Hollywood Director 1992

[Chapter 6: Hunger]

Woohoo~

Los Angeles Union Station.

After the train arrived, Link said goodbye to Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, leaving the station, strolling along Sunset Boulevard to an apartment on Bird Streets in Hollywood Hills West.

He shut the door, tossed his backpack aside, and plopped down on the bed, falling fast asleep.

After an unknown amount of time, Link woke up to a strong wave of hunger. Shaking, he crawled out of bed, rummaging through his things for food. He found only a few damp potato chips and a half-opened bag of spaghetti.

He dashed to the faucet, gulping down some cold water that did nothing to quell his hunger. Turning on the stove, he filled a pot with cold water, tossed in the entire package of spaghetti, added some salt, and turned the heat up high to boil.

While it was getting ready, he quickly took a cold shower in the tiny bathroom, changing into a clean T-shirt and shorts.

Once he finished showering, the spaghetti was ready too, wafting a delightful aroma.

Link served the noodles onto a plate, squirted some ketchup on top, and mixed it with a fork. The plain spaghetti instantly transformed into a bright red dish, enticing and irresistible.

He crouched on the floor and devoured it. In less than three minutes, he polished off the entire plate of spaghetti.

"Ah, that hits the spot!"

Link leaned back against the couch, rubbing his moderately full belly. It felt warm and comforting; a sense of happiness enveloped him.

...

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Link, are you back? I heard someone downstairs say you are back."

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Stop knocking!"

Ever since his dreams fell apart, Link had grown to despise the sound of knocking on the door.

"How did the movie do? Did you win any awards?"

As the door swung open, a muscular guy entered -- a man with a golden-brown buzz cut reminiscent of a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, clad in a red tank top and blue athletic shorts. His bulging biceps and shoulder muscles flexed prominently, and his chest muscles strained against the tank top straps.

He had a solid build, but at just 5'7", his coarse features -- a broad brow, flat nose -- portrayed a look that even surgery couldn't improve.

His name was Chris Barnes, someone with aspirations of becoming an action star like Schwarzenegger or Stallone, showcasing his muscles on the big screen.

...

Link had met Chris a few months back when they both played zombie extras in a film. During the shoot, Chris took his role as a zombie seriously, flaunting his muscles as he waddled around like a zombie penguin.

[T/N: The movie mentioned here by the author was Braindead (Dead Alive) directed by Peter Jackson. I don't think the main lead would not make friends with him if it was really Peter jackson. It didn't make sense to me, so, I removed the movie name.]

The director would often yell "cut" whenever they filmed him.

Link figured he didn't want to waste time tutoring Chris on how to act. "Don't rush to steal the spotlight; getting screen time doesn't really matter if the director's just gonna cut you down to a couple of seconds," he recalled saying.

Chris found it reasonable, proving to be quite professional. He often sought Link's help whenever he encountered issues while on set.

Over time, they developed a camaraderie.

Chris frequently moved from set to set and was familiar with many filming locations. Whenever he came across a well-paying gig for extras, he'd pass the news on to Link so they could make some cash together.

It was Chris who had recommended this affordable apartment.

Earlier in the year, when filming Buried, Chris had proposed himself as the leading man.

Link didn't agree, even if he was paid.

Partly because Chris's acting skills left much to be desired, and partly due to his lack of physical charisma -- watching him struggle in a wooden box would only make the audience wish for his character to die off quickly.

During filming, Chris served as a production assistant, occasionally handling props and lighting.

He was still considered part of the crew.

So, upon Link's return, Chris hurriedly came over to ask how Buried fared at the festival.

...

"No luck this year -- the Sundance Film Festival was quite competitive, and we just missed it with Buried."

Link sat down, patting his stomach, feeling he could still eat a bit more.

"What about the distribution rights? Did you sell them, and for how much?"

Chris urged, curiosity etched on his face.

"No, the offers were too low, and I just couldn't bring myself to sell."

Link rubbed his forehead.

"How low are we talking?"

"Mostly around $50,000 to $100,000 -- pennies, really. They didn't appreciate my film."

"$100,000 isn't bad at all! You spent only $20,000 on the production, so pocketing $80,000 would be sweet!"

