A/N: Fictional world, some movies are not made yet. Year is 2011, with the ability to recreate movies.
Tequila filled the room with an oppressive presence. Pills littered the black carpet, which to the frozen Ryan looked like stars at night.
He could barely see the small hotel room that he wanted to forget.
He could not remember the last time he had a thoughtful conversation; he even missed Mark's voice. He looked at his reflection from his iPhone: his bright green eyes were the color of a Heineken bottle.
All his life amounted to a slew of failures: a frequent athlete who was often injured, a D-list actor who never got a nod from the suits, and—most grievous of all—a bad son to a mother who would travel from heaven to hell to be with him.
And the truth of his death, that he would be another statistic of drug overdose in L.A., stood before him, and tears welled up inside him.
Throughout his acting journey, people were surprised that he hadn't broken through. "You have such an open face!" He had always blamed luck or a shitty upbringing, but he knew he was at fault.
He remembered back to where it all began: when his real parents died in a car accident and Social Services came knocking on his door. They made him sign some papers, hop from home to home, and he eventually made it to Tessa's place.
If his life was a play, it would be a comedy.
He was reminded of the tragic death of River Phoenix, who died outside of the Viper Room with his younger brother kneeling before him calling the police. People outside who screamed and prayed—something he preferred right now compared to the silence in the room and in his mind. Who would remember him? The hotel housekeeper, who smelled of cigarettes and had seen the worst of people.
L.A. was the loneliest and most brutal of the American cities he had ever encountered. At least in New York—where he was from—there was a feeling of wacky comradeship found in the streets, but here there was only sunshine and moonshine.
What was the phrase? Life and death are two sides of the same coin. Fuck you.
A flash of clarity hit him, and for a moment, the opioid haze cleared, making him doubt if he had ever thought anything truer: his life would be cheaper than this hotel.
The cold floor reminded him of when, as a child, he would hide anywhere in Malcolm's house—a small, suburban hole-in-the-wall place in New York. The hours were long and the silence louder in that timeless, godforsaken place.
His manager Mark had told him that it was the deal of a lifetime; he would escape the underbelly of Los Angeles that employed dreamers and bootlickers.
'It was supposed to be my big break. It had a 100 million budget and a good director.'
He raised his right arm as far as he could to the ceiling above, and in his last moments, he thought of his flimsy but earnest agent, his actor friends who constantly looked down on him, and the phone call he had received weeks ago.
The Los Angeles sun hit him, and he realized that his body felt different. People were wearing an early hipster-bohemian style: boat shoes, striped maxi dresses, and large reflective sunglasses. The sunlight blinded him while he came to the realization of the impossible.
'What the hell?'
He was in the backyard of his old apartment that he shared with a ragtag group of up-and-coming actors. Outside, there was heavy traffic on Sunset Boulevard.
His body did not feel hazy, dizzy, or numb at all. He was at the prime of his life.
He rushed to the bathroom: small, toothpaste everywhere in the sink, rolls of brown toilet paper all over the cold floor. He stepped in and saw in the mirror a much healthier blonde, curly-haired teenager at the beginning of youth.
He felt such happiness and freedom that he crawled outside to feel the sunburnt grass. He heard police sirens, phone calls taken far away, and valley girls screaming, "Team Edward!"
He immediately pulled out his flip phone, dialing Tessa. She picked up straight away.
"Mom. Oh my god."
"What, are you okay?"
"Nothing." He calmed his breath. "I just want to say that
I love you."
"What. Please don't take any drugs. I just saw on the news about Amy Winehouse's death, how sad. Me and Bob walked down the aisle to Valerie." She was out of breath.
His heart sank, and he imagined what her reaction would have been if she were still alive to witness his death.
He did not answer for a long time, and she said, "Do you hear me? These fucking cellphones, 500 dollars!"
"Yeah, I'm fine. More than fine."
"That's good," she continued. "Are you eating good? I mean, L.A. is good for food but horrible for walking. Doing exercise? How's your scoliosis? You wouldn't let go of your brace."
"Yes. Yes."
Ryan said, "I love you, gonna make you proud."
"Just have fun. When you told me you were going to the other side of the country, I thought it was because of a girl. Bob told me that I was crazy, but a mother is always right. Just wear protection, it's—"
"Yes, yes. I am receiving another call."
He looked at the caller ID and almost dropped his phone.
"Bye."
"Bye."
He picked up to a familiar verbal assault:
"These fucking interns, they dialed the wrong phone number. They phoned Ryan Reynolds," he bellowed a laugh. "If you did The Proposal, I would go on my knees. Ha."
Ryan lay down on the small patch of grass.
There was a brief silence.
"Anyway. I got you an audition for something that you can actually get. Listen, it's small budget, but a great cast and a learning opportunity."
"Okay. What's the title?"
"Margin Call by J.C. Chandor. Kevin Spacey, Stanley Tucci, and Demi Moore signed on. 1:00 PM at 6900 Santa Monica Blvd. I text you the information. I gotta go."
Mark got up from his seat, and Ryan could hear the chair hit the wall of prizes—it was just his college diploma from the University of Michigan.
Ryan put down his phone and looked at the hordes of people going about their day. His attractive appearance earned him a few stares—kneeling down to touch the grass did not help—but he looked toward the half-broken apartment.
He was not going to waste this chance, but the reality of the situation caught him.
The air was humid and sweltering, but his body still felt cold from that small hotel room. All of his adult life he had been running away from the hand of poverty or failure, but now he felt like he was running towards something.
Although, doubt seeped into his being, and he thought: Why me? I was just a nameless actor that you can pick anywhere in this city. I was supposed to die in that cold room: forgotten and rejected.
He went back to his crummy apartment to prepare for the role: a young, ambitious analyst on Wall Street. He at least had some things in common.
All day, Ryan did odd things to prepare, or at least get in the headspace of an analyst: he went to Wall Street forums on Reddit, took a free financial course on Khan Academy, watched pieces of the documentary The Ascent of Money, and looked at profiles of junior analysts at firms like Goldman Sachs on LinkedIn.
He had trouble sleeping and took a Valium, but all night he saw the outline of his popcorn ceiling.