Chapter 6: Hunger

*Wooo—*

Los Angeles Union Station.

After the train arrived, Link said goodbye to Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. He left from Union Station and walked along Sunset Boulevard to a youth apartment at 13 Little Bird Street in West Hollywood.

Closing the door behind him, he dropped his backpack, collapsed onto the bed, and fell into a deep sleep.

He had no idea how long he slept before a strong wave of hunger jolted him awake. Trembling, he crawled out of bed and rummaged through his belongings for food. All he found were a few stale potato chips and half a bag of leftover spaghetti.

Link rushed to the sink and gulped down some cold water, but it did nothing to ease his hunger. He turned on the gas stove, filled a pot halfway with water, and dumped in all the spaghetti, adding a bit of salt before bringing it to a boil.

While waiting, he took a cold shower in the tiny bathroom and changed into a clean T-shirt and a pair of beach shorts.

By the time he finished showering, the spaghetti was ready, filling the air with an enticing aroma.

He scooped the noodles onto a plate, poured some tomato sauce over them, and mixed it all together with chopsticks. The plain spaghetti instantly transformed into a vibrant red dish, almost as if it were teasing his appetite.

Crouching on the floor, he devoured the food in big bites. In less than three minutes, he had cleaned the entire plate.

"That hit the spot!"

Leaning against the couch, he rubbed his half-full stomach, feeling a warm and simple sense of happiness.

*Bang, bang, bang!*

"Link, are you back? I heard someone downstairs say you returned!"

*Bang, bang, bang!*

"Stop knocking!"

Ever since his dreams were shattered, Link had grown to hate the sound of knocking on the door.

"How did the movie do? Did it win any awards?"

When he opened the door, a well-built man stepped inside. He had short golden-brown hair, styled like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s when he first started out. He wore a red tank top and blue athletic shorts, his biceps and shoulder muscles bulging, while his massive chest was tightly squeezed by the straps of his tank top.

His physique was impressive, but at only 5'7" (170 cm) with rough features—thick eyebrows, a flat nose—his looks were beyond saving, even with plastic surgery.

His name was Chris Bauer. He had a dream of making it big in Hollywood, hoping to become the next Schwarzenegger or Stallone, showing off his muscles on the big screen.

Link had met Chris Bauer a few months earlier while working as an extra on Shaun of the Dead.

Both of them were playing zombies, but Chris had a habit of showing off, flexing his muscles even while staggering around. His zombie walk made him look more like a penguin than the undead.

The director had to call “cut” every time he appeared on camera.

Not wanting Chris to waste his time, Link gave him some advice—telling him to stop trying to steal the spotlight. As extras, their screen time was already limited; at most, they’d get one or two seconds in a wide shot.

Chris realized Link had a point and started coming to him for help whenever he had acting questions.

Over time, they became friends.

Since Chris often worked on film sets, he had a good sense of which productions paid well. Whenever he found high-paying extra gigs, he would recommend them to Link so they could earn money together.

He had even introduced Link to this cheap apartment.

Earlier that year, while shooting Buried, Chris had volunteered to be the lead actor.

Link refused—even if Chris had paid to be in the movie, he still wouldn’t have accepted.

For one, Chris’s acting skills were terrible. And second, his face had no screen appeal. Watching him struggle in a coffin for 90 minutes would only make audiences wish he’d die faster.

Instead, during filming, Chris helped with logistics, carrying equipment, setting up props, and adjusting lighting.

That made him part of the crew in a way.

So when Link returned, Chris immediately rushed over to ask about Buried’s performance at the film festival.

"It didn’t win anything. The competition at Sundance was fierce this year. Buried just wasn’t lucky enough."

Link sat down, rubbing his stomach. He could probably eat a little more.

"What about the rights? Did you sell the distribution? How much did you get?"

"No, their offers were too low. I wasn’t willing to sell."

Link massaged his temples.

"Too low? How much were they offering?"

"Mostly $50,000 to $100,000. They’re treating it like it’s worthless. They don’t respect my film."

"$100,000 is a great offer! You only spent $20,000 to make it—selling it for $100,000 would mean an $80,000 profit! That’s $80,000, Link!"

