Talented Maestro

Chapter 14 – Credits: The Crew Behind the Scenes

Luke and the props team had done a great job. The two hallways on the first floor of the abandoned psychiatric hospital were arranged exactly as Wayne had envisioned. Uma's scenes were increasing as well, and perhaps his earlier warning had finally taken effect—those two actresses had stopped bickering and were now focusing on the work.

On the third day at the hospital, the production wrapped its first actor. Thompson, the middle-aged handsome man playing the teacher, didn't have many scenes. As the last shot ended, the crew offered polite applause. Wayne shook his hand, thanked him for his contribution, and handed him one of the killer's masks as a wrap gift—a small souvenir to remember the project by.

Tomorrow was Sunday, and finishing someone's scenes before the weekend was a good sign: the shoot was going smoothly. Everyone knew they'd earned a day off.

It was as if the whole crew had been waiting for that break. With Wayne officially announcing Sunday as a rest day, they all packed up that evening and left Orange County to return to their homes in Los Angeles.

Only Wayne, Luke, and Naomi stayed behind at the small motel. Wayne needed to revise the shooting schedule based on the challenges they'd faced during the past few days. Luke stayed simply because he had nowhere better to go—returning would mean going back to a cramped rented apartment.

On Sunday morning, Wayne woke up early, made himself a coffee, and flipped through his director's notebook. Overall, filming had been going well. There wasn't much left to shoot—once the hospital scenes were done, only a few scattered shots remained.

That thought alone put him in a great mood. The constant pressure that had been weighing on him for weeks finally began to lift. The recent challenges of filming—far more intense than anything he'd experienced in school—had pushed him hard. The sudden slowdown felt like a gift.

He stepped outside the motel and took a deep breath of the morning air, then began jogging around the block. It had been over two months since he last exercised. Ever since arriving here, he had realized the value of maintaining a good physique, especially after enduring so many health issues in his previous life.

He had followed a workout routine since childhood—boxing and football throughout high school—he had never truly stopped moving. Here in the U.S., it felt like fitness was a national obsession. Young people everywhere were into all sorts of sports.

Back across the Pacific, as far as he could remember, only retirees kept up with daily morning workouts. One big reason for this difference, he figured, was how deeply embedded sports were in American culture—the major leagues had produced countless sports stars.

The streets were quiet. Wayne kept a steady rhythm with his breath and finished a full lap around the block. When he returned to the motel, he saw Naomi sitting in the lobby with a newspaper, clearly waiting for him.

"Hey, Wayne. Where'd you go?"

Naomi set the paper aside and stood to walk with him toward the elevator.

"Went for a jog. I swear my weight is under eighty kilos now—probably around seventy-five. I've definitely slimmed down a lot. I'm worried if I don't work out, I'll lose all my muscle memory. Right now, if I tried playing quarterback again, I'd probably get flattened."

He chatted with Naomi while opening his room door, not at all concerned that she followed him in and sat down in the living room. He stripped and headed straight to the shower. Behind the frosted glass, he asked:

"Naomi, how come you're up so early? Need something?"

"I'm heading out for a walk. I've barely seen the town—just been sleeping or on set. Thought I'd explore a bit. Want to come?"

She raised her voice so he could hear through the running water. Wayne considered it, then responded:

"I'll pass. I'm planning to review the footage with Luke this morning and tweak the schedule. You know there aren't many scenes left, and if we miss something now, going back for reshoots would be a huge pain."

Naomi wasn't disappointed. She was happy to go out on her own. She called back:

"Want me to bring you anything? Maybe something to eat?"

"Yeah, grab me a sausage pizza for lunch. I've had enough of the hotel buffet. Oh, and listen—by all means, explore a bit, but don't go near the slums, okay? Stick to the shopping districts."

Wayne's voice rose a bit with urgency. A blonde beauty like her wandering alone into a minority neighborhood? He figured if that happened, they'd never even find her body.

"Got it, I know. I'm heading out now."

She shut the door behind her, and Wayne stepped out of the bathroom in a towel, glancing at the door with concern. Hopefully she understood the risks. Even here in this satellite town of greater L.A., he wouldn't dare walk through downtown Los Angeles alone after dark.

The ugliness there could shatter anyone's worldview. Most people with even a bit of means lived in the suburbs. After nightfall, downtown was ruled by gangs, prostitutes, and the homeless.

