Actor in Hollywood

Vroom, vroom vroom vroom—

The engine's roar reverberated in Anson's ears as the car slowly passed under the archway of the "Warner Bros." gate, and the view at the intersection ahead suddenly opened up.

Blue skies, white clouds, lush greenery, and a glimpse of a blue lake hidden behind the trees, reflecting the golden California sunlight.

With a press of the accelerator, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the Disney Studios sign, but there wasn't time to take a closer look. The car's speed surged, and it was soon left behind.

Just as his scattered thoughts began to gather, a turn revealed a flash of a large amusement ride hovering above the trees, accompanied by laughter and screams, quickly disappearing behind the foliage, only to fade into the rushing wind.

So…

That must have been Universal Studios, and the audition location was at Burbank, the largest film production lot in Los Angeles?

Everything was finally becoming real.

It was the year 2000, in Los Angeles, Hollywood.

Although smartphones had yet to make their debut, streaming services were nonexistent, social networks were still just academic jargon, and AI had not yet sparked a new wave of discussions.

But this also meant that the movie industry hadn't yet entered the era of superheroes, and the classics of commercial and artistic cinema were still waiting to explode.

This was the City of Angels.

Opportunities were everywhere.

Maybe, this time, he could seize one and truly live out his potential.

He floored the accelerator, and California's vibrant colors blurred past his peripheral vision until the flow of traffic blocked his path, and Anson realized he had entered the city.

He found himself at the intersection of Highland Avenue and Hollywood Boulevard, with the familiar sight of the Chinese Theatre standing not far off. Curiously, what would later become the well-known Kodak/Dolby Theatre was still just a bustling construction site.

"Hey, nice car!"

A whistle, followed by laughter and shouts, echoed at the traffic light intersection.

Anson glanced at the car's navigation system, which looked like an indecipherable puzzle to him. Although in 2000, in-car navigation systems had made significant strides, they were still far from perfect, with maps resembling geological survey diagrams, filled with symbols that made no sense.

To him, the navigation system might as well have been a paper map—there was no difference.

So, Anson rolled down the window and flashed a smile.

"Could you tell me how to get to Melrose Avenue?"

Rustle, rustle, rustle.

The surrounding eyes quickly focused on him, with people craning their necks, some looking at the car, others at him, their excitement and curiosity bubbling over.

Anson leaned out slightly.

"Hey, I'm not Edward, and you're not Vivian."

Boom!

A wave of laughter erupted.

It was clear that Anson's playful reference to the classic "Pretty Woman" scene had struck a chord.

Then, an actor dressed as the Scarecrow from "The Wizard of Oz," who had been taking photos with tourists on Hollywood Boulevard, stepped out of the crowd and pointed down the north-south direction.

"Just head south on Highland Avenue for about seven blocks, and you'll hit Melrose."

"Thanks! Have a great day."

The car sped away, leaving behind a cacophony of chattering voices and the roar of clashing engines. My gaze lingered, still unwilling to part from the sight of the Aston Martin.

After entering the city, the car's speed couldn't pick up. Even without worrying about red lights or speeding tickets, the surging traffic from all directions completely clipped the wings of the sports car. Whether it liked it or not, it had to crawl forward, almost like strolling through a busy street.

Under the curious gaze of onlookers, the destination finally appeared in sight.

Melrose Avenue, which later became the fashion hub of Los Angeles thanks to the influx of countless trendy brands, still retained its unique gypsy neighborhood vibe, teeming with antique shops, vinyl stores, comic book shops, and private cinemas, making it an undeniable gathering place for artists.

After passing Melrose Avenue, the next street led to Anson's residence, a standalone villa at the intersection of North Highland Avenue and Oak Street.

This two-story villa, occupying a space of twenty units, had a front yard with pine trees and a fountain, as well as a small garden covered in ivy. Beyond the pale yellow low wall, you could see lounge chairs and a barbecue grill in the garden.

The villa boasted typical Spanish-style decor, with intricate patterns of blue and red tiles creating an understated luxury. The dark green windows were adorned with mosaic decorations, while a brass statue of a little angel, a sink, and an ivy-covered swing were quietly hidden amidst the greenery.

Spacious, bright.

Low-key, luxurious.

Unfortunately, this wasn't Anson's property; he was just a tenant.

Though this wasn't Beverly Hills or West Hollywood, it was still in the heart of Los Angeles, and the monthly rent of two thousand dollars in the year 2000 was already an unimaginable amount. However, Anson didn't live here alone.

The first floor had two bedrooms, along with a living room, kitchen, dining room, and storage room.

The second floor had three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an entertainment room.

Altogether, five tenants lived here.

Among them, Anson occupied the master bedroom on the second floor, the only large room with a private bathroom.

A group of friends with different dreams and goals lived together, sharing a fraternity-like atmosphere, trying to carve out a place for themselves amidst the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, yet finding a different kind of joy in it.

Pushing open the door, the first thing Anson saw was a figure lying on the ground in a starfish pose, motionless. With his right hand supporting his head and his left leg folded, it looked like he was mimicking a classic dance pose from a Madonna music video, eyes wide open, with a look of eternal sorrow.

If someone didn't know better, they might be scared out of their wits upon entering, thinking they had walked onto the wrong movie set.

This scene, this situation, would make anyone's first reaction be to think it was a medical emergency, or even worse, a dead body, to the point where dialing 911 might result in fumbling with the phone's buttons.

Anson… was no exception.

Startled!

His heart skipped a beat as he instinctively took a step forward, quickly surveying the scene. It took a whole beat before his mind caught up, and the familiar memories in his mind resurfaced. Reason regained its reins, and a wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he walked past the "corpse" before him.

"Chris, what's wrong, rough audition?"

The person playing dead on the floor, Chris—Chris Evans, didn't move his head or body, maintaining his lifeless vampire pose. But at least his vocal cords hadn't forgotten how to function, as he drew out his words with a playful tone.

"Ah… disaster, it was a disaster…"

The future "Captain America," though not yet as muscular, already showed signs of his workout regime. His collagen-rich face, still slightly baby-faced, was wearing a "Star Trek" T-shirt, looking every bit the young heartthrob who just ran off the set of "American Pie."

This was roommate number one.