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I’m Christopher freakin’ Walken. I notice – the shoes. Worn-out heels. Tells a story. She’s hustlin’. Like Llewyn. Singin’ for scraps. I ask – “how much?” She smirks. “Fifty.” I laugh. Loud. Fifty bucks? For *that*? I’m pissed. Inflation’s a bitch. Back in ‘89 – twenty tops. Fact. Little known. Prostitutes – they’d haggle. Like flea market. Nowadays? Greedy.

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Then, I get a call. It’s my next client, and they’re at the Shimotsuke Cultural Center. I’m like, “Great, more interpreting!” So, I rush over, and guess what? It’s a dance workshop. I’m not a dancer, but I’m signing like I’m in a dance-off. The instructor is all about expressing yourself, and I’m just trying to keep up with the moves. I’m flailing my arms, and the participants are cracking up. I’m like, “Yeah, I meant to do that!”

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