My Hollywood Life Is Not That Easy!

Los Angeles was a city where dreams were made, but more often than not, they were shattered.

For those with no money but big aspirations, survival was a constant hustle. It meant chasing opportunities that barely existed, taking whatever scraps the city threw their way.

Actor and Actresses without the right look, the right clothes, the right birth, or the right connections scraped by in a world that demanded perfection.

In a city where appearances were everything, a man with blonde hair and bright blue eyes moved through the alleys of LA, his steps were steady but unhurried.

His destination was a small, rundown boutique tucked between a liquor store and a pawn shop.

The faded sign read James' Boutique. Vincent knew this place well.

Not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice.

Only the desperate, the broke, and those with nowhere else to turn stepped through those doors.

And today, Vincent was one of them.

The boutique wasn't much to look at, chipped paint, an old wooden sign barely clinging to its frame, and a window display filled with mismatched suits, vintage hats, and dusty mannequins dressed in outfits that had seen better decades.

Inside, the place smelled of old fabric and faint mothballs, with racks of second-hand suits, coats, and costumes arranged in a cluttered maze.

Behind the counter, Fredrik James stood with his usual half-scowl.

A man in his late sixties with white hair and a permanent crease between his brows, he wore an old vest over a wrinkled shirt, looking like a man who had spent too many years dealing with dreamers who never made it.

"Evening, Mr. James. Where's Carla? The shop feels different without her."

Vincent walked in, and the first thing he noticed was an old man with no expression.

Vincent's outfit was still neat: a worn brown leather aviator jacket, a white button-up shirt, khaki trousers, and sturdy brown leather boots.

He was a struggling pilot, both in character.

His agent had told him that the audition was for a retro-themed film about a pilot.

So Vincent had rented an outfit suited for the audition earlier this morning, and now it was time to return it.

"Even if she were here, you're too broke to be thinking about her. Well, you should change first," Mr. James said.

James didn't like it when someone mentioned his granddaughter and even felt a little displeasure, perhaps because he was overprotective protective old man or maybe because the world really was unsafe.

"She is like my sister, Mr. James...don't even start,"

Vincent clarified.

After all, Carla and he were the same age, and since he came here often, they had become friends long ago.

Nonetheless, Vincent complied with the old man.

He went into the changing room, changed, then folded the clothes neatly, and put on his usual attire.

Afterwards, he returned to the counter once again.

Fredrik barely looked up, running his fingers over the fabric with the precision of a man who had done this a thousand times.

"Still in one piece. No stains. That's a surprise," he said. Then, just as easily, he added, "Ninety bucks."

Vincent blinked. "Wait—what? You said twelve."

"That was for an hour." Fredrik finally met his gaze. "You had it for five."

Vincent's heart sank.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out crumpled bills, then checked the other, quarters, dimes, a couple of nickels. His fingers moved quickly, counting.

Ten. Eleven. Eleven fifty. Twelve fifty.

Not enough.

He exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the coins before setting them on the counter.

"Mr. James, you knew my situation when I rented this. I told you I was short on cash. Why are you raising the price now?"

The old man snorted, arms crossing over his chest.

"Kid, you think I'm running a charity? Those clothes don't just fold themselves. I gotta iron 'em, maybe even wash 'em. You wore 'em for half the damn day."

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck.

This time, Vincent was truly embarrassed, and he had no one to blame but himself. In his past life as a Gen Z kid, he had never rented clothes before, let alone dealt with debt.

Money had never been a real concern, his father owned a gym, and there was always a safety net beneath him.

But here, in this life, being broke was something else entirely.

He was on his own, with no ground to stand on, no support to fall back on.

It meant counting coins, stretching meals, bargaining over second-hand suits like some desperate gambler who had already lost.

But worst of all, it meant dealing with the memories of a past life, missing the old world, missing the comfort zone, missing his parents, and missing the feeling of being cared for.

Fredrik sighed, shaking his head.

"I've been in this town longer than you've been alive, kid. You know how many people I've seen come in here with that same look in their eyes? Hungry. Desperate. Thinkin' they're one audition away from stardom."

He tapped his fingers against the counter. "You wanna know what happened to most of 'em?"

Vincent already knew where this was going, but he couldn't stop himself from looking up.

"They left," Fredrik said. "Some hung themselves from a ceiling fan. Others jumped off a building or a bridge. Some just ran outta money, gave up, moved back home. The rest? They're washing dishes in some diner, talking about how they 'almost made it.'"

If it was anyone else, he might have been scared to hear such a thing, but Vincent was a time traveler, and he had his own ego, though he hadn't realized it yet.

"Mr. James... you don't know me. I'll make it. I have the talent, the looks, and I'm hardworking... I just don't have the exposure. I'll pay you back. Just give me some time."

Fredrik studied him, and for the first time, there wasn't just irritation in his gaze.

There was something else...Pity.

After all, it wasn't the first time the old man had heard those words.

"I ain't sayin' you don't got talent," the old man said. "But talent don't mean shit if you can't keep a roof over your head. Maybe it's time to get a real job. Something steady."

Vincent nodded.

He was already searching for a good job anyway.

He reached into his pocket again, pulled out every bill he had, and laid it on the counter.

Sixty dollars.

"That's all I've got," he said quietly.

Fredrik's eyes flicked between the money and Vincent's face.

Then, after a beat, he sighed, rubbing his temple.

"Kid, I got a family to take care of too."

Vincent's fingers curled. "I'll pay the rest next time. I promise."

Fredrik stared at him for a long moment, then let out another sigh before taking the money and sliding the suit off the counter.

"Fine," he muttered. "But next time, bring the full amount."

Vincent nodded stiffly, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets before stepping through the door.

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( End Of The Chapter)