By Marcus J. Guillory I lied about my age on the job application. I even doctored a Xerox copy of my birth certificate with zero regard for any possible fines or imprisonment. I had to get this job—but I was 15, too young. The minimum age to work at AstroWorld was 16. Who could blame me, though? A job at AstroWorld was the hottest thing a teenager could do in Houston in the ’80s. I sat in the personnel reception area, waiting for my name to be called. My mother waited in her car in the parking lot listening to Luther Vandross, windows down and managing the humidity and heat with a hand fan depicting Jesus washing his disciples’ feet. It didn’t take long. I got the job. A week later, I put on the blue and yellow uniform with the nametag. I had arrived. I was officially part of the dream.