Simon listened to Peter Butler with a smile and said, "Peter, that should be enough for you to write a news piece about me, right?"
Peter Butler caught the subtext, nodded, but added, "Of course, but it only makes me more curious about you."
"Hm?"
"First, your last name," Peter Butler dove into the questions. "Simon, was my guess in that article right? Is it an original word?"
Simon admitted, "Yes."
"I checked a lot of sources, even called some professors from my alma mater—they had no answers," Peter Butler said. "So, does 'Westeros' have any special meaning?"
Simon shook his head honestly. "Sorry, I can't say."
Peter Butler hadn't expected the simplest question to be refused. He asked instinctively, "Why?"
"No reason—just can't," Simon said. "And I don't want to make up some excuse to brush you off."
Peter Butler paused, then nodded. "Okay, then second question: Simon, where are you from? That's puzzled me too. I called your agent—he wouldn't say. Couldn't find it through other channels either."
This time Simon didn't hide, but confirmed first: "Peter, I need to double-check: the article on me and Lola Run will definitely run after next year's Sundance, right?"
Peter Butler nodded. "Of course."
Simon laid it out: "Then it's simple. I'm from San Francisco, an orphan, grew up in a children's home in San Jose. Last year I started at Stanford, computer science. Two months in, I was sent to a psych hospital, treated there nine months. After discharge, I came to L.A. The rest, you know."
Though Simon's account was concise, it packed a punch—no doubt.
Stunned briefly, Peter Butler latched onto a key detail: "Simon, if I got that right, you're nineteen this year?"
"Eighteen, actually."
Eighteen and landed a $200K script deal with Fox!
Peter Butler felt his brain cells failing him today. He barely managed: "So, your age—does Fox know?"
Simon shook his head. "No."
Americans don't have ID cards—not due to system or state law issues, but privacy protection. Roosevelt pushed Social Security numbers through Congress only by promising they'd never touch personal privacy.
Simon's Fox contract included SSN, credit card info—for payment assurance. But as a non-actor, he didn't need to share personal details.
Actually, even actors in Hollywood often fudged ages.
Peter Butler steadied his emotions.
Eighteen.
At eighteen, he'd just started college.
This guy, at eighteen, was directing his first film.
Peter Butler had observed the whole afternoon yesterday; Lola Run's shoot showed no amateur vibes—Simon's crew handling was nothing like an eighteen-year-old's.
Right.
He was also the cinematographer.
Not a job for an eighteen-year-old, but the whole crew accepted it without question—meaning he'd earned their respect there.
God.
What kind of guy had he run into?
The waiter brought lunch then; Peter Butler paused.
Once the waiter left, they ate a bit before he spoke again, skipping Simon's past—if needed, he'd verify himself.
"Simon, talk about the movies. The Butterfly Effect—cool title. I guessed at the plot—how many points?"
"One," Simon smiled. "It is a script perfect for De Palma. But your other guesses were all wrong. And I can't say more—confidentiality clause in the contract."
Peter Butler understood, then asked, "Lola Run?"
Simon thought. "Lola Run is a non-traditional anti-genre film, exploring how life has countless possibilities. Also, I'm making it to annotate 'butterfly effect'. From the start, people said the term's too obscure—Fox even considered renaming. But if audiences see Lola Run, they'll fully grasp what 'butterfly effect' means."
Peter Butler said, "Sounds like an art film."
"Depends on your definition of art film," Simon replied. "If everything non-commercial is art, then yes. But Lola Run will be a really fun movie."
Peter Butler probed, "Any details?"
Simon laughed. "You snapped the lead actress's photo yesterday, right? That's enough. For content, if interested, I'll save you a ticket at Sundance."
Peter Butler, hearing the refusal on plot details, didn't push—pre-release secrecy was standard; he hadn't expected much. He just nodded: "Deal."
They chatted more, finished lunch; Simon saw Peter Butler off, then returned to Fox for editing.
Thanks to thorough pre-planning, the next two weeks' shooting went smoothly.
Right up to November 14.
Friday.
Outside Roger Griffin's supermarket on 25th Street in Santa Monica, four in the afternoon.
After the third take of the final shot, amid the crew's held breath, Simon shut off the camera and gave everyone an OK sign.
A month and a half of hustle, finally done.
Everyone exhaled in relief; low cheers grew, soon turning to applause rippling around.
Simon handed the camera to the nearby assistant director, hugging and thanking everyone one by one.
Janet pulled a camera from somewhere, herded the group to the supermarket door, handed it to the chubby owner Roger Griffin, and squeezed in beside Simon.
Roger Griffin chuckled, framed the shot, and snapped cleanly.
The street was still blocked; the crew couldn't linger. After the group photo, they quickly packed up.
In under half an hour, traffic resumed.
Wrap party tonight at Simon's place; everyone would head home to freshen up, then come over.
Simon stayed till last as usual. Once most left, he entered the reopened supermarket and handed a check to Roger Griffin, guest-starring as cashier.
Roger pocketed it neatly; the middle-aged chub looked a bit wistful at Simon. "Hard to believe—months ago, hearing you wanted to make a movie, I thought you were dreaming big."
"Sometimes you need big dreams," Simon smiled. "My place has a party tonight, Roger—you coming?"
"Nah, no time," Roger shook his head melancholically, like he was swamped. "Gotta mind the store."
They chatted by the register a bit; Simon was about to leave when Courtney Cox unexpectedly came from inside, arms full of stuff as usual.
Seeing Simon, Courtney's eyes flickered but she smiled and nodded, heading to the counter. "Hi, Simon."
Simon smiled back. "Still hate carts?"
"Feels like a hassle," Courtney said, perking up at the mention. "Saw you filming here—how's progress?"
Simon replied, "Just wrapped."
Courtney pulled bills from her wallet, handed them to Roger—who eyed them curiously—and smiled as she bagged. "Oh, congrats."
"And you," Simon asked. "Heard you got a part in, um, Cannon Films' movie?"
"Masters of the Universe," Courtney said, hugging the full bag. "Should be decent— but not out till next summer."
Seeing her leave, Simon waved to Roger and followed her out.
On the street, they said goodbye; Simon headed to the nearby lot. Janet and Katherine were prepping the party at his place; he had to hit the rental company personally to confirm all props were returned.