Your dreams are definitely going to die today.
Shayne hates that it's the first thing that comes to mind when he opens his eyes, morning sunlight filtering through his curtains, casting a warm glow on the cluttered studio apartment.
It takes every ounce of strength, a groan (maybe several groans), and the smell of coffee feet away before he finally rolls himself off of the pullout coach, pushing it back down into a sitting position when he does.
"Sleeping Beauty finally decide that it's showtime?"
The question comes from his roommate Max, who is tangled up in a blanket. Max is also seemingly half-awake, but pouring out two cups of coffee to make up for how ridiculous he looks.
Shayne stretches his limbs, attempting to shake off the rest of the sleep, as he meets Max's gaze with a half-hearted glare. "Oh, don't get all Prince Charming on me, bro. You know damn well that signing up for this gig was not my idea of a fairy tale."
Max chuckles, handing Shayne a steaming cup of coffee. "True, true. But hey, at least it's a stepping stone, right? Besides, who knows? Maybe you'll stumble upon some charming princess along the way. I mean there are eight of them right?"
Shayne rolls his eyes, taking a grateful sip of the coffee that instantly brings the rest of him to life. "Yeah, right, more like a parade of drama queens and self-proclaimed Instagram royalty."
Max's laughter fills the air as he settles onto the couch, facing Shayne. "Ah, the joys of reality television. It's like a train wreck you can't look away from. But you definitely won't be lacking some inspiration for that screenplay you're always going on about."
Shayne grumbles, taking another deep sip of his coffee. "Highly doubtful, these shows are more about scripted drama and manufactured emotions than genuine connections."
Just as Shayne finishes his sentence, his phone buzzes, it's a text. He glances at the screen to see a notification from his sister, Lily, who seems to have an uncanny ability to know exactly when to interrupt.
"What's Lily want now?" Max asks, clearly amused, but also bizarrely psychic. Shayne realizes, now that he's fully awake, that his roommate has dyed his hair from light brown to a deep blonde; but ignores that for now.
Shayne's face scrunches in annoyance as he reads the message aloud:
7:43 A.M.
Princess Cold Brew
Shayne, I need investors for the coffee shop! When are you going to stop chasing your fantasies and join the real world? I'll be there in five to chew you out. Love you.
Max raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Well, Lily doesn't beat around the bush, does she?"
Shayne sighs, tossing his phone onto the coffee table. "She's relentless. Thinks she's found the next big thing and wants me to jump on board."
Max's expression softens as he observes Shayne. "Look, buddy, I know it's tough. But you've got talent, and sometimes dreams take time to come true. Just don't let anyone push you into settling for something less than what you deserve."
Shayne smiles appreciatively, his frustration momentarily easing. "Thanks, Max. I appreciate the pep talk."
With a playful wink, Max nudges Shayne's shoulder. "Anytime, my friend. Now go on, conquer the world of dramatic 20-somethings. Your happy ever after is waiting."
Somehow, but not surprisingly, the coffee isn't enough to make him feel too optimistic about that. He sets the cup down and heads over to one of the tiny studio's closets to grab something to wear.
It's a humble space, to say the least, about 900 feet for just about all of his half of the money he and Lily had saved up to make their dreams a reality. He had found Max through a sketchy Craigslist ad after Lily told him she'd already found roommates to chase her dreams; which had left him in the worst boat ever.
Thankfully, he thinks, as he pulls on a simple black t-shirt and pair of jeans, Max hasn't turned out to be some kind of serial killer. His tech-bro roommate has gotten him pretty well connected with the realities of his dream-chasing.
1. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to walk off the street, hand a studio his screenplay, and win an Oscar tomorrow.
2. Studio executives are assholes unless you sleep with them.
3. Most of them are old and racist farts.
4. See tip number three again.
5. If you can't sleep your way to the top, you're going to have to do some schmoozing.
That fantasy was just about as realistic as Lily thinking she was going to create a cold brew empire to rival Starbucks' coffee monopoly in the most critical cities in the country. He has to start with baby steps, and those baby steps involve a lot of random gigs he hasn't been happy about.
"Remember the baby food commercial?" Max asks him as he slings his backpack over his shoulders, a mind reader through and through.
"It'll make them drool and give them a healthy stool," Shayne chants in the jingle of the traumatic commercial that has been burned into his head.
