Find a quiet spot, turn the page, and let’s see what this story has been hiding 🌙 ✦ At three in the afternoon, the sun was still high in the western sky.
Halloween was close, but in Los Angeles, standing in full sun could still make the heat press against your skin.
Adrian did not feel it.
Versa’s parting line had left a bad feeling in him.
Maybe it had only been intimidation.
Maybe not.
When information was this limited, no one could draw a clean conclusion.
Still, the fact that Stevenson’s assistant had come to him privately, first with a carrot and then with a stick, suggested the outcome was near.
Maybe he should tell Reese before it landed.
He was still weighing that when Reese came roaring over from the production offices in a golf cart, his face dark.
“Adrian.
Get in.
Quick.” Reese called to him from a distance.
The bad feeling inside Adrian grew heavier, so he obeyed without mentioning the lunch conversation.
The cart carried them to a small office near the production area.
Just as they arrived, a middle-aged man came out.
When he saw Reese, his face turned helpless.
“Wait, Phil,” Reese called as he got out.
“Wait.” “Eric…” Philip Rosenthal lifted both hands, but Reese cut him off.
“I brought him.
If you want, we can call everyone back in and do a full audition.
Let people judge his performance before you make a decision.” “Eric, listen to me.” Rosenthal put both hands on Reese’s shoulders.
“You know I support you.
I believe you can do good work.
The two episodes you wrote and produced did well when they aired.
But more people are backing Jeremy.
I have to think about the whole show.” “So you’re giving up on me?” Reese’s expression twisted.
“You won’t even let people judge fairly?” “I’m sorry, Eric.
I can’t change the rules of the game.
The production side is mostly behind him, and…” Rosenthal sighed.
“Jeremy has been writing on the show since it was created.” He did not finish the thought.
He only patted Reese on the shoulder, moved past him, and walked away.
He never so much as looked at Adrian.
Reese stood frozen for a long time.
Then he exploded, kicking the golf cart’s tire and cursing hard enough that every word turned into a bleep in Adrian’s head.
He raged for several minutes before finally grabbing his own head and leaning against the cart.
“I’m sorry, Mr.
Reese,” Adrian said quietly from beside him.
“What good is sorry?
Can sorry make them change their minds?
Can sorry make that bastard pay?” Reese whipped around and shouted, eyes bloodshot, as if he wanted to kill someone.
Adrian stepped back, but he did not look frightened.
He met Reese’s eyes.
After a moment, Reese finally forced his anger back under control.
He let out a long breath and leaned against the cart again.
“Sorry, Adrian.
I’m the one who should be saying it.” He gave a bitter smile.
“You’re good.
You’re a good kid.
Dragging you into this was my mistake.” He straightened slowly.
“I’m sorry.
It’s over.” Then Reese walked away in the same direction Rosenthal had gone, unsteady, exhausted, leaving even the cart behind.
Adrian did not move.
From the moment Rosenthal opened his mouth, he had known things were bad.
He had been prepared for failure.
Still, his heart sank hard enough to leave him hollow.
‘Why did it end like this?’ He could not help asking himself that.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
He told himself again and again that it was nothing, only one failure, and nothing in life was guaranteed.
The weight of disappointment still settled over him like wet concrete.
Ending like this, before he had done anything at all, felt impossible to accept.
Adrian walked without paying attention.
When he came back to himself, the Everybody Loves Raymond soundstage was in front of him.
He rubbed both hands over his face.
The walk had helped.
The frustration was still there, but his mind had steadied.
Whatever else he was, he carried a mind older than eighteen.
He had only a few things to pack.
A half-finished bottle of water.
Two books he had brought to kill time.
A jacket.
He was almost done when an irritating voice sounded beside him.
“What, leaving already?” The sarcasm was open and deliberate.
It could only be Lyman Versa.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Versa said when Adrian looked over.
“I’m not here to enjoy your misery.
I just happened to have business on set.
After you people wasted two days, we have to move fast if we’re going to make next week’s broadcast.” His words said one thing.
His cold, superior smile said another.
He had absolutely come to watch Adrian leave.
“Looks like you may not make it anyway,” Adrian said mildly.
Versa’s brows lifted.
He seemed displeased that Adrian was still calm enough to answer.
“That isn’t your call, Adrian.” He gave a contemptuous snort.
“You should worry about yourself.
Look at you.
If you’d accepted my offer at lunch, you wouldn’t be standing here looking so pathetic.” “It’s one failure,” Adrian said.
“Everyone fails.” “One failure?” Versa narrowed his eyes.
“Touching.
I disliked you from the beginning.
I still do.
