Great Actor in Hollywood

Ryan walked out of the studio and saw a familiar figure sitting down on a bench warming her hands with her breath. She almost camouflaged against the deep snow behind her, wrapped in a white Patagonia puffer jacket. He approached her with a wave and said, "Hello." 

"Nice to see you." She said, her green eyes caught the early evening light; the golden ray cast across her face which made her look like the Venus de Milo come to life. Her soft hands rested in her lap, fingers gently interlaced, as if she belonged in the stained glass of a cathedral window.

"May l sit down?" 

"Of course." 

There was an awkward silence in which both parties looked at the scenery of Park City. They looked below at Old Town: a mountain village lined with mining-era buildings, each roof adorned with icicles. The scent of pine mixed with smoke from chimneys drifting upward in lazy swirls, creating a serene atmosphere that settled over them both.

"Why did you write the article?" Ryan said the first thing that came to his mind. 

"Why? I just wanted to. To be honest, l didn't expect the reaction it caused" 

"Yeah. Me too." 

"You look a bit unwell," She said. 

"I hope you take care of yourself". 

"What. What do you mean?" He smiled and sensed a deeper meaning behind her words. 

"You know. If you take the acting thing too hard it could harm you. How many actors try too hard and lose themselves and how many more take drugs to sleep at night. People love to gloat over actors with their limousines, fancy seating at events, or their goofy outfits in the Met Gala. Haa, did you see Katy Perry's lit-up dress last year? She looked like a firework." She leaned back on the bench, looking as comfortable as if it were her own bed. 

"Ha." 

'She's got such an expressive face' 

"l have just seen too many famous people hate their lives," She added. 

"Hmm. They dont hate their lives, they dislike the silly inconveniences of fame. And why does it matter anyway? If you love what you do then damn the 2 seconds of taking a photo with a fan." 

"True". 

"And you're not completely right. Some actors want to lose themselves in a person because when they walk to set, see the makeup done, and hear 'action', they don't see the boring or faulty aspects of their own lives. Actors aren't role models; some care about their roles, others just want to be treated like models." 

"And get a nice paycheck. And some want to get laid too probably". 

"Ha. Yeah" 

A loud honk came from their right but both ignored the sound and looked at each other. Camila touched her bracelet and bent her knee towards the direction of Ryan. 

"When l have more freedom to write what i want, i will write about—" 

"Me. And my splendid acting ability" Ryan joked but instantly regretted it — he realized it could be taken the wrong way. 

She pinched Ryan's knee and reacted like he was struck by a lightning bolt. She continued, "I want to write about movies because it brings me closer to my friends and family. And writing gets me to address a larger audience. Well I hope so." 

Ryan was sitting on the grass below and looked up and said, "Whats your favorite movie?" 

"I don't know. I like A Room With a View, Before Sunset, or probably Lost in Translation" 

"What a variety of genre you have there. I love Lost in Translation. It's Murray's best performance in my opinion." 

"Oh shut up. You probably just like the opening shot." 

Ryan and Camila burst into laughter, and for a moment, it washed away the exhaustion of the past week—Camila's from hours of writing, and Ryan's from his least favorite task: talking about himself in front of the media; people who really didn't care or know him.

'Except her'.

She stood up and helped Ryan get up. She grinned and said, "Well, l have a flight to catch and I'm not even packed." 

"Really? You seem like a person who would catch a heart attack if they are not an hour early. How can l get in Ms. Pulitzer's way?" 

"Yeah, how could you? Well, l see you later." She walked by him and was messing around with her jewelry like a kid inspecting his wrapped gift on Christmas Eve. 

"Wait before you go…uh… do you think l will do well in Looper" 

She turned around and said, "Not my job." She yelled out the last part, "And if you do a bad job l will be honest and beg my editor to put my review on the first page" She disappeared like a snowflake on warm skin. 

Ryan smiled despite himself. But inwardly thought to himself: 

'Do you think l will do well in Looper? Are you serious? God, whats wrong with me?' 

***

Ryan sat by the airplane window, the sound of the engines vibrating through his bones as the plane descended toward Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport. Outside, the sprawling city spread like a patchwork quilt: rivers slicing through the landscape, bridges arching like steel towers , and clusters of weathered rooftops stained by years of sun. It was his first time in the South, and he swore that the scent of something salty seemed to go into the airplane.

 The production team had sent a few emails—call times, wardrobe fittings, reminders—but Ryan barely glanced at them. He was now focused on the city itself, the promise of a new role, and the strange thrill of being far from glitzy, glossy L.A or cold Park City. Although he missed New York. 

The plane landed with a gentle bump, and as Ryan collected his bags, the air outside felt thick and heavy. The sky was overcast, gray clouds hanging low. The smell of lemons and citrus collided with the distant sound of jazz from somewhere in the airport lounge. 

'Am I in a movie already?' 

A black SUV waited curbside. The driver greeted him with a warm, easy smile, a wide-brimmed hat tilted just so. "Welcome to New Orleans, Mr. Stone. Hope you like the heat."

'Yeah, its fucking Janurary' 

Ryan nodded, sliding into the backseat. Through the tinted windows, the city passed in a blur and saw street signs that bore names like Royal and Bourbon.

The production offices were in a repurposed warehouse on the edge of the Marigny neighborhood. He found his dressing room tucked between two rooms filled with futuristic props and costume racks spilling over with leather jackets and worn boots.

A stylist named Mia was waiting. "Hey Ryan, we've got a few fittings today."

"Okay. Do whatever you need to do". 

As she measured him, Ryan glanced around the room, noting a poster for the film pinned to the wall. The tone was clear: this wasn't just another sci-fi flick; it was a treatise on time, choices, and morality.

The streets of New Orleans had been transformed into a near-future dystopia, neon signs flickering over graffiti-covered walls, old streetcars rerouted. 

He walked towards Rian and was ready to go.