Hollywood: Backlot Emperor

"Hey, buddy. Ever thought about acting?"

The question stopped the young man just as he reached the battered used car parked along the curb and started to open the door. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and brown slacks.

"Huh?"

He turned, confused.

The man standing in front of him looked somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. He wore a suit, smiled easily, and carried himself with the polished confidence of someone who had already figured out how the world worked.

"Hi. I'm Frederick Rogers, an agent with Endeavor Talent Agency." He held out a hand. "You can call me Frederick or Fred. Do you like acting?"

"I don't hate it," he said.

He didn't take the hand. Instead, he gave Frederick a strange little smile, caught somewhere between self-mockery and resignation.

"Look, I know I'm better equipped than the average guy, but I have no interest in those kinds of movies."

He said it with absolute seriousness.

Frederick, the self-proclaimed agent, stared at him for about two seconds before bursting into laughter. The young man's brows drew together.

"Sorry, sorry," Frederick said quickly, choking back a laugh once he noticed the look on his face. He pulled a business card from his pocket. "I didn't mean any offense. I can imagine how annoying those guys must be. But believe me, I'm not one of them. I work for a legitimate talent agency."

Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice. Maybe the card looked real enough. In the end, the young man took it with obvious suspicion.

The card was simple: Frederick Rogers, Endeavor Talent Agency.

"Our company has only been around a little over two years," Frederick said, "but out here, we can compete with any of the big agencies. Several of our founders came out of ICM. You know ICM? International Creative Management. One of the best-known agencies in Hollywood."

His tone was still earnest, but there was a hint of something else in it now. Something he could only describe as a late-night infomercial pitch.

"I heard the teller call you Adrian. Adrian Vale, right?" Frederick went on. "I was in the bank earlier. I saw your performance. It was excellent. Have you ever acted before?"

Adrian didn't answer. He rubbed a thumb over the card, his gaze moving between the name printed on it and Frederick's face.

Frederick seemed to understand something from that silence. He didn't push. He only patted Adrian lightly on the arm.

"Our office is up in Beverly Hills, Mr. Vale. If you're interested, come take a look. We also have a website. If you have a computer and internet access, you can check us out first. Think it over. If you change your mind, call me."

With that, he smiled, turned, and walked away.

Adrian still said nothing. He watched Frederick climb into his car and pull away before lowering his gaze again. For a moment, he looked almost pleased with himself. Then the expression twisted into a bitter smile.

If he hadn't been completely out of options, why would he have argued with a bank in the first place?

The short version: Adrian Vale was in trouble.

Four months after arriving in Los Angeles on his own, everything he owned amounted to the used car in front of him, a handful of belongings back at his apartment, and a few dollars in his pocket.

That afternoon, after finally pushing through a week of work and getting a six-hundred-dollar check, he had rushed straight to the bank to cash it and keep himself afloat.

Then the damned bank had told him their computer system was being upgraded and check-cashing was temporarily unavailable.

It was Friday. If he couldn't get the check cashed, he was going to have trouble feeding himself for the next two days. Worse, it was nearly five by the time he got inside, which meant there was no time to try another branch.

Anyone would have been upset in that situation. Adrian, who had spent four brutal months scraping by in Los Angeles, was more than upset. He seized on the fact that the bank hadn't posted a clear notice in the lobby telling customers check-cashing was unavailable, and he made an issue of it.

"This is on you," he had said. "If there had been a clear sign at the entrance telling every customer that check-cashing was suspended because of a system upgrade, I would never have come in. But there wasn't. You failed to communicate that information clearly, so the responsibility here is yours."

Then he turned to the rest of the lobby.

"Listen, ladies and gentlemen. People have been waiting here only to be told at the counter that you can't cash our checks. If the branch knew the system upgrade would shut down check-cashing, there should've been a notice at the entrance. Take that gentleman over there. Maybe he needed his check cashed before the weekend. Because no one warned him, he lost the time he had to go somewhere else. That's not a small thing. The bank owes us an explanation, doesn't it?"

He delivered the speech right there in the lobby, his expression heated, his arms moving with just enough force to pull the people around him in. Several customers were already angry about being unable to cash checks. It didn't take long before irritation hardened into open outrage.

The bank reacted quickly.

The lobby manager came out to calm everyone down. After a brief conversation with the tellers, he admitted the bank was at fault and said they could make an exception to cash the checks.

Once Adrian finally had the money in hand, he stepped forward again.

"Everyone, may I say one more thing? With all of you here as witnesses, I'd like to apologize to Mr. Phillips and to the bank. The branch should've warned us, but I lost my temper and caused a scene here. Mr. Phillips, you handled this well, and I appreciate that. If this is how the branch handles a mistake, I'm glad to keep doing business here. I hope the rest of you feel the same."

That speech earned him another round of applause.

Adrian was only eighteen, but he wasn't some reckless kid with no sense of consequences. He understood when to push and when to step back. Most of the time, anyway.