"Drop it. I’m not selling for anything less than a million. Have you eaten? Let’s go out for some barbecue to celebrate Sundance wrapping up."

Link threw an arm around Chris’s shoulders as they headed out.

Little Bird Street in West Hollywood was home to many acting schools, as well as numerous low-cost apartments catering to thousands of aspiring actors chasing their Hollywood dreams.

The area also had plenty of affordable restaurants—KFC, McDonald's takeout, Mexican diners, hot dog stands, fast food joints, and bars that served food.

Most places were reasonably priced—$10 was enough for a full meal.

After confirming how much money Chris had in his wallet, Link led him into a Mexican restaurant and ordered a 500-gram fried pork chop, two slices of grilled bread, and a large draft beer.

"Hey, Link! Link, the big director! How did your film do? Did you win the Sundance Grand Jury Prize?"

As soon as they sat down, someone from their apartment complex shouted across the restaurant.

"Nope! Just bad luck this time."

"What about distribution? Did anyone pick up your movie?"

Another person joined in.

"Nope. Those people have no vision."

"Haha, we figured as much. An extra trying to be a director? That’s delusional."

"Link, we told you before—stick to extra work and make money. You thought we were jealous, but look at you now!"

"Michael’s right. Directing is a high-level job. Not just anyone can do it. If making a film and selling it were that easy, everyone would be a director."

"Exactly! Hahaha!"

The group of men and women at the booth across the way laughed and joked loudly.

"Hmph! Link says he wants to make a movie and actually dares to spend money on it. Would any of you dare?"

Chris Bauer flexed his muscles as he retorted, "Who wouldn't dare? We just aren't that dumb."

"Exactly. We've been following the news about the Sundance Film Festival recently. Link, what's your movie called again? Buried, right? There's not a single news article about it. But there’s a ton about Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs."

"Quentin's famous now. Film magazines are filled with stories about him and Reservoir Dogs. I heard Harvey Weinstein himself took notice of him—that's the boss of Miramax, a billionaire. Quentin’s incredibly lucky."

"Quentin's talented; he's not like ordinary people. I saw it coming. Mark my words—he's going to be a major director someday. Want to bet?"

The mere mention of Quentin Tarantino instantly energized the restaurant.

Since Quentin also lived in this low-income apartment complex, and because of his distinctive looks, many people recognized him.

Now that Quentin and his Reservoir Dogs were shining at Sundance and had caught the attention of Hollywood heavyweight Harvey Weinstein, everyone was eager to share their opinions. People praised Quentin’s talent and good fortune. Some even hailed him as an inspirational figure to learn from.

Those who had spoken to Quentin recounted their encounters, praising him for his friendliness and saying he was a genuinely nice guy.

The crowd was filled with admiration, secretly wishing they could swap places with him.

"Quentin's really amazing. You should've gotten close to him earlier, built a solid relationship. I remember you know him," Chris Bauer said quietly, lowering his head.

"You're right."

Link stuffed a piece of pork chop wrapped in a vegetable leaf into his mouth.

These pork chops were made from meat taken from both sides of the pig’s spine, mostly lean cuts. Before cooking, they were marinated for half a day with Mexican seasonings like salt, chili powder, garlic powder, oregano, and annatto powder.

After absorbing the rich flavors, the meat was roasted in an oven with pineapple chunks.

Fresh out of the oven, the pork chops were golden brown and sizzling, their aroma a blend of roasted meat, spices, and the refreshing scent of pineapple.

One bite was enough to banish both hunger and worries.

"Quentin's back!" someone suddenly shouted from outside.

"He's moving out! I heard he's headed to live in a villa in Beverly Hills."

Hearing the news, many people in the restaurant put down their knives and forks, hurrying outside.

"Quentin's back to move out. Should we go check it out?" Chris Bauer asked.

"Let's finish eating first. We can go afterward."

"I'm going now—he might even save a role for me in his next film!"

Chris Bauer dropped his fork and ran out.

Link swallowed the last bite of his pork chop and suddenly remembered something. He forced the food down.

"Hey, Chris! You didn’t pay the bill!"

(End of Chapter)