At night, the streets were alive with gunfire, drugs, prostitution—everything revolved around those trades. And gang activity, turf wars, and vendettas were the main soundtrack of the city after dark.

Only after coming here did Wayne truly understand that gang culture would never be eradicated. In the Black neighborhoods, most of the kids were basically in gang prep programs from the time they started school. If they lived long enough, they'd eventually become core members.

But the odds of surviving that long weren't high. Across North America, there were three major alliances: the Crips, the Bloods, and the KKK-affiliated groups. Each of them had countless sub-groups and street-level crews, all surviving through illegal dealings.

That's why anyone who manages to make it out of the inner-city Black neighborhoods deserves respect—no matter how they do it. And the most common way out? Sports.

The athletic genes embedded in African Americans are almost like a gift from nature. If those genes awaken in a kid who actually has some sense and discipline, then sports become the only real ticket out.

Look at the big four sports leagues in North America—most of the athletes come from those exact backgrounds. And nowhere is it more visible than in the NBA. What started as a sport dominated by white players now barely has any left. The league is practically all Black.

This society really is twisted. Everyone screams about ending racism, but that same racism is woven into every part of life. The only exceptions? Athletes, movie stars, and musicians.

If a Black man becomes a star athlete or celebrity, he can be worshipped by society, even become a local legend. In film and music, it's a bit better—those who make it usually come from that tiny percentage who are not just talented but smart.

But sports stars? All brawn, no brains—most of them are broke the moment they retire.

Luckily, Wayne was white—or more precisely, Jewish. Sure, some Anglo-Saxon descendants still looked down on Jews, but no one in today's world dared to say it out loud.

In this country ruled by capital and the capitalists, being Jewish was a built-in advantage. After all, the biggest players in North American finance were largely Jewish. When it came to business, ordinary people couldn't outmaneuver the Jewish mind.

You could say Hollywood itself was practically under Jewish control. Most of the names dominating the industry's power rankings were Jewish—from the Academy to the unions, especially the Producers Guild. The heads of major film companies? All part of the same group.

---

"Wayne, what are you thinking about?"

Luke's voice snapped him out of it. He looked up, still wrapped in a towel, as Luke walked over with a puzzled look.

"Hm? Nothing. You ready? Let's head to the meeting room."

Luke's arrival interrupted Wayne's wandering thoughts. They walked together to the conference room they'd rented at the hotel—equipment already set up.

As they reviewed footage together, Wayne chatted casually.

"Luke, if we can land a distributor and get this film into theaters… that'd be a solid credential for both of us, right?"

His tone was light, full of hope. Luke couldn't help but laugh and replied:

"Director Garfield, you might want to actually finish shooting all the scenes first. And even when that's done, you'll have only completed maybe a third of the work—maybe less. So please, don't bring your dreams from bed into the cutting room, okay?"

Wayne chuckled. He wasn't offended—he knew better than anyone how hard reality could hit.

"Of course. We've still got editing, music, mixing… Thank God we don't have any VFX. But still, we've done pretty well so far, haven't we? Just imagine—sitting in a cinema, watching the credits roll, and seeing your name up there… That'd feel amazing."

That didn't sound like the usual, pragmatic Wayne. Maybe it was the relaxed mood today, maybe he was finally letting a bit of his inner daydreamer show.

"Yeah, I'd love that," Luke said, his tone softer. "I've imagined it more times than I can count. But honestly? Since graduating, I've almost stopped dreaming. In the past two years, I've worked on at least a dozen different sets—and not a single one has made it to theaters. Hell, barely two even got released on video."

Luke was describing the real face of Hollywood: endless crews, constant work, new shoots starting every day… yet only a fraction ever saw the light of a cinema screen. Even direct-to-video releases were rare.

This industry wasn't glamorous at all—only a tiny few made it big.

"Then let's give it our best, Luke. I believe this film will make it to theaters. We'll sit in the audience, side by side, watching our names appear on the screen. Fans will cheer. And all we have to do… is make it as good as we possibly can."

Wayne didn't raise his voice, but his words were clear. It wasn't just his dream across two lives—it was Luke's motivation too. The reason he worked so hard every day, handling every thankless task a film set could throw at him.

From the doorway, Naomi stood silently, holding two pizza boxes. She had heard every word. And even though she knew how unlikely their dream really was… she couldn't help but be moved by it.

Knock knock!

"Hey, workaholics! I brought lunch—sausage and beef pizzas. Mind if I join you and watch a few clips? I want to see how I look on screen!"