If he hadn't been forced into a corner, he would never have done something that might have gotten the police called on him. But since the bank had been generous enough to resolve the matter, he didn't mind praising them in public, even if he might never set foot in that branch again. There had to be limits. There always had to be limits.

Besides, he had confidence in his acting.

In high school, he'd played both lead and supporting roles in several stage productions. He'd even won an award at a national competition, though it had been a group award.

Adrian found it easy to step into someone else's skin. Just now, he had become a customer pushed to the edge by an unfair policy, and everyone in that lobby had believed him. They had cheered for him.

Never mind that it had been his first time in that bank.

That was why the lobby manager, who had first come out wearing a customer-service smile, had looked much more sincere and warm after Adrian's second speech drew another round of applause.

So Adrian was not surprised that the man calling himself an agent had followed him out.

In four months in Los Angeles, he had run into people like that more than once. They would come up, chat for a few minutes, then say, "You look good. Ever thought about acting?" Then...

Well.

After making the mistake of visiting one of those so-called sets, Adrian had learned to brush them off. He was in bad shape, sure, but not desperate enough to do porn.

This guy, though, seemed a lot more legitimate than the others.

Adrian glanced at the card again. After mulling it over for a while, he finally tucked it away and started the car.

Later, Adrian eased open his apartment door with two paper bags in his arms and his keys hooked over his pinky.

Halfway through the door, he stopped.

He frowned as if he had forgotten something. Just as the memory hit and his eyes widened, a small blur shot upward and launched itself at his head.

"Puck, wait! Puck!"

One of the paper bags hit the floor with a thud. A few household items and several cans rolled out.

At the same time, he instinctively threw up an arm. A tiny yellow-and-white puppy, small enough to fit in both hands, landed in the crook of his elbow and began licking his face with wild affection.

"Enough, you little menace. Enough."

Under that enthusiastic assault, Adrian managed to shut the door and put the other bag down. Then he freed one hand and scooped the dog properly into his arms.

Puck barked loudly, snapping playfully at Adrian's fingers and kicking all four paws as if this were the best moment of his life.

After a little wrestling, Adrian held the puppy up in front of him.

"Did you make a mess while I was gone? Don't shake your head so fast. If I find out you peed somewhere again, you're dead, Puck. Did you finish your food? Oh, look at you. Picky now, are we? Fine. Eat the rest of this, and as a reward, I'll give you the good stuff."

Holding Puck, Adrian inspected the room. Then he offered him the leftover dog food from an open can.

Puck didn't even glance at it. He turned his head away, jumped down from Adrian's arms, and bounded over to one of the unopened cans that had rolled out of the fallen paper bag. After sniffing it, he lifted his head and barked twice at him.

"Should I be impressed by your nose, Puck? The can isn't even open."

Adrian stared at the little dog, half amused and half annoyed.

The six-hundred-dollar check had solved his most urgent problem for the moment, so he had bought some better dog food on the way home. Apparently, Puck was ready to abandon the old stuff immediately.

Adrian had meant to hold out a little longer.

Then he looked at Puck's wide, innocent eyes and sighed. A moment later, he opened the new can.

The greedy pup shoved his face into it at once, eating with his tail wagging hard enough to blur.

Adrian found Puck two months after coming to Los Angeles.

Someone had left him in a small box on the side of a quiet road. Back then, he had been tiny, probably only a few weeks old, filthy and miserable. If Adrian hadn't given in to a moment of weakness and brought him home, the dog likely wouldn't have lasted much longer.

Once he recovered, Puck stuck to Adrian like glue. He had grown into a sweet-looking pup, too. A shepherd mix? A beagle mix? Adrian had grown up around dogs and still couldn't tell. Whatever he was, he was adorable, clever, and surprisingly well behaved. Adrian had no idea what kind of person could throw him away.

Of course, if he hadn't spent money licensing Puck, taking him to the vet, and getting him his shots, Adrian wouldn't have been quite this broke.

Then again, even without those expenses, he probably would have lasted two extra days at most.

Adrian let out a self-mocking laugh and looked around the apartment.

One room, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom that barely deserved the name. A little over three hundred square feet, and the rent was still three hundred dollars a month. One bed, two chairs, an old sofa, a small coffee table, a wooden guitar, a cheap wardrobe, an outdated computer, and the wreck of a car outside.

That was everything he owned.

"I might be the most pathetic reincarnated guy in history," he muttered.

With a quiet sigh, he took out the pizza and a couple cans of soda he'd bought. After a few bites, he suddenly stopped.

Then he sat down in front of the computer, turned it on, dialed into the internet, took out the business card, and typed in the web address.

The page that loaded was, annoyingly, completely legitimate.

Adrian studied the site, then thought back to Frederick's confident pitch that afternoon. He rubbed his chin.

'Should I give it a shot?'

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