Thursday, Simon arrived at Griffin Supermarket bright and early as usual.
After yesterday's press conference, The Butterfly Effect's package was basically set in stone, with contracts signing next week.
Per Hollywood script deal norms, Simon would get $140,000 within a week of signing—for the first draft and two-script options. The remaining $60,000 would come in stages as he revised and polished per studio notes.
That initial $140,000 was enough to kick off Run Lola Run. So Simon had already given Roger notice: after next week's shifts, he'd quit Griffin Supermarket.
After two-plus busy hours, around 9:30, Simon at the register spotted Roger Griffin hustling from the back office, newspaper in hand.
Sensing Roger headed his way, as the middle-aged man neared, Simon asked, "Roger, something up?"
Roger didn't answer right away, eyeing Simon curiously up and down before handing over the paper, pointing to an article. "Simon, this couldn't be about you, could it?"
Simon took the paper—a Los Angeles Times—and spotted the headline Roger indicated.
"What Does 'Butterfly Effect' Mean?"
Simon's first thought: What a familiar question.
Then he scanned the body.
The piece recapped WMA's recent saga, but perhaps over-discussed, so Los Angeles Times writer Peter Butler took a fresh angle: the script's content.
Surprisingly, Peter Butler had traced "butterfly effect"'s origins. In this pre-search-engine era, that wasn't easy.
After explaining the term, Peter Butler speculated on the plot. Factoring in Brian De Palma directing, he concluded The Butterfly Effect was likely a crime thriller where a trigger sparks dire events.
If that was all, Simon wouldn't mind much.
Peter's guesses missed the real story by a mile.
But unexpectedly, Peter name-dropped him, curious about "Westeros." Claiming extensive research yielded no info on the surname, he figured "Westeros" was invented—and an intriguing one.
Roger, seeing Simon frown at the paper without speaking, snapped fingers by his ear. "Simon?"
Simon snapped back, smiling at the middle-aged man. "Roger, I might need time off tomorrow too."
"No problem," Roger nodded. Though Simon's vibe implied yes, he pressed, "So, this is really you?"
Simon handed back the paper, nodding. "Yeah."
Confirming, Roger flapped the paper with a rustle. "Then that middle-aged guy the other day—was he that WMA VP in the papers lately? Name, uh... what was it? And you—got $200,000 now?"
Simon eyed the flustered Roger, chuckling. "Two hundred grand isn't much to you—the store's good days pull that in revenue."
Revenue and profit ain't the same," Roger shook his head, still wistful. "And I earn the hard way—not easy like you."
As he spoke, customers approached.
Noting lines at other registers, they paused; Roger even manned an empty checkout, deftly playing cashier.
Busy till 3 PM, Simon handed off and biked to WMA headquarters, grabbing today's Los Angeles Times en route.
At Jonathan Friedman's outer office, Simon greeted Owen Wright first.
"Simon, what brings you?" Owen rose with a warm smile, then nodded at Jonathan's door. "Hang on—Jonathan's with Sean Young."
Simon ventured, "Sean Young—Rachel?"
Owen pulled over a chair by his desk for Simon. "Yeah, that's Rachel."
Simon nodded, surprised Sean Young was Jonathan's client.
Beyond her stunning replicant Rachel in Blade Runner, Sean Young lacked standout roles.
And rumor said she was a total diva—many in Hollywood avoided her. Post-Blade Runner, her brief fame fizzled fast.
Simon recalled: as her career tanked, after missing the first Michael Keaton Batman lead due to a horse-fall injury, Sean Young pulled a Hollywood stunt.
During Batman Returns prep, she showed up at Warner lot in homemade crappy Catwoman gear, demanding the role as compensation—earning "Hollywood crazy lady" rep, shattering many's Rachel goddess image.
Mulling this, Simon told Owen Wright, "Speaking of, I don't know all Jonathan's clients yet. Owen, mind showing the list?"
"Sure," Owen nodded, pulling a folder from his drawer for Simon. "Have a look."
Simon opened it.
First page: veteran actor Robert Duvall.
Simon recognized him vaguely—familiar face.
But per bio, Robert Duvall was 1984's Oscar Best Actor, with three more noms. Probably Jonathan's biggest star.
Flipping on: more forty-to-fifty-ish vets.
Simon wasn't shocked.
TV's rise hammered Hollywood films for twenty-plus years.
Slim pickings slowed star turnover; top-tier actors skewed older.
Thinking this, halfway through, beyond upcoming collaborator Brian De Palma, only one relatively familiar: Billy Crystal.
And Simon's own bio slotted last among Jonathan's male clients, after some directors.
Then a string of veteran actresses; Simon skimmed, spotting Courteney Cox toward the back.
To the end, Simon nearly returned the folder but paused at the last page's girl.
ID photo: another short-haired girl.
Scanning her bio: no film/TV yet, just stage experience—likely Jonathan's fresh signee.
After a thought, Simon waited as Owen finished a call, then spread the folder before him. "Owen, what's her deal?"
Owen set down the receiver, eyeing the name.
Sandra Bullock.
"Sandra—Jonathan signed her last week, on Sanford Meisner's rec from New York theater. Solid newbie," Owen explained, then eyed Simon teasingly. "Into her type? Got her portfolio here—wanna see?"
Simon chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah—just thinking she might try for my film's lead."
"Ah," Owen said, knowing Simon's experimental film plans, turning serious. He pulled Sandra Bullock's contact from the Rolodex, handing it over, adding, "Fall season's late; Jonathan wants her TV-sharpening for spring, then films. So she's free months. But Simon, if lead-hunting, I can suggest experienced ones—good comms, reasonable rates."
"No need," Simon shook his head, pulling his address book from his backpack to note Sandra Bullock's details. "I'll contact her first, see."
Owen didn't push. "Need help, call anytime."
As they spoke, Jonathan's door opened; a striking woman in a black cinched dress emerged—Sean Young.
But Sean Young's mood was foul, ice-queen face on, slanting a glance at rising Simon without stopping, clacking away in heels.
Jonathan followed, eyeing the vanished woman's direction, then turned to Simon, gesturing at empty air deadpan. "Simon, this is Miss Young."
Simon approached, shaking Jonathan's hand chuckling. "Didn't know you did deadpan humor?"
"Occasional self-amuse," Jonathan's mouth twisted wryly, skipping explanation.
Instructing Owen for coffee, Jonathan led Simon inside, sitting behind his desk first. "Oh right, Simon—about Court, I planned her as lead. But she nailed Canon Films' live-action He-Man's #2 female. That flick's $20 million budget—good gig. So I swapped The Butterfly Effect lead to Elizabeth."
Simon knew zilch on He-Man—vaguely a recent cartoon—but smiled, nodding. "Great—neither chance wasted."
Jonathan laced fingers, eyeing Simon. "So, you here suddenly?"
Simon showed Jonathan the Los Angeles Times article. "Joe, seen this?"
Jonathan scanned, nodding. "Owen showed me this morning. For you, good thing, right?"
Simon shook his head, paused, then said, "Joe, one thing—about my life before L.A.—I need to explain first."