do they know they’re any good? Is it the prizes and the money? Who the hell knew?

He barely sputtered out a civil goodbye to Mom and he moped across the street to take some more stock on the picnic benches outside a grocery where two checkers were on break.

“It was her,” said one, awestruck.

“It wasn’t. She would never drive a Prius.”

“Who says Suzanne Katselas wouldn’t drive a Prius?”

Then and there, at the Trader Joe’s on Ventura Blvd., Jason knew that Suzanne had gone supernova, she was a shining new star in the galaxy. It didn’t matter whether he had cable, Suzanne and the cast members of Swag would irritate Jason’s vision from the gaudy headlines of tabloids. He wanted to bark to the checkers, “Yeah, she drives a Prius. We had post-marital sex in the back seat.”

All the self-help hogwash flew out the window. Jason ought to have been put on suicide watch, if anyone had cared. Ought to have had his shoe laces removed. What kept Jason’s mind off Suzanne’s sudden, conspicuous success was an afternoon rehearsal for Night School Musical. Still, he was dazed on his way to San Anselmo, and horns honked him awake after lights turned from red to green.

“Jason, you’re late,” Mr. Leonard said off the bat.

“Traffic,” Jason said.

Mr. Leonard turned from blocking a scene with Gudelia and Miguel.

“That shows your lack of professionalism. And the excuses. The traffic, the cat peed on your underwear. Nobody cares: we all got our own problems. Your soft view of time shows up in the mornings as well. Look, if it was anybody else here at San Anselmo, your job would be on the line.” Mr. Leonard sidled up to him and draped an arm around his shoulder. “We’re chums. I’m not gonna snitch on you.”

“My daughter has a hard time getting up,” Jason explained. “She’s staying up late with my ex-wife. Getting midnight sushi.”

“Your ex, the actress?” said Mr. Leonard.

“She’s on Swag,” Jason said bravely trying to flaunt that he was ego-less.

“I hear they got renewed for another 13 episodes,” said Mr. Leonard.

Jason smiled back even though he didn’t feel much like smiling. Mr. Leonard took a long sip of coffee after spooning in enough sugar to float a fleet of battleships.

“She must be loaded, Jason,” said Mr. Leonard. “Is she paying YOU alimony?”

“She thinks I’m an ATM machine.”

“I know how it is. People think I’m loaded. All my TV residuals. They all go to my two ex-wives.”

“Listen,” Jason said weakly, “I’m tired today, and I’ve got class tonight. I don’t feel much like sticking around.”

Outside San Anselmo he cried his eyes out. He could read Mylanta 10,000 times and he was unmoved as stone. It was just so much drivel, “Enlightened ones reach the point of enlightenment of truly feeling and believing ‘Your success is my success.’ The enlightened ones actively seek the company of the wiser, the more talented.”

He called the night school office and spoke to Roxie Cloud. She only wanted to dish about the musical.

“Mr. Leonard hummed a few bars of ‘Too Many Marias,’” said the former Julliard student. “I like it. But Gudelia is horribly miscast as the wife. Too old,” she said.

“Abby Fenwick is the understudy.”

“Ditto.”

“Did you know Gudelia has a son in the Marines?” she said. “He’s stationed in Iran or Iraq.”

“How do you know so much?” Jason asked.

“Didn’t you know? The guy who used to be a porn director is posting scenes from the rehearsals on-line. We’re really counting on this show. The whole accreditation team will be there for the opening. It will be the cherry on top of the banana split.” Oh, is there some reason you called me today, Mr. Finch, other than to talk about the musical?”

Whenever he was called Mr. Finch he saw a picture of a sallow-skinned mousy man with a graying mustache, his father.

“You know I’ve had trouble finding a babysitter for my daughter tonight,” Jason lied. “And she’s sick.”

“Sounds like you need to stay home tonight,” Roxie said, “That’s okay. We’ll find a sub.”

Easy as that, certainly easier than explaining he had been incapacitated by Suzanne’s meteoric rise in Hollywood.