Chapter 82 – Weekly Champion
Haywood mentally filtered out Schroeder's cruder comments and asked a follow-up question.
"So… did you like the movie? How did it make you feel afterward?"
"Yeah, man, it was awesome! Especially that part at the end, when he took out all those white guys. So satisfying!" Schroeder's eyes lit up as he relived the scene, even mimicking the motion of the main character stabbing his would-be father-in-law.
"Alright, thanks."
Haywood had heard what he needed. Without another word, he turned and walked off—there was no reason to hang around any longer.
Schroeder, still puzzled by the odd white guy, slung his arm around his girlfriend's shoulder and headed out into the Los Angeles night. For people like him, midnight was barely lunchtime.
---
May 17, 1992 – Monday morning
BANG BANG BANG!
The door to Wayne's hotel suite was being knocked on like someone was trying to break it down. A bleary-eyed Nina opened the door, still half-asleep.
"It's way too early... Boss isn't even up yet," she mumbled, stifling a yawn and pointing to Wayne's bedroom.
"They were taping that Phoenix TV segment last night until almost two a.m. He's still sleeping. Want me to wake him?"
Jimmy, who looked like he hadn't slept either, was practically vibrating with excitement. But even as he spoke, he wore a wide grin across his face.
"I'll wait in the living room. Got any coffee?"
Without waiting for a response, he plopped down on the couch.
"Coffee? Yeah, sure…"
Nina sluggishly walked to the coffee machine and poured him a cup. Only after Jimmy had taken a couple of sips did it hit her.
"Wait—Jimmy? Weren't you supposed to be in L.A.? What are you doing here so early?"
Jimmy let out a yawn of his own, as if Nina's had been contagious.
"Yeah, I flew in at 2 a.m. The moment I landed, I came straight here."
Just then, the door to the master bedroom creaked open. Wayne emerged, disheveled and still in pajamas, clearly groggy from the late night.
Jimmy didn't even glance toward the woman in Wayne's bed—he was laser-focused. Grinning ear to ear, he handed Wayne a stack of printed pages.
"I had to come in person. Warner Bros. was going to fax you these—I intercepted them."
"These numbers," Jimmy beamed, "are going to make the press go wild today."
Wayne took the papers. One glance—and any trace of fatigue vanished instantly.
---
Starting Saturday morning, Get Out saw a massive surge in attendance across 2,088 theaters. That day alone, it pulled in a staggering $19.5 million.
And that wasn't even the peak.
The real surprise came Sunday, when the film grossed $20.35 million, actually surpassing Saturday's numbers.
Its total opening weekend haul? $49.64 million.
A miracle. An anomaly.
This defied all box office conventions. In the North American market, Saturday is typically the high point of any new film's release—especially for original stories or non-franchise films. Fridays are working days, and Sundays usually dip as people prepare for the week ahead.
But Get Out bucked the trend. Its Sunday numbers grew, not shrank.
It was practically unheard of.
---
Jimmy could barely contain himself.
"Crazy, right? Caught you off guard too, huh?" he laughed like a kid with a gold star. "You did it, Wayne. You pulled off something special."
Wayne's heart was pounding, but he forced himself to calm down. Sitting down, he read through the numbers again and again, almost as if he couldn't believe them.
He had always known the film wouldn't flop, but he had expected a slower, word-of-mouth-based growth. This explosion on opening weekend?
Completely unexpected.
"Jimmy… do we have a more detailed breakdown? I feel like I'm missing something here," Wayne asked, taking a deep breath, trying to stay composed.
"Of course."
Jimmy reached into his briefcase and pulled out another couple of pages, handing them over.
Wayne knew better than anyone: by all traditional standards, Get Out should have been categorized as a genre film—a niche R-rated thriller. And even though he'd tried to make it more accessible, that label still stuck.
In theory, a film like his—even with good word of mouth—was supposed to grow slowly, fueled by audience recommendations, not explode overnight.
But flipping through Warner Bros.' internal reports, he found the reason why everything had defied expectations.
According to feedback from Warner's field researchers, most theaters near African-American communities had been completely sold out all weekend.
Incredibly, even known gang members were putting aside their grudges and going to the theater together—just to see the movie.
Even Wayne was shocked by that.
