Dusk had crept in unnoticed, and lights flickered to life along the streets.
Simon looked at the two women in front of him—one gaping in shock, the other hesitating uncertainly—and could only remind them casually that it was time to head back. Malibu, out in L.A.'s western suburbs, was still a long way from Burbank. He even suggested Kathryn take the wheel, since Janet Johnston driving in high heels was downright dangerous.
Seeing Simon perfectly fine with no signs of any episode, Kathryn finally relaxed, though for some reason she felt reluctant to dig into his past anymore.
Glancing at her friend beside her, eyes still darting but finally settled down, Kathryn found it somewhat amusing.
That's what you get for always acting wild—finally put in your place.
A fake crazy troublemaker meets a real loon fresh from the asylum—tut tut.
She shoved her friend into the passenger seat and got in the car herself. After a moment's hesitation, she still urged Simon, standing outside the window, to contact her if he ran into any trouble, then started the engine.
Turning the car around at a nearby intersection, Kathryn gave the boy on the roadside one last nod, slowly pressing the accelerator as the wine-red Ford blended into the twilight city traffic.
Watching the women's car fade away, Simon adjusted his backpack on his shoulder and turned to leave.
He bought a Los Angeles city map from a nearby store, sat down at an outdoor table of a street-side fast-food spot, ordered the cheapest meal, and started flipping through the map.
Thanks to the inherited memories from those twelve others, Simon realized he knew more than just professional skills. When it came to Hollywood—or the whole of L.A., for that matter—from geography and culture down to entertainment gossip, spanning decades forward and back, he had it all at his fingertips.
Looks like I could make a decent paparazzo.
Amusing himself with the thought, he easily spotted WMA's headquarters on the map.
Camino Street was right near the bustling intersection of Wilshire Boulevard and Santa Monica Boulevard in Beverly Hills, close to Century City Park, hub of media companies. Twentieth Century Fox was based there, and WMA's archrival CAA headquarters wasn't far off.
He marked WMA's location, then found and circled the Writers Guild of America (WGA) headquarters too.
The waiter brought his meal; Simon ate his fill, paid the bill, and left the restaurant.
Then he started worrying about how to get out of Burbank.
In the eighties, L.A. had no buses or subways, taxis were pitifully scarce, and you needed to book them by phone.
Wandering the streets hopefully for over half an hour, he didn't spot a single taxi willing to pick him up. Simon realized he'd underestimated just how lacking L.A.'s public transit was, regretting not shamelessly asking Kathryn for a ride.
With no other choice, he checked into a motel in Burbank.
Early the next morning, with help from the motel owner, Simon booked a cab by phone. After some haggling with the arriving driver, he paid $15 including tip to be dropped off in West Hollywood on the other side of the Santa Monica Mountains.
Standing on the side of Melrose Avenue, he was still a good distance from his destination, but to save money, he'd have to walk the rest—he had the whole day, after all. Following the map, he headed south along the intersecting north-south Fairfax Avenue for over twenty minutes until he reached the WGA building.
Simon hadn't come here to join the writers' guild—he wasn't qualified yet. His main goal was to register the copyrights for the scripts in his backpack.
Under federal copyright law, creators theoretically owned rights automatically upon completing a work. But in reality, if a legal dispute arose, whether you'd registered was crucial evidence.
In the U.S., there were plenty of ways to register copyrights, even some privately run outfits.
The most authoritative was the Copyright Office, but thanks to the notoriously glacial pace of U.S. government bureaucracy, submitting there could mean waiting four to six months for proof—the review process was infuriatingly slow.
So in Hollywood, registering through the WGA became the go-to choice for most screenwriters.
With materials and fees ready, you could basically get your registration certificate the same day.
Of course, WGA registration had its downsides: they'd only store your materials for five to ten years, after which you'd need to pay to renew. Copyright Office registration was permanent and offered better protection in disputes.
After some consideration, Simon decided to submit both his finished scripts for registration.
Each script cost $20 to register; between the two and the printing expenses, his wallet took another big hit. Leaving the WGA building, thinking about the afternoon meeting, he made a copy of the Butterfly Effect script, then picked up a digital watch for under $2 from a roadside stand.
By the time he finished all that, it was past noon.
He grabbed a simple bite to eat, checked his wallet again: yesterday's $198 had plummeted to under $97.
A bit resigned, but not too flustered.
