Chapter 63: What the Hell Did You Smoke?
September mornings in Los Angeles were starting to carry a trace of autumn chill. With a dull bang, Sergei slammed the car door shut—he'd spent the entire night waiting downstairs.
He stomped his feet to get the blood flowing and looked up at the rising sun, debating whether he should go upstairs and wake his boss. This… was definitely a first for him.
"Maybe I should've just gone home last night," he muttered, stretching his long limbs with a sigh.
Just as he started twisting his waist to loosen up, footsteps echoed down the stairs—thump-thump-thump.
"Shit! I totally forgot about you!" Wayne appeared, immediately catching sight of Sergei's rumpled clothes. One glance was enough to tell he'd slept in the car all night.
"That's on me. I assumed you left—I should've come down to tell you."
"No problem, boss." Sergei shook out his arms and opened the car's rear door for Wayne before getting behind the wheel.
"Back to the estate, or straight to the studio?"
Wayne glanced at his watch and shook his head.
"Head straight to the studio. No time to head home now."
Last night, Halle Berry had given him… a very different kind of experience. That satin-smooth skin was something no white woman could ever match. And her openness in bed, the flexibility of a trained model, the curves of her heritage—everything about her had been intoxicating. So much so, he'd completely forgotten Sergei was even waiting downstairs.
As Sergei drove smoothly through the early morning traffic, Wayne sat in the back, lost in thought. Halle was only the second woman he'd slept with in the past year. Unlike Naomi, whose personality complemented his, he admired Halle's looks but didn't feel emotionally drawn to her.
Whether it was the recent media circus, or her willingness to join Warner's PR plan, he had never felt any particular attraction toward Black women.
Yet now, he had to admit: Damn… that was amazing.
"We're here, boss," Sergei's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Want me to come in with you, or are you heading in solo?"
"Go find a place to rest," Wayne said, noting the wrinkles in Sergei's suit again. "I'll be here all day. Just pick me up before wrap."
With a casual wave, he dismissed Sergei and walked off toward the studio's electric tram system.
He found one, drove himself into the lot, and pulled out the day's shooting schedule. After confirming the list of scenes, he let out a slow breath of relief.
They were nearly three days ahead of schedule—leaving plenty of buffer for errors or rework. He'd expected this film to be a tougher shoot than the last, but working under a major studio had turned out to be a massive advantage. Everything he needed—sets, props, massive sound stages—was right there, giving him countless ways to streamline production.
This kind of efficiency was almost rebellious for early-'90s Hollywood. Back then, unlike the industry norm decades later, directors still insisted on shooting on location. Interior-only films were often dismissed as lacking artistic value, especially by critics and Academy voters. Oscars didn't go to movies that looked like they were filmed in a warehouse.
That would change only after 300 hit the big screen. Zack Snyder, a commercial and music video director by trade, had shown the world that all-green-screen, indoor filming could save huge amounts of money and still look visually stunning.
Wayne wasn't that radical—yet. His film just happened to lend itself to this method. The low budget made indoor shooting an attractive choice.
"Morning, Director Garfield!" Mace walked into the soundstage first, arms full of newspapers. She gave him a cheeky grin and waved one front page in particular.
"Looks like the gossip rags weren't lying. You really went on a date with Halle Berry last night?"
Wayne took the paper from her and had to admit—Warner's PR team had done a professional job. The photo looked like a candid: the two of them having dinner, talking intimately.
The accompanying article didn't waste a word. It spun their dinner into the heart of the Get Out promotion, claiming the film had brought two feuding hearts together. It even summarized the film's premise and highlighted the Black cast members.
"So? Did you really go on a date?" Mace pressed. "Wait—you didn't go home last night, did you?"
Wayne blinked.
"How'd you figure that out? The article doesn't mention anything like that."
"Your shirt." Mace pointed. "You always change clothes daily—maybe not styles, but always clean and pressed. That one's clearly yesterday's. Not even ironed."
Wayne glanced down and gave a sheepish smile. She had him there. Ever since moving into the estate, he hadn't managed his own wardrobe—Hela took care of that. But yes, he usually wore fresh clothes daily.