"I was stunned too," said Jimmy, seated next to him, pointing at the report. "You know why they're all flocking to see it? You won't believe it—it's because of the ending. Because the film ends with a Black protagonist wiping out a bunch of white people. That part had them absolutely hyped. Some even went to see it multiple times just for that."
It was absurd… but oddly effective.
Honestly, Wayne didn't care why they were buying tickets—as long as they were buying them.
"There's more," Jimmy added. "The report says it's become a kind of status symbol in these neighborhoods. If someone hasn't seen Get Out, their friends mock them for it. So people are literally going just to keep up appearances."
Wayne could only sigh. Warner Bros. had pulled off a textbook marketing masterstroke—they'd pinpointed the cultural nerve, weaponized it, and now it was paying off in cold, hard box office revenue.
"They really nailed it…" he muttered, glancing again at the ecstatic but sleep-deprived Jimmy. "But you know, Jimmy… they could've just faxed me this. You didn't have to fly here."
"No way. You're not getting any more rest, my friend." Jimmy dropped his smile, speaking seriously now. "Warner Bros. has changed your schedule. I'm coming with you."
"What? You mean I'm not doing the nationwide promo tour?"
"Correct. Pack your things—and bring Halle Berry. You're flying back to L.A. with me. Vanity Fair wants an exclusive profile."
Jimmy was practically bouncing again, his arms flailing as the words rushed out.
"Do you even know what this means? Your name is going to be everywhere. No one's calling you a rookie director anymore. When people talk about Wayne Garfield, they'll do it with respect. You're this close to becoming one of Hollywood's top-tier directors!"
Wayne gave him a dry look.
"Whoa, whoa—easy, Jimmy." He raised a hand to cut him off. "Don't get carried away. A director's reputation isn't built on headlines. It's built on consistent work. I'm still far from the top."
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
Nina opened it to find Naomi Watts and Will Smith, both wide awake and accompanied by their agents.
"Hey, Naomi, Will—you're up this early?" Wayne blinked in surprise. He remembered how sleep-deprived they all were during last night's interview taping.
"Wayne, it's Monday. Monday!" Will Smith practically shouted as he rushed in for a hug, then grabbed a copy of the Los Angeles Times from his agent.
"Look at this—how can anyone sleep with headlines like this?"
He held up the paper, where the front page screamed in bold letters:
> "Wayne Garfield's Get Out Slaughters the Box Office!"
"I already saw the numbers," Wayne said with a shrug, motioning for them to sit down. "Actually, I was about to tell you—we're canceling the next city on the press tour. I have to head back to L.A."
"Whoa, bro, hold that thought." Will waved him off and opened the newspaper. "You gotta hear this part first."
He read aloud, theatrically:
["With his debut feature film already grossing over $100 million globally, director Wayne Garfield returns with Get Out—a low-budget R-rated thriller that took North America by storm.
Opening in 2,088 theaters this weekend, Get Out raked in a massive $49.64 million over its first three days, skyrocketing to the #1 spot on the charts and delivering a bloody blow to traditional box office expectations.
Known for his razor-sharp style and economic filmmaking, Garfield has now helmed two back-to-back films with sky-high returns on investment. Get Out alone earned over ten times its production budget in its opening week. Warner Bros.' unwavering confidence in him has clearly paid off."]
Will tucked the newspaper under his arm and began clapping. One by one, the others in the room joined in.
"Congratulations, man!"
"Sweetheart, you did it!"
"Director Garfield—congratulations on your success!"
Wayne looked around at the smiling faces and couldn't help but laugh. He raised a hand, motioning for everyone to calm down.
"Thanks, Will. Naomi." He looked at Will's still-youthful face, then at Naomi, whose fresh charm was unmistakable. "But let's not forget—it wasn't just me. Everyone in this room gave their all to make this happen. So let's not give me all the credit. This is our victory."
Will grinned and slapped his shoulder.
"Sure, sure—but you were the heart of this whole thing, Wayne. And you deserve all the praise."
Then, dramatically, he pulled the paper back out.
"Alright, I'm not even done reading—let's keep going!"
["Written and directed by Wayne Garfield himself, Get Out impresses with its airtight logic, layered social commentary, and bold racial metaphor—making it a film that sticks in the mind of anyone who watches it…"]