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One summer during grad school I lived in Chicago. My friend Maria and I got jobs at the famous diner Ann Sather, where we worked behind the cinnamon roll counter every morning starting at five o’clock. We sold only two items—cinnamon rolls and coffee—so the days were usually pretty uneventful. But one day we looked up after the morning rush and noticed that someone had left behind an open purse on the counter with what looked like a big bag of cocaine in it. We peeked inside, searching for anything that might help us find the owner. It may seem weird that we went digging around in someone else’s bag after we found drugs in it, but at first we weren’t positive that’s what it was, since neither of us had ever seen cocaine except in movies. But we finally came to the conclusion that yep, that’s what it was, all right—how thrilling! We’d cracked this case wide open—this must be how Cagney and Lacey felt all the time! Just then a very pale and sweaty woman came up to the counter. “Um, excuse me. Did you find a, um…?” she stuttered, eyes shifting around nervously. We nodded and handed her the bag. She stuffed a fifty-dollar bill in the tip jar and made a hasty exit. It didn’t occur to us until later that giving someone their drugs back rather than calling the police is the literal definition of “aiding and abetting.” Also, we decided that people who can afford giant bags of cocaine should really be embarrassed at leaving anything less than a cool hundy in the tip jar.

From the showcase my acting school class performed in New York after graduation, I finally scored an agent. But for a long time nothing came of the few auditions I got. So I taught SAT test prep, driving my rusty green Honda Accord out to places like Far Rockaway and Staten Island. I also worked for a catering company, demonstrated the Uno card game at the annual Toy Fair, and for one very long and clammy day wore a giant dog costume to play the mascot at a World Cup soccer convention. It took me half a day in the costume to realize there was no need for me to smile while taking photos with the attendees—they couldn’t see my face through the giant head I was wearing, and anyway my grin was already painted across my face in furry black whiskers. Also—in case you were wondering—no, it does not feel good when someone gleefully knocks on the side of your doggie head and asks “if it’s hot in there.” Yes, sir. Yes, it is. Also, while I understand that your friends find it funny, please stop scratching me behind the ears.

Finally, after about three years of booking only commercials and a few lines on soap operas here and there, I was cast in a supporting part in a play at the George Street Playhouse in New Jersey—my first union job since my role as Blinky McDryEyes in summer stock! I promptly turned in my apron at the Mexican restaurant I’d been working at in Park Slope, Brooklyn. My boss, Joe, was very nice about it; he told me I was welcome back anytime, which not only was cool of him but also proved he didn’t know how many free margaritas I’d been giving away to all my friends. Would I be back? I wondered. Or was the day job portion of my career finally over?

I’d love to say that all those hours spent doing things I had to do in order to survive—in order to inch closer to the thing I very much wanted to do—also gave me usable skills that I carried forward with me in life. I’d like to tell you that thanks to that first real job and its resulting hideous haircut, Steven Spielberg stopped me on the street, demanding to know where I got my pointy sideburns and incredible acting ability. But that did not happen. The takeaway from my many jobs, as far as I can tell, is this:

1. Don’t throw away hideous pictures of yourself—you may need to use them in your book one day.

2. Demand more money when returning drugs to strangers.

3. Dog costumes are very hot.

4. Oh, and thanks to that one summer I spent working at Benetton, I am, to this day, the guy to ask if you need your sweater neatly folded. Dozens of jobs, one actual skill!

At the Labor Day party, we all bonded over our shared tales of “that really awful job I had.” Not all the stories were about terrible things that happened at work, but the best ones were. Maybe that’s why you seldom see actors on talk shows regaling the hosts with stories of “that time I was well compensated at an early job I very much enjoyed.” There’s more comedy in failure than in success, and it’s a much more universal language. At the party, the worst jobs also seemed to be the ones everyone felt most proud to have endured. It’s an accomplishment to do something well, but maybe even a bigger one to do something well when you’d really rather not be doing it at all.

A few years ago I was back in my old neighborhood in Brooklyn, and when I turned a corner, there was my former boss, Joe, standing out in front of the Mexican restaurant as if no time had passed at all.

“Hey! I used to work here!” I said.

“I know,” he said, like he’d just seen me bussing tables there yesterday.

“This was my last real job before I started working as an actor,” I told him.

“I know,” he said.

“I gave away a lot of free margaritas,” I blurted out.

He rolled his eyes. “I know,” he said again, but he was smiling. I looked inside the restaurant and saw that almost nothing had changed, which was oddly comforting. It made it even easier to picture myself there as I was in 1995, when I was scrappily patched together by green Dep gel, scrunchies, and stirrup pants. I realized that even though that restaurant hadn’t been my dream job, I’d really liked working there. The rule I’d made for myself about keeping a day job until I could make a living acting was a good one. Wearing a dog costume was no fun, but I did it because it was more money than I usually made in a day, and I wasn’t too proud to hustle.

Maybe that’s why Professor Owen asked us to make those lists in the first place: to remember where we all started, and share stories of how far we’d come. To journey back to whatever each of our individual Brooklyns had been, and look in the window of the Mexican restaurant and remember ourselves as we were, young and hungry.

So, welcome to Chili’s, y’all. Whether you’re saying it for real or just trying to get the part, say it loud and say it proud.