Chapter 1
Before anyone starts reading, I want to give all credit to Pujimaki who's story is what inspired me to write my own version of a Hollywood story. And I recommend you all and girls check it out.
With that said while I am from the US if anyone knows anything about the US education system then you know its trash. My grammar sucks and while I use Word to write and edit everything I write. There is only so much I can do lo. Anyways I hope you all enjoy the first chapter of what I hope to be a long story.
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"Life is bullshit, wrapped in silk, sprayed with perfume and offered to the young as a gift a gift." – Caesar Espinar
-1994-
As I got off the bus in Downtown LA, I took a moment to look around me. To take it all in. This rat-infested hellhole of debauchery and sin. I could feel in my bones and my skin. The sickening mix of shattered dreams, broken promises, two-faced liars, and superstardom. It felt rather good to be honest. It felt like I was finally home.
Oh, hello, by the way, and thank you for reading my story. My name, if you haven't guessed already, is Caesar Espinar. An ex-drug dealing, ex-convicted criminal piece of shit and street kid. You know the type, the ones you look down on and cry for joy silently when we are gunned down in the middle of the street, because it makes you feel better about yourself. Forgetting the fact that many of us never had a chance to begin with. No matter what it is you tell yourself our real crime being, trying to survive in this cold world that some asshole decided to bring us into. The ones that would have been better off having never been born at all. Like me who was born to a drug addicted mother who didn't live pat my birth and fucked over from day one because of it.
That's right, I was your typical crack baby. Put into the system the moment I was born, and one of the many that no one ever came to get. Ending up on the streets at the tender age of 10 after running away from that bitch of a foster mother they stuck me with. A woman who took more pleasure in slapping me and the other kids she was supposed to be taking care of at the time. Now, if this were the movies, some good Samaritan or cop would have come around and saved all those kids from that wicked woman. But this wasn't not the movies and as far as I knew that bitch was still a foster mother to this day.
As for me, after I ran away, it was nothing but juvenile detention centers after juvenile detention centers. In one day, out the next for a range of crimes. Everything from petty theft to assault and drug dealing. Never killed anyone, however. Not that I didn't try a few times and even came close once or twice. I was just a bad shot, lucky for them. That was life in the streets, however. You either had what it took to survive, or you didn't. I had what it took to survive, at least for a time. That was till one night when I was 16, and dealing drugs on a street corner, some punks got the drop on me. Put two bullets in my chest before robbing me of the drugs and money I had on me. Lucky for me, they were also bad shots, and there was a cop down the street who heard the gunfire.
I lived, if just barely and when I woke up, I told the cops shit about what happened. No matter how hard they pressed, I didn't tell them who shot me. Knowing that if I did, that would be the end for me on the streets of Dallas. Plus, I had other things on my mind after I woke up. I don't know if it was a gift from God or some deal I made with the devil. All I know is that when I woke up, I knew things. Things about the future that I shouldn't have known about. All of which had to do with movies, TV shows, and music that would be coming out sometime in the future.
Of course, when this happened, I thought I was going loco. I had seen in movies and TV shows that when a character came close to death, they were never the same afterwards. Well, it would seem that wasn't just a load of bullshit. The only part they got wrong however was the fucking horrible headaches that came with all this knowledge. Anyway, now that I have all this knowledge, I thought up a plan. The moment I got out of juvenile detention, I would head to Hollywood with a screenplay that was sure to get bought. Now I know what you all are thinking. That is everyone's plan when they go to Hollywood, but again, I knew what movies would be hits in the future. That gave me a leg up.
I wasn't stupid, however, and knew how dangerous Hollywood was. You see, behind all the glitz and glamour was a cutthroat business world that an 18-year-old ex-con had no business in. To become someone, I had to choose my battles and get my foot in the door. That is why when I arrived in Hollywood with a script in hand, I went to the one place that could give me some protection while I was starting out. The Writers Guild of America, or WGA, was an organization that even the heavy hitters in Hollywood were aware of. Now, joining such an organization was more complex than most would think it was, but registering a screenplay with them was pretty easy.
You just needed to fill out some forms and have the cash to pay them to protect your script. After you paid the amount, they wanted they would protect your script for at least 5 years. I, of course, didn't plan on having my script lying around, hoping for someone to come around and pick it up in five years. However, I was a bit worried that the guy who originally wrote the script had already copyrighted it. Luck, however, was on my side once more, and when I arrived at WGA HQ and submitted my script, the original was nowhere to be found.
Now I know some people out there would frown or outright condemn me for stealing another person's hard work for my own benefit. Well, do you know what I say about that? Fuck them and fuck you if you have a problem with that. This was the real world, and no one got to the top playing nice. I would rob, steal, and do any number of things to get to the top, and if plagiarism was the worst thing I ever did. That made me about 90 percent better than everyone else in Hollywood.