It gets a pretty big chuckle out of Max while he starts getting ready himself.
He'd been at it for about three months now before a legitimate network would throw him a bone, burning through all of his savings on the way. He couldn't turn down "Unfiltered" if he wanted to, and believe him, he wanted to.
The show's premise is pretty quirky, drama bait from EBC, Shayne is sure it was thought up by a group of interns and dumbed down to the level of a fifth grader. From how Shayne was sold on it, the show focuses on Oliver Henderson, the latest Hollywood heartthrob.
Shayne couldn't care less about him, but after weeks of waiting for filming, so he can start getting paid, he knows far more about him than he cares to admit. Oliver's an actor, about a year older than him at 20, who the producers have framed as the next big eligible bachelor. He's been in the last few summer action blockbusters. Shayne's seen him in plenty of interviews while scrolling down his Twitter feed.
He's the typical basic white guy with an Australian accent that has Gen-Z thirst trap written all over him. Think of Chris Hemsworth having a baby with Glen Powell and you've got a grade-A asshole. He has a thousand-watt smile that could melt anyone's cold dead heart and frames himself as an avid philanthropist. Shayne's problem though, is that underneath the glitz and glam, Oliver just seems dumb. He's never been asked any hardball questions from what he's seen, his personal life is a big question mark, and his Instagram is chopped full of shirtless gym selfies. He's basically about as deep as his childhood kiddie pool.
It's a kind of hollowness he can't stand, that he guesses makes the guy perfect for something like this; a blank canvas for the producers to work with. It's also a blank canvas the show seems to be taking a step further from how he understands it. Oliver gets eight "beautiful" women, and Instagram influencers vying for his heart. As he dwindles those numbers down the women are also teased with what Shayne's been told is a heartbreaking twist. Whichever woman Oliver picks at the end gets a choice between winning his heart or a million-dollar prize to help build their brand.
"That's deliciously fucked up," is what he remembers Max telling him when he gave him the details.
There's something sickeningly rewarding about seeing a robot of a man get embarrassed on reality television he wants nothing to do with. He also doubts any of the women will care enough about Oliver by the end to rush off into the sunset. Life isn't a movie. People are selfish, cruel, and mean.
It's the sound of a car horn that finally snaps him out of his internal monologue. A tone he's memorized just as much as the baby food commercial by now.
"Wish me luck in hell," he says while grabbing his keys and rushing towards the door.
"Good luck in hell, take some sunscreen," Max chimes in as Shayne slams the door shut and locks it.
The sunshine is even more blinding outside of his complex, the only relief coming from the thick LA smog that coats the sky. The complex he's staying in is absolutely nothing special, it's far removed from the eclectic shops, colorful street art, and buzz of chatter.
"Welcome to the Hollowpoint Gardens," Max had told him when he moved in. "Just make sure you're not in the parking lot after 11. I saw some shit go down with a drug dealer and prostitute once. I think the News called it a knife fight?"
Shayne is 90% sure he's already seen his place on the news three times this week for totally sketchy reasons.
"Our father who Art in heaven," Shayne mumbles to himself, half joking and half serious while he hauls ass to his ride.
Lily's beat-up car is parked on the street. The car itself is a testament to their humble circumstances, covered in bumper stickers and a collection of random objects littering the dashboard. Old Humphrey, as she calls it, has certainly done the job getting them here from Kentucky, so he can't bash it too much; especially since his money-saving days are nonexistent.
"Let the record show, this is the biggest mistake I think you've made in a while."
They're the first words out of his sister's mouth. She's wearing a frilly yellow dress, and her usually curly and frizzled black hair is razor-straight. She looks more like a wannabe model than any version of Lily he's ever known.
"Noted, Miss Bennett," he says, something he knows will get under her skin. It's something he only does when he's irritated with her, and today's definitely one of those days.
"You know what I mean Shay," she says, a pet name. "We've been here three months and the only thing you've got going for you is a roommate that hasn't murdered you in your sleep yet."
Shayne rolls his eyes. "Max wouldn't hurt a fly."
"He's totally giving crazy axe murderer energy," Lily says.
"How would you know what crazy axe murderer energy looks like?" Shayne asks.
She purses her lips before pulling off abruptly down the street, it's when he knows he's won part of the argument at least.
"I just think you're wasting your time chasing all of these coattails," Lily says. "And I can only keep Ma and Pops distracted for so long."
