Chapter 81 – The Black Community
In the public eye, Tom Cruise was the epitome of a movie star—professional, disciplined, and dedicated.
And that reputation wasn't unfounded. As an actor, Cruise was indeed a model of commitment. Even past the age of fifty, he was still performing high-risk stunts without body doubles—stories about his fearlessness during shoots were frequent tabloid fodder.
But behind the scenes, he was also known to be a handful.
Take, for example, his lifelong struggle with dyslexia. Since the age of fourteen or fifteen, reading had been a significant challenge for him—not just scripts, but even magazines or newspapers.
And Tom Cruise wasn't alone. There were countless children across North America who faced similar reading difficulties.
As for how he overcame it—one of the most persistent rumors involved his faith. In a country that values personal freedom above all else, the idea of "freedom of religion" often gives rise to fringe cults under the guise of spirituality.
Cruise has publicly claimed on multiple occasions that it was Scientology that cured his dyslexia. Whether or not that's true remains a mystery.
Even Pat Kingsley, his longtime agent, wasn't sure where her client truly stood on Scientology. Despite its science-y name, in the eyes of the public, Scientology was often dismissed as a notorious cult.
Cruise's affiliation with it remained a stain on his reputation—though at the time, it was still manageable. Small incidents cropped up here and there, but Kingsley always found a way to smooth things over.
After all, with the powerful backing of CAA, many things could be quietly buried from public view.
Years later, when the infamous "bride selection" scandal broke out, all of Cruise's past controversies would resurface in full force—but by then, Pat Kingsley was no longer his agent.
As she stepped out of her client's lavish mansion, Kingsley cast a final glance back. All she could hope now was that Tom wouldn't let the press get under his skin while promoting the film.
---
That night in Los Angeles, as darkness fell, the city's downtown—like many across North America—became a no-go zone for most.
Urban centers had largely become impoverished ghettos, home to large communities of minorities, predominantly African-American.
Once the sun set, the streets were practically deserted by the general public. The night belonged to the streets—and the communities that lived within them.
Schroeder had grown up in LA's downtown. Like many others, he'd joined a local gang early and made his living slinging powder in small baggies.
But tonight, Schroeder had no intention of working.
One of his close friends had told him about a new movie hitting theaters—one starring Black actors, with Will Smith in the lead role. Word was, the movie wasn't just good, it was explosive—featuring a Black man who takes out a whole lot of white folks.
Even his fellow gang members had gone to see it and came back raving. Schroeder wasn't about to miss out. He planned to take his girlfriend—if only so he'd have something to brag about later. How could he let all the younger guys in the crew see it before their own boss?
At 8 PM sharp, Schroeder arrived at the nearest cinema with his girlfriend in tow.
The moment he walked in, he was stunned by the crowd.
Since when did so many of his people start lining up to see movies?
The lobby was packed, wall-to-wall, with young Black men and women. He had to drag his girlfriend through the mob just to get to the ticket window.
"Yo, bro! Gimme two tickets for that movie. Yeah, the one with the poster on the wall."
He shoved a handful of crumpled bills through the tiny slot in the security grille. The cinema's ticket booth, like most establishments in these neighborhoods, was fortified with bars—only a small gap remained to exchange money.
Grabbing the tickets, Schroeder wrapped an arm around his girlfriend and led her to a quieter corner to wait for the screening.
"Hey, Jennifer, trust me—this is the kind of movie we Black folks should be watching. Not that 'white savior' nonsense."
Jennifer, clearly a teenager, rolled her eyes. "You haven't seen it yet? Half my classmates won't shut up about it. Those girls won't talk about anything else."
"Not yet," Schroeder said, smugly. "I was waiting to see it with you."
The two embraced and kissed, ignoring the stares. A few nearby guys whistled, but no one paid much attention.
---
Upstairs on the second floor of the theater, manager Donder was standing beside Warner Bros. market analyst Haywood, watching the scene unfold below.
"You believe this? I never thought I'd see the day a bunch of these folks would line up to watch a movie instead of—well, you know, dealing or beefing over turf."
Haywood had been repeating that line all evening. This was clearly far beyond what he'd expected from the fieldwork.
Donder, by contrast, looked utterly unfazed. He'd already been shocked once—on Friday. With years of cinema experience under his belt, even he had never witnessed a turnout like this.
"The buzz from our marketing created discussion," Donder explained, "and that attention turned into interest."
