The three of us sat down for breakfast at a small street-side diner. The place was tiny, with only a handful of customers. We took a seat by the window and quickly ordered some food to fill our empty stomachs.

  The owner, a Mexican man in his fifties, noticed our youth and the lack of other customers, so he struck up a conversation with us.

  When Gance asked him where we could rent filming equipment, the old man thumped his chest and confidently assured us, "You’ve come to the right person. No one knows this area better than me. Are you renting for a company or for yourselves?"

  "Is there a difference?" I asked, not quite understanding his point.

  "Of course there’s a difference! If you’re renting for a company, you don’t have to worry too much about the price. You might even pocket some extra cash. But if you’re renting for yourselves, it’s a different story. You’ll want to save every penny."

  I nodded, realizing there was some truth to that.

  "We’re planning to make our own movie," Berg mumbled through a mouthful of bread.

  The owner nodded and pointed to a man sitting inside the diner. "You’re in luck. He’s right here. His rental shop is the most cost-effective in all of Hollywood. Lots of indie filmmakers go to him."

  The owner called out to the man, "James, come over here! You’ve got customers."

  Hearing the call, the man picked up his things and moved to our table.

  James was in his thirties, with fiery red hair, a scar across his face, and a Western-style mustache. He wore a greasy corduroy jacket and looked more like a bandit than a businessman.

  Berg immediately looked nervous, while Gance and I tried to appear calm as we greeted him.

  "You need to rent equipment?" he asked, glancing at us before shoving a chicken leg into his mouth.

  "Yes," Gance replied.

  James nodded, quickly finished his meal, and led us out of the diner. After a few turns, he stopped in front of a garage-like building, pulled out a key, and unlocked the door.

  Sunlight flooded in, revealing the contents of the room.

  The space, about a hundred square meters, was packed with film equipment—cameras, timers, clapperboards, lighting gear, and more.

  "Take your time picking what you need, and then we’ll talk price," James said, finding a chair amidst the clutter and pulling out a small flask to take a swig.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The three of us ignored him and began rummaging through the equipment.

  Berg and Gance focused on the smaller items, while I looked for a suitable camera. The cameras were lined up against the back wall, about a dozen in total. As I examined them, my attention was drawn to the photos plastered on the wall.

  There were dozens of photos, haphazardly stuck to the wall. They featured a handsome, well-dressed young man posing with beautiful actresses, directors, and studio executives—even the legendary Charlie Chaplin!

  "You used to be an actor?" I turned and asked.

  James let out a loud burp. "Yeah, I had my moment in the sun. But then..." He pointed to the scar on his face. "I got this during a shoot, and that son of a b*tch Zukor tore up my contract. After that, the roles dried up. I went from leading man to extra, then tried my hand at sales and production work. Eventually, I ended up running this rental shop."

  James looked pained as he took another swig from his flask.

  From the photos, it was clear that this disheveled man had once been a top-tier star. He had tasted fame, only to fall from grace.

  Hollywood has no room for sentimentality. The only thing that matters here is money. If you can bring in profits, the producers will treat you like royalty. But the moment you stop making them money, you’re out.

  Looking at James, I felt a pang of sympathy.

  The sun was now high in the sky, its golden rays falling on James’ face, illuminating his scar. The scar, under the light, gave him a rugged, masculine charm—wild, untamed, and with a hint of melancholy. Wasn’t this exactly the kind of man I envisioned for the role of George Bush?!

  I stopped looking at the photos and the cameras. Instead, I walked over to James and, with a trembling voice, asked, "Mr. James, would you be willing to play the lead role in our movie?"

  I had a strong feeling that this man could make a comeback through our film, and our movie could become a hit because of him.

  Think about it—James had the looks, the acting chops, and a past as a star. That alone would grab the attention of the press and the audience. Combined with my script, it was a perfect match!

  The word "lead role" made James, slightly tipsy, pause. For him, a term that had once defined him now felt foreign. But the trembling of his body betrayed his inner excitement.

  James looked at me, then at Berg and Gance, who were arguing over equipment. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a sense of desolation.

  "Your movie? With you guys?" James laughed bitterly. "Do you even know what real filmmaking is like?! Do you know the thrill of standing in front of a camera with countless eyes watching you?! Do you know the roar of applause and whistles when your movie succeeds?! Do you know how to pan, tilt, or edit footage?! You don’t. You’re just a bunch of naive kids! Stop dreaming and go home to do your homework." James ranted, then took a big gulp from his flask and turned to gaze out the window.

  The more emotional he became, the more it revealed his deep love for film—a love that was etched into his very soul. And that alone gave me enough reason to convince him.

  I pulled up a chair and sat across from him, shaking my head and letting out a long sigh before bursting into laughter.

  "What are you laughing at?" James glared at me like a hungry lion.

  "I’m laughing at how you’ve wasted over thirty years of your life. You’re right. We don’t know what it’s like to stand in front of a camera. We have no experience in filmmaking, and we’ve never felt the applause of an audience. But let me ask you this—was Chaplin born knowing how to make movies? Was Griffith a natural-born director?! Everything starts small. Success comes from persistence. We’re walking our own path, one we’ve chosen and love. But look at you. At the first sign of failure, you gave up, smothering your own hopes. You’re only in your thirties. You’ve got so much time ahead of you, yet all you do is drown yourself in alcohol. Hollywood won’t pity you, and no one will lend you a hand. God created man, but man must live by his own strength. Understand?!"

  I grew more passionate as I spoke, my voice booming. Berg and Gance, thinking James and I were arguing, nervously approached.