Anyways, after I took care of that, it was time to get my script into the hands of the one man who could do something with it. Luckily, along with the knowledge of what movies would be coming out in the years to come, I also knew who directed them and the stories behind how they were made. Now I have no idea if the story that was in my head was true or not. But even if it wasn't, I planned to make it real. All I had to do was find out where the fucker lived.
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Sitting at home drinking a cup of coffee, David Fincher was wondering, not for the first time, where his career was headed. After the critical disappointment of Alien 3, he honestly thought his career as a Hollywood director was over. While not a financial flop by any means, the public backlash and critics hammered him so hard that he honestly thought that he was done in Hollywood. That was until he heard his doorbell ring.
Putting down his coffee, David got up from his seat, went to the door, and opened it. He found a man holding a package addressed to him. Not remembering ordering anything, he took one look at the box and signed for it. Taking the box from the man, David couldn't help but smile a bit at what he saw written on it.
"What's in the box?"
Thinking this was kind of funny, David took the box to the kitchen. Then grabs a knife and opens it. Finding what was clearly a script inside it with the title, Se7en. David wasn't usually the type to read a random script sent to him. Like most directors, he got scripts handed to him all the time, either by friends, family, or anyone who just happened to recognize him. That said, he had to give Caesar Espinar credit for his creativity. Later on, he would wonder how this Caesar person found his address, but for now, color him intrigued. Taking the script back to his den, he picked up his coffee and sat down.
Taking a sip of his coffee, David flips to the first page and starts to read. And before he knew it, he became captivated by what he read. More than once, he had to flip back a few pages to reread this part or that. Not because it was unclear, but because it was just that vivid and gruesome.
He even has to stop reading occasionally to catch his breath. The first time, so he could get a pen to underline or circle parts he either thought could be improved, or just wondered how he could bring it to life on the big screen. By the time he is done reading it and rereading it, his coffee has gone cold, and night has fallen. But he didn't feel the least bit tired or that he had yet to eat dinner. All he cared about was this script and finding a way to make it into a movie. Because it had to be made, he could feel it in his bones. This could be his 2nd chance to break through into Hollywood. First, however, he needed to find the writer of this script. The mind that could come up with this script, he knew, could help him polish it into something really special.
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So, it took the better part of a month for someone to call me about my script. I wasn't surprised. After all it who the fuck was I? Nobody was who. Fuck I didn't even have a phone at this point. The only way to get hold of me was through WGA. Who took messages, thankfully, seeing as I couldn't very well hang around the building waiting for a call that may never come. Not only was I not the type they wanted hanging around their building, but even the cops were keeping an eye on me. I mean, I looked, walked, and acted like a hood.
While I hoped David Fincher would read my script, I had to get busy surviving. I had little money left after I came to LA. Being smarter than your typical hood, I save some of the money I made from dealing drugs. Hiding it here and there to come back for later. But having no home to call my own and not being able to open a bank account on my own till I turned 18 the places I could put it were the type of places people tended to find shit. That and the cops had found a good amount of it after busting me so many times.
I had enough to get a shitting room in a roach infested apartment building downtown but that was about it. I also had to work at a carwash to pass the time and feed myself. That paid me what the minimum wage was at the time. To say I was flat broke would be an understatement, but that was nothing new to me. I had eaten out of trash cans before and slept in cardboard boxes more times than I could count. So, I could suffer some more till my plan worked, and it would work. I knew it would, and I was proven right a month later.
After all, here I was standing across from David Fincher himself, who, to his credit, looked a lot calmer than he clearly was. Couldn't say I blamed him. He didn't look like the type to have ever been in a fight in his whole life. While I looked. Well, let's just say being shot in the chest wasn't the first time I had been shot, nor was it the first time I had a sharp object enter my body. The scars I carried all over my body were visible even when fully clothed. One of the biggest is the one on my neck from when my wonderful foster mother took a hot poker to it.
As for what David was feeling at this moment, well, he had wondered what type of person it took to write a script like the one he was interested in. He got his answer as he looked at the young man standing across from him. And that was what Caesar Espinar was: a man from the tattoos on his arms to the bullet wound in his left wrist and scars on his arms and neck. He was a man who had seen things. Things that David couldn't even imagine, and he was a director whose job it was to imagine things and bring them to life. There, however, was a limit to what one could imagine and what was real. The man before him was real, and he had seen things he couldn't possibly imagine.
Caesar just walked with a dangerous edge to him. He didn't swagger or pretend to be confident. The young man before him walked like someone who didn't fear anything, because what was there for him to fear? When life kicked you so hard and ripped you apart, but still somehow you found a way to survive, what was there left to fear? There was a story here. David knew it, but that wasn't why he was here, meeting this young man. He was here to talk about Se7en.
Standing up, David reaches out with his hand while keeping a smile on his face. "You must be Caesar Espinar."