Worst case, he'd end up on the streets—starving was unlikely; he could always hit up a church for some free food vouchers.
The appointment was at four in the afternoon; to play it safe, Simon arrived near WMA headquarters half an hour early.
WMA's HQ on Camino Street was a sleek, modern glass-and-steel building—not very tall, but far more impressive than the bland commercial structures around it, complete with a small plaza out front. All of it underscored WMA's prominent status in Hollywood at the time.
As four o'clock approached, Simon stepped into WMA headquarters five minutes early.
He explained his purpose to the front desk receptionist, who made a call. Moments later, a white guy who looked under thirty came out to greet him: professional white shirt and black slacks, tall and slim, gold-rimmed glasses, neatly combed dark brown parted hair, the picture of refinement.
After quick introductions, Simon learned he was Owen Wright, Jonathan Friedman's assistant, and followed him deeper into the building.
Weaving through spacious corridors hugging the glass curtain walls, Simon noticed the WMA staff around him either hurrying along or frowning deeply; some who spotted his unfamiliar face shot wary glances.
He wasn't too surprised by the atmosphere.
From what he knew, WMA had been going through some serious upheaval in recent months.
Earlier this year, WMA's chairman and CEO Morris Stoller and president Stan Kamen had died one after the other.
The power vacuum from losing those two key executives not only sparked internal struggles but gave rivals like CAA and ICM the perfect chance to poach clients without mercy.
Especially after Stan Kamen's death, all his top Hollywood clients—like Al Pacino, Warren Beatty, Barbra Streisand, Goldie Hawn—jumped ship to CAA, dealing WMA a massive blow.
Simon followed Owen Wright to an office, waited briefly in the lounge, then a middle-aged white man with slightly graying hair pushed through the door from outside.
The man looked to be in his forties or fifties, dressed in a gray suit, not particularly tall—maybe a bit over five-seven—slim build, deep-set eyes, broad nose, black hair: classic Jewish features.
Friedman was obviously a Jewish surname, after all.
"Sorry, just wrapped up a meeting," Jonathan Friedman said, heading straight over as Simon stood, giving him a mild once-over with a warm smile and politely extending his hand. "So, Simon Westeros?"
Simon nodded, shaking his hand. "Hello, Mr. Friedman. Pleased to meet you."
Jonathan Friedman nodded in return and gestured invitingly.
They stepped into the adjacent office together, the man chatting familiarly: "First time I've heard the surname 'Westeros,' so it stuck right away. Simon, that's an advantage for you—in Hollywood, getting remembered isn't easy."
Simon just smiled, saying nothing.
Jonathan Friedman motioned for Simon to sit across from his desk, then settled in himself, arms relaxed on the tabletop, fingers loosely interlaced as he looked at the young man opposite.
Around 180 cm—standard height.
Angular face, brown hair, none of that baby-faced teen actor vibe—very photogenic.
Black T-shirt, jeans—simple and plain clothes, but with a steady confidence beyond his years, the kind that draws women.
Prime material for a rising heartthrob.
Potential to develop in the Tom Cruise mold; that recent box office smash Top Gun had grabbed way too much attention.
But this kid was a screenwriter.
Jonathan Friedman immediately lost most of his interest.
Good screenwriters needed life experience; he didn't think a guy in his early twenties could produce anything outstanding. Hell, he even wondered if the kid knew how to format a proper Hollywood script.
In truth, Jonathan Friedman wasn't close with Kathryn.
Beyond occasional run-ins at Hollywood parties, their most recent connection was one of his clients vying for the lead in her upcoming film.
That was why he'd agreed to this meeting after her recommendation call—a favor to the pretty woman who had some say in casting.
Jonathan Friedman's original plan had been: if the guy she sent was decent, he'd casually refer him to WMA's literary agent department. After all, even top Hollywood screenwriters usually brought in less for an agent than a B-list actor; he had no plans to personally rep a writer. If not, well, the favor was extended—rejecting him outright was no big deal.
But now, seeing Simon in person, Jonathan Friedman was already thinking about how to wrap this up quickly. He'd just been promoted to WMA vice president this month, and with the company in total disarray lately, he had no patience to humor some overambitious kid.
Of course, he didn't let any of that show. He'd always believed that to be a great agent, maintaining a humble demeanor at all times was essential.
After a brief internal assessment, Jonathan Friedman kept his tone mild, laced with a touch of encouragement and anticipation. "So, Simon, tell me about your script first?"