Chapter Four: How Many Talents Are Buried in Hollywood

No matter if it was this life’s Frank or his past self, both were born into super average families. Growing up in a boring and even broke life, he got it early on that chances don’t just drop from the sky; you gotta hustle for them. This is Hollywood, where folks would literally break their necks for a shot at the big time.

Even though Bruce said "NO," Frank wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. Opportunities like getting in on the sequel to "The Matrix" were just too rare to pass up.

The office was dead silent, like space. Only three seconds had ticked by since Bruce’s rejection, but to Frank, it felt like forever. His brain was firing on all cylinders, trying to make one last-ditch effort.

"Mr. Berman, Mr. Miller," Frank steadied himself, ignoring the laser-like stares from across the table, and said earnestly, "How about as an intern?"

Once he got the hardest words out, the rest just spilled out, "A lot of people are cool with unpaid gigs to get their foot in the door. I’m down for that too."

For his future, Frank had already swallowed a lot of pride.

Bruce, though, just laughed, "I’m not hiring a paparazzo and a thug."

His tone was flat, no emotion, but it hit like a ton of bricks.

Frank’s hands clenched tight. If this were prison, I’d just use force to handle this, but this isn’t prison. Prison rules don’t fly here.

He’d already accidentally hurt a British director. If he messed with a big-shot producer next, the whole film industry might blacklist him.

Taking a deep breath, Frank didn’t say another word and turned to walk out of the office.

No point in dragging it out. No matter how hard he tried, this chance wasn’t gonna fall into his lap.

Walking out of the office area, Frank looked up at the sunny sky but couldn’t see where his future was headed. It was impossible not to feel bummed out, but he shook it off quick.

After all, this is Hollywood, where tons of dreamers and super talented folks flock, but only a few make it. Most, after wasting their youth and time, end up leaving with their tails between their legs or stuck in the lower rungs of the industry.

How many geniuses get buried in Hollywood? Maybe only God knows.

The chance he thought was golden had just slipped away, leaving Frank kinda down. The mess left by his past self was a real doozy.

As he mulled over his next move, Frank walked towards the gates of Warner Bros. Studios. Lost in thought, he almost bumped into a woman coming from the opposite direction near a soundstage entrance.

"Hey, watch where you're going!"

A sharp female voice cut through the air, pointing to another curvy, long-haired woman standing beside her, "You almost ran into Miss Monica. Apologize, now."

Frank stopped and turned to look. The woman in front of him looked super familiar. Even if you hadn't seen her in a movie, you'd instantly recognize her as the famous Italian actress Monica Bellucci.

She stood there, giving him a cold stare, lightly brushing off the shoulder Frank had barely touched, like their brief contact had left it dirty.

She stood there, embodying the coldness, sensuality, beauty, and arrogance of a famous actress.

Especially that arrogance, even someone like Frank who didn’t get women could feel it clearly—that was the disdain of Hollywood's elite for the little people.

Even though she was just a minor star in Hollywood, she was still way out of Frank's league.

The woman's reaction stung Frank, but he knew very well that in a cutthroat place like Hollywood, respect was never equal, and others' respect wasn’t handed out for free but had to be earned through your actions.

Monica definitely had the right to look down on him, especially since he had almost bumped into her.

"About what just happened," Frank said calmly, his voice steady, "I’m really sorry."

After saying that, he turned and walked away without looking back, like nothing had happened.

To earn the respect and acknowledgment of people like Bruce and Monica, words alone were useless. If mere words could conquer others, the strong would have unified the world long ago.

This is a realistic society, not a fairy tale world.

In the following week, Frank got a deeper taste of this world's harsh reality and understood why Daniel went back to his old ways after getting out of prison.

For someone with a criminal record, landing a halfway decent and respectable job was insanely tough.

Frank had interviewed with two more film crews, but after a quick background check, they shut him down without a second thought. Even a third, super small crew turned him away for a menial job.

For a while, Frank cursed his past self and America's brutal social environment almost daily, but it didn’t take long for him to get his head back in the game.

People love to credit their success to themselves and blame their failures on the environment.

