A Wolf at the Door

“Well, see…like, I’m heading out to L.A. ’cause I have this movie idea. I’m a writer! A screenwriter, anyway, and a buddy of mine knows a guy who knows a guy…you know how Hollywood is.” He rolled his eyes and chuckled, deciding that, with no evidence to support his assumption, I must know all about Hollywood.

“And you think a movie deal is more important than your soul?”

Chatty-Spencer laughed. “Hell, what are you gonna do with a soul? I figure in Hollywood, you’re a nobody if you still have one. Amirite?” He elbowed me jovially, and I imagined myself crushing his skull. It was a sweet thought. I also set my mental clock for six months, a year at the outside. Viljo’d be getting an e-mail from this idiot, I just knew it, wanting one of us to come save his ass.

“But I won’t have to sell my soul or anything. This thing I’ve got, it’s gonna be huge. Nobody’s got anything like it.” He patted his laptop like a cherished puppy, and I had to wonder what would happen if I “accidentally” spilled my complimentary paper cup of water all over it later.

“Well, good luck to you.”

To me, that sounded like a conversation ender, but the man just kept talking! Four hours of unrelenting drivel, and I couldn’t even say for sure that the guy stopped to take a breath.

I found out all about his super-secret movie idea, because he could tell I was a trustworthy sort. (And I’ve seen the same plot done at least four other times; trust me when I say it was not as groundbreaking as the guy wanted to think.) I learned where he went to college, about the crazy ex-girlfriend he’d left behind in Chicago, all about the online video game he played fanatically. He told me about his friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend inside studio connections, which basically boiled down to a janitor for Someone Important’s intern. He confessed that he only had a hundred bucks in his pocket and no idea where he was going to stay once the plane touched down, but he had a cousin who promised to get him a job somewhere with lots of celebrity interaction.

Part of me had to wonder just how many people every year headed out to California with just the change in their pockets and dreams the size of Canada. How many of them had those same dreams crushed and went crawling home, broken? How many of them stayed past the point when they could go home, unwilling to admit to anyone else that they’d failed in an industry where success was the rarity, not the norm?

See, that’s the problem with having a philosophy degree. I have a crappy job, and my brain works way too much.

I almost cried from happiness the moment the wheels touched down. At that point, I was dangerously close to selling my soul for a moment of peace and quiet.

“Aw, man, here already? And we were just getting to know each other.” Spencer gathered up his stuff, carefully putting his laptop back in its bag. “We should totally keep in touch, man. You on Twitter?”

I wasn’t even sure what the hell a Twitter was. But something told me this guy was gonna need help in the near future, and even if I planned on retiring, I could still direct him to the right people. “Here.” I handed over one of my self-printed business cards. It was plain white card stock and said simply JESSE DAWSON, CHAMPION. My cell phone number was printed beneath it.

I squeezed past him and down the aisle, ignoring the puzzled “Champion?” behind me.

I’d never been to Los Angeles before. Typically, the entire west coast fell into Avery Malcolm’s territory, the champion based out of San Francisco. I mean, I’d seen pictures on TV, like anybody, but we all know how true-to-life those can be.

People rushed around me, greeting loved ones with squeals and kisses, or just hustling off to the next stop on the journey of their life. Christmas travelers, I decided, just coming home after the festivities. Things looked off for some reason I couldn’t put my finger on, until I realized that no one was wearing a winter coat. Light jackets, yeah, but nothing like the parkas we’d been bundled up in at home. Winter in California, I guess.

Standing in the midst of the human flood was a man in a dark suit jacket over a white T-shirt and blue jeans. The crowd parted around him, I think because running into him may have caused bodily harm. Dude wasn’t tall really—no taller than my six foot one—but he was solid muscle and the nice coat did nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders. In fact, if he flexed, I bet he’d shred that nice jacket right in two. Black hair, the kind with natural blue undertones, caramel-colored skin, and most notably a stark black tattoo down the right side of his face. Oh, and he was carrying a sign that said J. DAWSON. Since my name happened to be J. Dawson, I walked over and introduced myself. “I am J. Dawson.”