By the time I walked into my last training shift on Sunday night, I was thin, my spirits were low, and I was worried about the road I seemed to be taking backwards.
I was still broken too. I was training for seven shifts at $10 an hour, and I was relieved when my trainer asked me to take this shift on my own. Managers were nowhere to be found, as usual, and she wanted to meet her boyfriend – a musician who had been cheating on her. The restaurant was slow, he told me that now I know what I’m doing, and, best of all, he’ll let me take all the tips I made home.
About 9 o’clock, three women came in: two women I had never seen before and one Catherine O’Hara alone. I got stronger. My mind flashed to O’Hara’s sidebars in “Beetlejuice.” His song “Kevin!” in “Home Alone.” Many and twenty times my sister and I have watched “Best in Show.” All the actors he had played before had trained me. My sense of happiness. How can I help him without telling him that I love him?
They sat at the window with Catherine in the middle. When I went to greet her party, her friends excitedly interrupted me and told me that they were taking her out on her birthday. He shook his head shyly, blushing and laughing.
“We’ve been friends forever,” he told me. “They don’t let me get away with anything.”
As a writer, I try to avoid cliches, but as a reader, his eyes are truly full of life and kindness.
Soon, it was my only table. I folded napkins a few feet away and watched three friends enjoying each other’s company – and everything from the first stage, plus burger, tuna and chicken. They shared a bottle of wine and giggled like girls.
During their meal, I realized that in just a few weeks, the restaurant I was standing in twisted what success should look like, but no one could extinguish the aura of true success that emanated from Catherine. He “had it” – that thing I was coming to NYC to prove I had, too, and it “wasn’t” pettiness or ambition at all costs, or ability, though he had that too. It was his personal feeling – the way he carried himself confidently, yet humbly, as he walked around the world – that no one could compete with him… or outwit him.
By the time I dropped off the chocolate soufflé, their table was holding the last lighted candle in the restaurant.
I placed the dessert in front of Catherine, and took a deep breath.
I said: “I shouldn’t worry about our famous dishes, but I just have to tell you what your acting means to me and my sister.”
“Me?” he said in disbelief. “Your favorite!”
“I’m sorry to bother you, I had to say something. Happy birthday.” I quickly turned away, trembling.
“Wait,” he called after me, “What is your name? What is your story?”
He forced me to join them in their booth and asked what kind of musician I was.
“Every waiter in this town has an interesting story,” he said, pointing at me with his spoon, his mouth full of birthday soufflé, the three’s attention now fully, but comfortably, on me.
I told him all about my dream of becoming a writer and the short story I was working on.
What if one of the characters dies?” he laughed, happily.
Were we working together? I couldn’t breathe.
I was happy to decline their offer of a soufflé bite because the manager suddenly appeared from his basement, and I quickly left the booth.
“I’ll just hold the chess for you,” I said, my arms behind my back again, trying to look professional. He winked at me as I left.
He paid the debt himself, even though his friends tried, and even though my advice didn’t show it, he left me 100% of their $400 and a note that read, “I know your day will come. Keep writing.”
The manager didn’t let me keep the receipt, but I didn’t need it.
Catherine had given me something precious that night. His grace is always with me. He showed me a different way to be an artist — to be human. He chose love, curiosity, humanity and humility in an industry that often makes that seem impossible.
I never went back to the restaurant after that night. I left before the smallness of the place convinced me that I must disappear to deserve the future. There were a number of other professional traditions before me that would try and stop erasing themselves as ambition, but years later, when I sat down to write this story a few days after the death of Catherine O’Hara, I was still able to connect that moment with her. Thanks to him, I still try to follow my appetite, to want to be full and to believe, even on my most hungry days, that my day will come.
Sammi LaBue is the founder of Fledgling Writing Workshops (“The Best Writing Workshops,” Timeout NY) and is basically obsessed with the feeling of having an idea and writing it down. His latest project is a recently completed memoir co-written with his mother titled “Bad Apples.” Some of her stories can be found on BuzzFeed, Slate, Literary Hub, The Sun, Glamor and more. To follow his writing journey and find opportunities to write about his flow, visit fledgling.substack.com.
This article first appeared on HuffPost in February 2026.
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