"And you are Director David Fincher. It's a pleasure to meet the man who directed Michael Jackson's "Who Is It", Aerosmith's "Janie's Got a Gun", and Billy Idol's "Cradle of Love". I have to say I am a big fan of those videos. Especially Janie's Got a Gun. The way you made me what to kill that piece of shit of a father. It was something else." I say to the man. Softly laying out the flattery while at the same time not sounding overly impressed.
If there is one thing I have learned so far in this life, it is that everyone loves to hear people say good things about them.
Taking a seat, David asks, "Oh, you know my work?"
Taking a seat after him, I say, "Of course, I have. I like films, and while the critics may have talked shit about Alien 3, anyone who could take a piss poor script like that and make it into a halfway decent movie is a man deserving of respect."
Another thing I have learned so far in this life is that while people didn't like being reminded of their failures. They loved deflection. Taking something that was horrible and telling them it wasn't their fault, and even gently blaming it on something or someone else. Well, they loved it. Case in point, telling David that Alien 3 was a bad script, which it was, but then telling him that it was thanks to him that it was as good as it was. Honestly, he did a good job. God knows I hated the movie, but it was far from the worst thing I had ever seen in my life or in my head.
David just smiled and laughed a bit at that. He knew actors and could tell when someone was lying to him, but not this guy. He couldn't tell if Caesar bullshitting him or not with how serious his face was, but David felt like he was telling the truth.
"Thank you, and yes, it was a horrible script. You know it had to be rewritten and tossed out several times before it was finally agreed on what should be." David says to me.
"Then more credit to you. That couldn't have been easy to deal with." I say to him.
"It wasn't, but I have moved on now and am looking for my next product. Tell me, how did you know where I lived? I have to say I wasn't expecting to get your script in the mail," David says.
"I didn't know where you lived. Honestly, I was planning to send the script to Paramount, hoping the box gag would catch someone's attention. But I was so fucked up that day I didn't know what I was doing. Fuck I am surprised I even sent it to a director." I say to David with a straight face.
Which earns me a laugh in turn.
David couldn't believe it, but then Caesar didn't look like he was joking.
"Then fate has brought us together, Caesar. You see, I read your script, and I liked it. So, I took it to Robert Shaye, the CEO of New Line Productions. He liked it too and wants to make a movie about it. So, what do you say? Are you willing to sell your script to New Line?" David asks me—no doubt expecting me to jump at the offer. And you know what he had every right to believe that was how I would react.
Anyone else would, after all. To have your script brought by a real Hollywood company and told they wish to make a movie about it—well, it was a dream come true for many inspiring screenwriters. That said, I wasn't an inspiring screenwriter. I stole this script from someone else to use for my own gain. So, with that knowledge in hand, I was able to take the news far better than most others would have.
Leaving him waiting for a while, I took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up.
"You know, I am pretty sure it's illegal for someone your age to smoke," David says, trying to ignore the fact that Caesar didn't seem happy at all that his script wanted to be bought by New Line.
Taking the cigarette out of my mouth, I blow the smoke to my side and look at him. Then say, "If smoking is the worst thing I have ever done, I would be a saint."
"It's unhealthy for you." David points out.
I nod my head with the cigarette back in my mouth, then take it out and say, "So are two gunshots to the chest, but here I am. Still alive."
He didn't know what it was, but something in his words chilled David to the bone. Did Caesar honestly not value his own life so much? If so, that made him a very dangerous man to deal with.
Looking to the side, I spot a homeless man in an alley and say, "I don't want you to think I am ungrateful, Director Fincher. I may not look it, but I am overjoyed that New Line wishes to buy my script. Honestly, I am, but…. I want more out of this life than just selling one script."
"Oh…." David says, not surprised. Every screenwriter dreams about being an actor or director, sometimes both. He just wonders which one Caesar wants to be. Of course, he wouldn't get what he wanted, but David still wants to hear what it is.
"I will sell you my script, but I want to be a part of it," I say to him.
"What do you mean?" David asks me.
"I want a guarantee that I will be hired to work on the crew. I don't care what the job is, so long as I am on set to see how the movie is made." I say to him.
David leans back and smiles, "You don't want to be the director or in it?"
I laugh at that question and say, "Look at me, Director Fincher. Do I look like someone who knows anything about making a movie or acting, for that matter? Na, I want the experience. That is all."
Nodding his head, David had to say he was impressed with the young man before him. Knowing one's limits was a sign of a strong mind—something many in this business often forget or do not realize on their own, causing them to overstep and lose everything. It seemed that Caesar understood that. Well, it was impressive, as he said. "I can do that. Consider yourself a part of my filming crew."
Standing up at the same time, we shake hands, and I watch as David Fincher turns and leaves. Sitting back down, I turn my head and once more look at that homeless man. Thinking to myself, this was it. My foot was in the door. It was now up to me to walk through it. It wasn't going to be easy, but somehow, I was going to reach the top of this business—even if it killed me—or preferably someone else.