That clicked for Haywood. Warner Bros. had only sent him out to observe—but what he was seeing was far more impactful than expected.
"And now that interest is translating into box office gold. Look at them—who'd have thought this crowd, usually ignored or blamed, would turn out like this just to see a movie?"
Donder was still marveling at the turnout when Haywood spoke up with a concerned expression. He looked at the cinema manager, hesitating a little.
"Donder, you know I've still got a job to do," he said awkwardly. "Can you guarantee my safety here in the theater?"
"What are you planning to do?" Donder raised an eyebrow. Normally, no white guy would come to this kind of place just to gather feedback from Black moviegoers. "As long as you don't provoke anyone, you'll be fine."
"Good to know," Haywood exhaled deeply. "I mean, the company sent me all the way out here. I can't exactly go back without anything to show for it."
"Alright. Once this screening ends, I'll get someone to escort you," Donder replied, then added with a shrug, "But let me warn you—not to get your hopes up. Most of these people aren't going to give you detailed opinions on plot or character arcs."
---
Downstairs, Schroeder was holding his girlfriend close as they slowly moved through the line. He wasn't sure why he was even lining up. Normally, waiting in queues wasn't his thing. Maybe it was peer pressure.
After handing his tickets to the usher, he and his girlfriend joined the crowd pouring into the screening room.
The theater seats were in poor shape. Most of the red fabric on the chairs was stained or faded, and some seats were little more than bare metal frames.
Those who came early got the better seats. Latecomers didn't seem to mind sitting on the skeletons of what used to be chairs.
Schroeder lucked out. He and Jennifer found a pair of decent seats in a back corner—stained, but intact.
"Yo, Jennifer," Schroeder chuckled, tapping a suspicious mark on the seat, "I bet at least ten girls lost their v-card right here."
Jennifer rolled her eyes, thick lips curling in amusement. "Some of those trashy girls at school were bragging about it. They said it was 'super intense.'"
Her tone had an edge. For Jennifer, this was a rare outing—her very first time in a movie theater. As surprising as that might sound, it wasn't unusual in their community.
The lights dimmed, and the Warner Bros. logo filled the screen. A few whistles broke out, along with scattered jeers and laughter from the back.
Even as the film started, the room wasn't exactly quiet. People chatted loudly, some couples got cozy, and others hollered as if they were at a party instead of a movie.
But Schroeder didn't join the noise. He was genuinely curious.
When Will Smith first appeared onscreen, cozying up with a white girlfriend, the crowd erupted in cheers and whistles. The excitement was palpable.
There was something about seeing someone who looked like them in that position—something that stirred emotion, pride, and even defiance.
Ten minutes in, the chatter began to die down. The movie had pulled them in.
Schroeder was fully engaged, eyes glued to the screen. For once, even his girlfriend faded into the background.
Halfway through, a sudden wave of shouting jolted him. Onscreen, the main character, Chris, had just been strapped to a chair, the sinister operation to swap his brain underway.
The audience reacted viscerally. Crude curses flew, peppered with street slang. Rage filled the air.
But when Chris began his counterattack—fighting back, escaping, striking down his captors—the room erupted again. This time in triumphant whoops and chants.
"Get 'em!"
"Teach those bastards a lesson!"
"Hell yeah!"
Schroeder stayed fixated on the screen until the very end. For the first time in his life, he felt something shift inside him. The power of a story had landed. The film had struck a nerve.
---
As the credits rolled and the lights came back on, the crowd began filing out.
Near the exit stood a white man, stopping a few people here and there to chat. Schroeder noticed him immediately.
When it was Schroeder's turn to pass, the man approached with a cautious smile.
"Hi there," he said politely. "I'm part of the team that worked on this film. We're doing a little research. Mind if I ask what brought you to see this movie?"
Haywood had been careful to only approach approachable-looking people. Anyone too aggressive-looking, he simply avoided. No sense getting jumped in the parking lot.
Schroeder pulled Jennifer in closer and answered without much thought.
"Everyone I know's seen it already—hell, even the guys who sling dime bags on the corner. If I didn't see it, I'd lose face in my crew."
Haywood nodded and jotted something down.
What he didn't note—but realized in that moment—was that something unusual had just happened in that rundown theater: a community that rarely engaged with cinema had turned out in force, and they'd felt something.
And for better or worse, that feeling had power.