"Come on, come on! Why the hell is it taking so long to check out? With the garbage furniture in your hotel, who'd even want to steal anything?"
At the front desk, Link complained impatiently.
"Sir, after inspection, we found you wet the bed. We'll be deducting your deposit as a cleaning fee."
Behind the counter, a heavyset Black woman hung up the phone and spoke flatly.
Swish!
A dozen guests in line all turned their heads toward Link in unison, amused and intrigued. A few even snickered.
Swish!
Link's pale face flushed crimson with embarrassment.
"That's absurd! You're framing me!" he protested. "I'm a twenty-year-old man! Do you seriously think I'd wet the bed? Does that sound even remotely possible to you?"
Swish!
The other guests nodded slightly. A man in his twenties, wetting the bed?
Could the hotel be pulling a trick to scam deposits?
The suspicious gazes shifted to the woman behind the counter.
The Black woman rolled her eyes and said coolly, "Sir, there's a huge, crusty stain on your blanket. Don't tell me that's spilled milk. Do you need us to bring it here and show everyone?"
Swish!
Link's face turned bright red. He pounded the counter with his fist.
Swish!
Everyone's eyes returned to him instantly.
Some of the women stared shamelessly at his crotch. A few men burst out laughing.
Their gazes were full of ridicule, mockery, and disdain.
Link gritted his teeth, then slammed his hand again and shouted, "Ma'am, that's completely unreasonable. A young man having a wet dream—is that really something within our control?
No. It's not. Just like you women can't control your monthly visitor.
As fellow human beings, shouldn't you show some understanding instead of using this to humiliate me?
And besides, even if you do need to clean the bedding, why charge me separately? What if any of these guests accidentally left a small mark on the sheets? Would you deduct their deposit too? Is that reasonable?"
Heads began to nod. Some guests whispered to each other, even considering finding a different hotel.
"And another thing, dear lady—your hotel's heating is colder than a corpse. I caught a fever!"
"…Fine, sir. You win."
The woman rolled her eyes again and slapped a ten-dollar bill onto the counter.
"Ma'am, I don't mind the ten dollars," Link said as he picked it up. "But your hotel's practices are unreasonable. I'm a very reasonable man. Regardless, I wish you a pleasant day."
He gave a polite nod to the staff and the surrounding guests, slung on his backpack, and walked out with long, confident strides.
Every morning, there was one tourist bus from Park City to Salt Lake City. Fare: $8.
Other buses cost over twenty dollars.
If he missed that one, he'd have no choice but to walk back to Los Angeles.
While he was waiting by the roadside…
A group of people emerged from the entrance of the Hilton Hotel across the street, all dressed in suits.
In the center walked a stocky, middle-aged man in a black wool coat.
Short and rotund, with a round face and a prominent double chin, his massive belly was cinched in with an Hermès belt—like a balloon wrapped in a rubber band. Every step he took made the leather creak.
He gestured broadly as he spoke, exuding a sense of authority.
Everyone around him listened closely, leaning in as if his every word carried gospel.
Only one man in the group looked relaxed.
He stood over 6'3", with messy curls and a long, oddly banana-shaped face. His chin curved upward where it met his lower jaw. With rugged features, he looked both menacing and comical.
That man was none other than Quentin Tarantino, the breakout star of this year's Sundance Film Festival, director of Reservoir Dogs.
And the fat man beside him—who resembled a bloated toad—was none other than Harvey Weinstein, president of Miramax Films, and a major player in the indie scene.
Rumor had it that Weinstein had taken a liking to Reservoir Dogs during the festival.
They were probably discussing distribution right now.
"Hey, Quentin!"
Link called out from across the street.
He knew Quentin. Before Sundance, they had both lived in West Hollywood, in the same youth hostel complex—though in separate buildings.
They'd run into each other a few times over the past few months. Acquaintances, at least.
Since arriving in Park City, Link had watched Reservoir Dogs, and Quentin had seen his Buried Alive.
But after Quentin's film blew up at the festival, he became increasingly hard to reach.
"Hey, Link!"
Quentin waved back.
Before Link could say anything more, a sleek, black stretch Lincoln pulled up. Quentin and Weinstein climbed in together.
The elegant silhouette of the limousine glided across the icy street and vanished into the quiet cold of Park City.
A sharp wind blew.
The bus arrived.
Link boarded and traveled to the Park City bus terminal.
At around 2 PM, he took the tourist coach to Salt Lake City, the capital of Utah.
From there, he boarded a train bound for Los Angeles on the West Coast.
Utah, in America's western region, is mostly composed of the Rocky Mountains and Colorado Plateau, with elevations above 2,000 meters.
In January and February, temperatures averaged around -3°C (27°F).
The mountains were blanketed in snow. The wind, icy and ruthless.
Every winter, American middle-class families flocked here to ski and vacation.
Park City, home of the Sundance Festival, was a famous resort destination.
But to someone as broke as Link, it was a frozen hell.
As the train descended from Nevada into California, warm sunlight filtered through the windows.
Link shivered—then slowly woke up.
Outside, the sky was dazzling blue, birds streaked across in vibrant colors.
Sunlight spilled across the green hills of Providence.
The mountains were lush with vegetation, blooming with wildflowers.
Southern California's Mediterranean climate brought hot, dry summers and mild, rainy winters. With average temperatures ranging between 64 and 86°F (18–30°C), plants from nearly every biome could take root here.
No risk of freezing to death here.
But eating well, living well, and surviving with dignity?
That was as difficult as anywhere else.
"Hey, man, you're finally awake."
A voice beside him said.
"Your backpack got stolen."
(End of Chapter)