By 9 a.m., the crew had all assembled and shooting resumed.
Maybe the last few days had gone too smoothly, because today, the universe seemed to be pushing back. Will Smith just couldn't find his rhythm during a key emotional scene with the actress playing the mother.
After multiple takes, Wayne had to call a break and personally coach him.
"Will, man, c'mon. Be honest—your performance today? Absolute crap compared to before. Think about it. You're talking to your girlfriend's mom. Up to the point where she taps the spoon, you're doing great.
"But after that—your character is triggered. You need to cry. Not those fake, mechanical tears. I'm talking uncontrollable. You're recalling childhood trauma. Let it overwhelm you. The audience needs to feel that."
As Wayne circled around Will Smith, his tone turned more serious. This was one of the film's rare technical challenges—through facial expressions, eye contact, and delivery, the male lead had to convincingly convey the feeling of being forcibly hypnotized.
"Give me a break, let me reset. I just need a minute to pull myself together—I promise, I'll get it," Will said. His face looked fine, but mentally, he was clearly drained.
"Alright, take your time," Wayne said, heading toward the director's monitor. But as he passed by, he suddenly caught a faint scent in the air.
He paused, sniffed twice, and frowned.
"Shit… Will, call your agent. Now." Wayne's voice was sharp, tinged with anger.
He knew full well that probably 80% of the people on set—maybe more—smoked weed recreationally. But no one brought that into the workplace.
He recognized the smell instantly—faintly skunky, slightly metallic. He'd never tried it himself, but he'd been exposed enough in high school to know exactly what it was.
"Hey, Wayne, just hear me out—" Will immediately noticed the change in Wayne's expression. "My agent's not here yet. Listen, this one's on me. There was a rap party last night, things got a little out of hand. I was up all night. I'm sorry."
That made more sense. Will was usually a professional. He'd never shown up like this before.
"Alright. Apology accepted. We'll shoot other scenes this morning and push this one to the afternoon," Wayne said, brushing it off.
Parties like that didn't happen without weed—and maybe more. There was no point grilling him now.
"But Will," he added, his voice firm, "don't let this happen again. At the very least, stay clean on set."
"Got it. Thanks."
Back at the monitor, Wayne pulled out his shooting log and started rearranging the schedule. In Will's current state, there was no way they could shoot a complex emotional scene.
"What happened to him? Coffee, boss?" Nina handed him a steaming mug, curiosity in her voice.
"Nothing much—just the usual rap-star party routine," Wayne muttered, taking a sip. "Those guys go hard. Women, weed, blow, coke, pills—who knows what else. I honestly don't get what's so great about all that."
Nina listened with a knowing smile, then suddenly looked at her boss.
"Naomi said you've never touched that stuff. Is that actually true?"
Wayne gave her a sideways look.
"It's true. I know that crap's harmful. Why would I go out of my way to use it?"
"How sad," Nina sighed, shaking her head. "Your youth is seriously missing something, boss. Back in school, when things got stressful, I'd light up now and then. Way more relaxing than cigarettes."
Wayne just shrugged. In this country, especially among the youth, it was rare to meet someone like him—someone who had never messed with recreational drugs from high school to college.
"Cigarettes are different," he mumbled, then gave up. "Yeah, yeah, I know—those are bad too."
Filming carried on smoothly, day by day. Every few days, Wayne would have dinner with Halle Berry—and like clockwork, there would always be a reporter or two "coincidentally" catching them in the act.
With the steady stream of media coverage, the nature of their relationship became more and more public. At this point, they were just one press release away from officially announcing it.
It was worth noting: this was still the early 1990s. Interracial relationships—especially between white men and Black women—were incredibly rare in the public eye.
When white guys dated women of color, they were usually Latina. Black women were rarely seen with white male partners in Hollywood. That alone made Wayne and Halle's "romance" a media magnet.
Fittingly, Get Out opened with the same dynamic: a Black male lead and a white girlfriend. Back then, this kind of pairing was still a provocative, standout choice. And the film's central conflict, after all, revolved around exactly that.