Shayne's thankful for that at least, his sister's ability to bullshit. It's something she'd picked up in high school debate and hadn't let go of since. When they were little, only a year apart, he remembers how she'd been able to convince their parents of literally anything; even things that didn't make sense.
"You and I both know they think I'm hopeless," Shayne says. "They would've rather I just stayed, married Sarah Beth, and had six kids while running the farm."
Lily sighs, likely realizing how hopeless pressing him at this point actually is. "You can tell them you know. They'd understand now, this isn't the 1950s."
He knows that knows it's not the 1950s at least, (although a certain president may have tried to send the country back there) but as far as telling his parents what he's kept buttoned up his whole life, it's an entirely different conversation. He's heard how they've talked at church, or alone when they think he isn't listening. He's heard their suspicions and suspicions from friends he's watched them subtly dismiss. They love him right now sure, but he's not sure they understand him or what he wants, and he's not sure they ever will.
He lets the silence settle between them then, deciding to toss in his headphones and turn on the new Taylor Swift album instead. The opening melody of 'Lavender Haze' blasts into his ears and lulls him into security.
He listens on as Lily navigates the chaotic city streets, weaving through traffic with ease, taking in the sights and sounds of the city he now calls home. The palm trees swaying against the clear blue sky, the glimmering skyscrapers towering above them, and the constant rush of people going about their lives. It's a city of dreams, hopes, and broken promises, all intertwined in a colorful tapestry. He holds on to the fleeing feeling of hope at least. It's really all he has left.
***
After a while, they arrive at the grand entrance of the mansion where "Unfiltered" is being filmed. The sprawling estate exudes opulence, with its manicured lawns, intricate architectural details, and a sense of exclusivity that lingers in the air. A line of production trucks and bustling crew members makes it obvious that they're in the right place.
"I'll be done by 10," Shayne says, stepping out of the car before Lily can do much else but nod.
He closes the door and watches as she leaves, knowing that as frustrated as she might be, she'd never abandon him outright.
"Hallowed be thy name," Shayne says, continuing his prayer.
As beautiful as this place appears to be, he has a feeling he needs the prayer more here than he needed it at home.
What was it that the gates of hell said before Dante entered the inferno?
"Abandon hope all ye who enter here," he whispers to himself, before walking towards the mansion's imposing double doors.
He takes a deep breath, his heart practically pounding out of his chest, before reaching for the handle.
His hand is only halfway there before the door swings open, piercing green eyes staring back at him; a walking brunette Ken doll. Move over Barbie, he's found his own dream house.
It's Oliver Henderson, a very pissed-off Oliver Henderson, who pushes past him like he's not even there.
"Piss off," Oliver says to him. "Some of us have to work around here."
Several emotions rush through Shayne all at once: confusion, anger, frustration, bewilderment.
He settles on red-hot anger.
"My mistake your Highness," are the words that leave his lips, "I know you're just so busy waiting for us to tend to your every need."
They're words he regrets as soon as he says them, words that stop Oliver in his tracks.
It feels like years before those green eyes turn back to face him, the lips of the mouth that just snubbed him pressed into a fine line.
He's immediately prepared to get fired, to lose out on what's sure to be his last chance to make it anywhere here. He's sure if he does it soon, he can have a ticket bought and booked for the next flight home to Kentucky by tomorrow. It's what happens though that replaces a good chunk of his anger with even more confusion.
There's a new look on Oliver's face after a few more moments of silence. The anger is still there for sure, but there's also a hint of wonder, hurt and intrigue there too. There's also another emotion there, something he can't quite place, but knows he's seen before.
"Have we met?" Oliver asks him, his tone much more flat and reasonable; only a hint of his accent there now.
"Shayne," Shayne says, trying to walk a fine line. "I'm Shayne Bennett."
"Oliver Henderson," the actor says, and if Shayne could, he'd give the man an award for the most obvious introduction in the world. "I'm very sorry Shayne Bennett. I'm having quite a day."
"I know what you mean," Shayne says, hoping it sounds as genuine as he means it.
Before either of them can say much else, Oliver turns again and is gone, off towards a trailer just out of view from the front of the mansion. Shayne can see someone screaming his name from across the lawn. He assumes it must be an agent or something.
He's not sure what just happened, but on the bright side, he can cross off an Australian man telling him to piss off from his 2023 bingo card.