But for a second, I almost want to applaud your stubbornness.
Too bad it changes nothing.” He leaned closer, mockery sharp in his gaze.
“Every year, thousands of people come to Hollywood dreaming of fame.
Some have talent.
Some have looks.
Almost none of them get what they want.
You’re one of them.
Maybe worse, because you don’t even understand who you are.
Keep holding on if you want.
What will it change?
You’ll run from set to set, stand outside offices, and wait for other people to decide your life.
You’ll be used, thrown aside, and sent out the door with your tail between your legs.
You can’t stop it, because you are nothing.” Adrian did not answer.
At this point, anything he said would only feed more ridicule.
He picked up his few belongings and walked out.
“Poor kicked dog,” Versa called after him, loud enough to follow him across the stage.
Adrian clenched his fist, forced himself to stand straight, and pressed his mouth into a hard line.
Only when he was nearly out of the studio area did he turn into a nearby restroom.
He entered a stall, closed the door, sat on the toilet lid, shoved up his sleeve, and bit down hard on his own forearm.
His whole body curled in on itself.
He trembled, eyes squeezed shut, head shaking as if he were pouring every last piece of fury into that bite.
After a long time, he finally let go.
He sucked in air, breath ragged, and stared at the deep row of teeth marks on his arm.
Several more seconds passed before his pounding heart began to slow.
It worked, but he knew there was nothing healthy about it.
Then he stood, left the stall, and walked out with his back straight.
He looked no different than before.
As if he could not be knocked down.
When he reached the parking lot and found his old Ford, he stopped.
A man in a suit was leaning beside it, apparently waiting for him.
Frederick stood next to his Mercedes, arms folded, his face unreadable.
“Now do you understand what reality looks like?” the agent asked.
“It’s one failure.” Adrian shrugged.
“I’m not quitting.” Frederick said nothing.
He watched Adrian open the Ford and toss his things inside.
“Adrian.” “Yeah?” “I’m buying you a drink.” “I…” “Not at a bar.
I know a place.” A cold bottle of root beer arced through the air.
Adrian caught it, twisted off the cap, and took a long drink before exhaling.
Frederick had bought beer for himself and root beer for Adrian.
The distinction was obvious enough that neither of them mentioned it.
“I prefer German dark beer,” Frederick said after taking a deep pull from his own bottle.
“That soft malt smell is hard to beat.
Unfortunately, nothing around here is close to authentic.” He was still in his suit and dress shoes, but his collar had been yanked open and his tie hung crooked.
Sitting on the hood with one foot propped up, he had thrown the successful-agent posture somewhere over the side of the hill.
“I still like root beer.” Adrian looked down at the city below.
“I like the aftertaste.” “This place is good.” The sun had begun to lean west.
Yellow light fell across a vast, low-slung city, with most of its height clustered downtown.
It was not as beautiful as the night view, but it had its own pull.
The Hollywood sign sat on the slope a few thousand feet away, angled toward them and the city below.
From this spot, a good photographer could make the place look like a promise.
“Of course it’s good.” Frederick looked out over Los Angeles.
“There was a time when I used to drive up here, park on this slope, drink beer, and look at Hollywood.
Sometimes the whole city.
It made me feel calm.
Like the exhaustion had emptied out.
Like I couldn’t be beaten.” His expression shifted as he spoke, turning difficult to read.
“I wanted to be an actor once.
A star.
I wanted lights, crowds, people calling my name.
My father told me stars looked glamorous, but the people behind them, the people who pushed them into the light, had the real power.
So I became an agent.” He drank again.
Adrian listened without interrupting.
“I came to Los Angeles in 1986, same age you are now.
I spent almost three years in the ICM mailroom.
An agency mailroom teaches you fast.
Several CAA giants started in the WMA mailroom.
My bosses, Ari Emanuel, David Greenblatt, Rick Rosen, all of them came through ICM.
Then I spent two years as Ari Emanuel’s assistant.
God, those were two years in hell.
No one on earth should know that many obscenities, especially that many involving genitalia.
Plenty of people don’t survive that job.
I did.
In ’92, I got a real agent’s desk.” He stopped there.
For a long moment, he looked toward the distance.
Then he turned back to Adrian.
“Do you know why Sandra Bullock and George Clooney fired me?
It wasn’t because I told them what to do.
It was because I told them what not to do.” Adrian opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“So you owe me an apology.” Frederick grinned, smug as if he had won a point.
Adrian could only laugh under his breath.
In that moment, unexpectedly, he began to like him.
✦ ✦ ✦ Ready for more?
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS TheBacklot Thank you for reading.
I hope this chapter drew you further into the story.
Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.