But thinking like that doesn’t solve real problems.

Frank's attempts to break into the film industry hit roadblocks at every turn, but he wasn't about to throw in the towel. He just realized that making it in Hollywood was way tougher than he thought, so he got more practical about it.

It wasn't just the film industry giving him the cold shoulder; Frank's interviews in other fields mostly bombed too. This didn’t surprise him. How many legit companies or stores would hire a guy with no education, no skills, and a criminal record?

Was he really gonna end up selling drugs and illegal guns?

Frank knew that was a dead-end road. He'd rather take a job as a grunt at an auto repair shop than go down that path. But the laborer gig was rough, and the low wages weren’t paid daily.

Now, Frank had a money problem. He’d been super frugal, but his two hundred bucks were almost gone. If he didn’t find a way to get some cash, he wouldn’t make it to the next paycheck from the auto repair shop.

One rare evening when he got off work on time, Frank went home and walked into his studio, his eyes landing on the camcorder on the shelf.

This Canon camcorder still worked. Frank had tested it recently. As a film school student, photography was a basic course. Although this camcorder's functions seemed a bit outdated, he had fallen in love with it after using it a few times. But now, out of necessity, he had to consider selling it along with two other devices.

The camcorder, laptop, and car police scanner weren’t new. Selling one alone wouldn’t fetch much money, but if he sold all three, Frank thought he could keep himself afloat for a while.

However, after some thought, Frank decided to keep the laptop. In his spare time, he was trying to write scripts for future blockbuster movies, and he needed the laptop for that. But his writing progress was not ideal, and even if he finished, the chances of selling it were very low.

Frank had already learned enough to know that most Hollywood movies didn’t start with someone writing an excellent script that got picked up and then produced by a film company.

The mainstream production method in Hollywood often involved a film company, a big-name director, or a well-known producer coming up with an idea, then seeking investment and hiring a suitable screenwriter to turn the idea into a script.

In this production model, screenwriters and scripts were not the starting point of a project but just a part of the Hollywood production line.

Of course, the odds of a newbie and a fresh script getting picked up were slim to none, but not totally impossible. Frank just wanted to roll the dice; maybe one day his luck would turn around.

Grabbing the camcorder and police scanner, Frank left his place, hopped into his black Chevy, and headed towards the intersection.

These were the tools the old Frank used to scrape by, and now they were about to become the funds Frank needed to keep himself afloat.

The Chevy rolled out of the Latin community, took a couple more turns, and then Frank drove onto Figueroa Street downtown, aiming for Sunset Boulevard. Near Hollywood, there were plenty of shops that bought and sold photography gear. He hoped to at least trade the camcorder for some much-needed cash.

Frank could’ve hit up Daniel for help again, but he wasn’t planning on it. Even the best of friends get tired if one’s always taking. Besides the borrowed phone, car, and two hundred bucks, he hadn’t taken any more help from Daniel.

Night had already fallen when Frank turned onto Sunset Boulevard. Unlike the rundown downtown, this road was lined with palm trees and movie billboards, and the flashing neon lights made it look like a city that never sleeps.

The Chevy cruised past Echo Park, Silver Lake, and Los Feliz, gradually entering Frank’s destination—the Hollywood area.

Today’s Hollywood wasn’t the sketchy place it was in the '80s and '90s. With strong backing from the California state government and the LA county government, it had bounced back to its golden age glory and was one of the most bustling commercial areas in all of LA.

But Frank wasn’t paying much attention to the scenery; he was focused on driving. Sunset Boulevard was twisty in a lot of spots, with the narrowest sections only four lanes wide. With all the hairpin turns, blind spots, and the lack of median barriers in most places, crashes happened here all the time.

Just after passing an intersection, Frank saw flames up ahead and quickly slowed down.

"That car’s gonna blow!"

A shout came through the open car window, "Damn it, hurry up!"

"Help!"

The Chevy crawled past, and Frank turned to look. He saw a car smashed into a thick palm tree on the roadside. Nearby, a police car and a fire truck were parked, with cops keeping order and several firefighters scrambling around the burning car. Cries for help kept coming from inside the vehicle.