"Forget it -- I'm not selling unless it's for at least a million. Have you eaten yet? Let's go out for barbecue to celebrate the Sundance Film Festival wrapping up."

Link draped an arm over Chris's shoulder and made their way out.

...

Close to their apartment on Bird Streets, there were numerous performance schools and a large collection of budget lodgings catering to thousands of young extras chasing their dreams in Hollywood.

There were plenty of casual dining spots -- KFC, McDonald's, Chinese, Mexican restaurants, hotdog stands, and fast food joints, including some small pubs with food service.

Most places were reasonably priced, with $10 enough to fill up.

After checking to ensure Chris had enough cash in his wallet, Link stepped into a Mexican restaurant, ordering a sizable fried pork chop, two pieces of toasted bread, and a hefty glass of draft beer.

"Hey, Link! The great director Link! Did your movie win the Sundance grand prize?"

As soon as they sat down, an acquaintance from the apartment shouted excitedly.

"Nope! It lacked a bit of luck."

"What about the distribution rights? Anyone interested in releasing your film?"

Another person chimed in.

"No, those people just don't see the potential."

"HaHa! We all knew it -- an extra turned director? That's too wild."

"Link, I told you before to just be happy with being an extra and making some cash. Didn't think we were jealous, did you? Look at you now!"

"Michael's got a point; directing is a high-level gig. It's not something you just pick up. If it was that easy, everyone would be making money off their movies."

"Exactly! Hahaha!"

The laughter continued, mockingly ribbing.

"Pfft, Link claims he can make a movie, so he's willing to spend money on it -- what about you?"

Chris flexed his muscles, bouncing back.

"Who wouldn't dare to do such a thing? It's just that we're not that stupid."

"True, we've been keeping an eye on the Sundance Film Festival news. What was your movie called? Buried, right? I haven't seen a single article about it, but I can't open a magazine without hearing about Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs."

"Tarantino is on fire! There's no shortage of features about him and Reservoir Dogs. I've heard he got noticed by Harvey Weinstein, the big shot behind Miramax -- lucky guy!"

"Tarantino's incredibly talented. I've known that for ages; he's gonna be a big-time director! I'd bet my bottom dollar on it."

Mention of Quentin Tarantino instantly lifted the restaurant's atmosphere, buzzing with excitement as many recognized the unique-looking figure residing in their apartment complex.

With Tarantino and Reservoir Dogs garnering acclaim at the Sundance Film Festival, attention was focused on Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein's admiration for him.

Everyone was voiced in admiration, celebrating Tarantino's talent and good fortune -- some even called him an inspirational figure worth emulating.

Those who had conversed with Tarantino shared their stories of meeting him, emphasizing his down-to-earth nature and genuine kindness.

Their collective sentiments stirred up a longing to trade places with him.

"Quentin's definitely impressive. You should've schmoozed with him when you had the chance -- I know you met him."

Chris whispered, lowering his voice.

"You're right," Link nodded, stuffing some pork chop wrapped in lettuce into his mouth.

The chops were cuts from the pig's back, fine and tender meat marinated with a special mix of salt, chili powder, garlic powder, oregano, and a bit of smoked paprika indigenous to Mexican cuisine for half a day.

Once fully absorbed, the meat would be paired with pineapple chunks and baked.

Fresh out of the oven, the pork chops glistened with a golden hue, sizzling with a fragrant aroma that mixed meat with spices and the sweetness of pineapple.

One bite, and he felt full, his worries fading away.

...

"Quentin's back!"

Suddenly, a shout rang out from outside.

"Tarantino returned and is moving. It's rumored he's relocating to a house in Beverly Hills."

Upon hearing about Quentin's move, many diners set down their forks and knives, making their way toward the exit.

"Since Quentin's back moving, should we go check it out?" Chris suggested.

"Let's finish eating first, then we can see."

"I'll go take a look! Maybe he'll leave me a role in his next project."

Chris dropped his fork and sprinted outside.

Link finished the last bite of his pork chop and suddenly remembered something. He gulped down the morsel hard.

"Hey, Chris, you didn't pay the bill!"

*****

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