On May 22, 2000, Randolph Walker, a seventy-one-year-old career actor, was struck and killed by a double-decker tour bus while crossing a street in midtown Manhattan near the low-rent apartment complex where he lived. This sad accident—an all-too-common occurrence in crowded cities—nevertheless galvanized the New York community for reasons that should concern us all. Mr. Walker was on his way home after an audition for a bit part in a movie called Dummy. He had been hopeful about getting the part; he was always hopeful. This is probably why he had been able to eke out a living as an actor for nearly twenty-five years after leaving a job in banking. He pieced together bit parts in plays, work in dinner theaters, and “under five” roles in soap operas, in which an actor is hired for one daya nd has less than five lines to speak. In his obituary in The New York Times (June 1, 2000), reporter Robin Pogrebin quotes a friend, Todd Heughens, as saying, “‘There are so many actors who don’t work at all, and here was a guy who supported himself as an actor. . . . So I think he took great pride in that.’” Yet he was described by his fellow actors as “non-competitive in the extreme. . . . He told his friends about roles he was seeking so they could try to get them also,” and “he was happy for them even when they won parts he had wanted.”Mr. Walker, who was six feet tall and slender and had a resonant voice, was generally cast in small character parts, such as butlers or undertakers. He loved acting and was an inspiration and mentor to younger actors, according to his agent, Michael Hartig, who was also quoted in the obituary: “‘When he worked on shows, they would gravitate toward him,’ Mr. Hartig said. . . . ‘He always had time to talk to them, to share his knowledge and his expertise.’” He was a quiet, unassuming professional who lived for his work, did not resent his lack of fame, and left be-hind nothing but good reports and sadness when he died.