announcers -- they'd immediately close shop, regardless of patrons inside. Occasionally I was trapped with other confused women, sometimes by myself, but never for long: Warrants trump locks. When the gates inevitably rose on the other side of the Pokmon sheet -- which was, by the way, counterfeit itself -- I scurried out like a frightened tourist, careful to avoid eye contact with the guys. I could congratulate them later over beers but couldn't blow my cover at the moment because a couple of days later, I'd be back in Chinatown canvassing the same stretch of junk. My income hinged on my ability to be multiple people. Problem was: I'm not much of an actor. In the spring of my senior year in high school, I took a season off sports to broaden my artistic horizons. I played Miss Bessom in our theater department's production of Shirley Jackson's adaptation of The Lottery. All you need to know about the play is that everyone wears gray and people die, but then again you're probably familiar with the story after seeing your high school drama club production. I don't know why this brutally dark play is so popular with adolescents . . . oh wait, yeah I do. Anyway, I was horrible. I had a handful of lines and delivered each like a kid who bowls by holding the ball between her legs, and then while squatting, thrusts it down the lane. I am also a bad bowler. Our director said to