After finalizing the script and project proposal, Wayne knew what came next: funding.
As Professor Anderson had warned, even seasoned directors—some well into their sixties—still struggled at this step.
It was a cruel paradox.
No one would invest until you proved your ability, and you couldn't prove your ability without investment.
Wayne, with nearly sixty years of lived experience across two lifetimes, understood this truth intimately.
Talent, discipline, vision—none of it mattered without money.
Hollywood was full of people with "the conditions for success." What separated them from actual success was financing.
He drove back to his apartment, packed a box of documents, tossed in a few changes of clothes, and headed north toward Ventura County—his childhood home.
Ventura was a patchwork of suburban sprawl and untouched wilderness.
While the southern coast had grown rapidly thanks to U.S. Route 101 and its connection to the San Fernando Valley, the northern part remained wild—dominated by the vast Los Padres National Forest.
That's where the Greenberg family farm sat, nestled between fields and forest.
As country music hummed through the speakers, Wayne drove past rolling hills and grazing cattle, wondering if he was truly ready for what to come.
The stakes felt heavier now.
He arrived at the farm by late afternoon. Cowboys waved as he passed, and he parked in front of the old wooden villa.
His father was on the porch, pipe in mouth, flanked by two golden retrievers. The dogs leapt up as Wayne stepped out of the car, tails wagging furiously.
"Dad, where's Mom? I've got something I need to talk to you guys about," Wayne said, rubbing the dogs behind their ears.
"She's in the kitchen," his father replied. "Trying out a new beef stew with potatoes. Oh, and one of the bulls was acting up again—James took care of it yesterday."
Old Greenberg studied his son. He looked thinner than usual. Hopefully not from anything illegal.
He remembered his own youth—leaf cigarettes and reckless nights—and worried Wayne might be slipping into something similar.
"Let's talk in your study," Wayne said. "I brought something I want you to see."
They climbed to the second floor, entering the study that doubled as his father's workshop. Shotguns lined the wall, and a massive stuffed deer head loomed above the fireplace. His father sat behind a heavy oak desk, polishing a revolver with practiced ease.
"Alright," he said. "What is it? Don't tell me you knocked someone up. I might have to introduce you to this big guy."
Wayne rolled his eyes. He'd never gotten used to his father's American-style bluntness.
He still remembered being thirteen, when his dad barged into his room with a Playboy magazine, determined to teach him "healthy sexual knowledge."
"Dad, look at this. I prepared it."
Wayne handed over the file bag. His father took the proposal first, setting the thick script aside.
He already knew what this was about.
It was the agreement they'd made years ago.
Wayne never asked for toys or pocket money.
He cleaned guns on weekends, went hunting, watched football—always with one condition: when he graduated, his father would invest in his first film.
Old Greenberg read through the proposal, then skimmed the script.
He didn't linger. Just one pass, then he set it down.
"Listen, Wayne. My set's outdated. I was a producer before you turned five. I haven't touched the industry in decades. If you want the money, I'll call the accountant tomorrow. But you get one shot. If you blow it, I'll only help you find an internship."
He looked at Wayne seriously. Support was one thing. Belief was another.
Wayne hesitated. "Would you have invested in this project back when you were still producing?"
His father leaned back, thinking. "Honestly? No. The plan's solid, and the budget's tight. But I wouldn't invest in a novice. Not without a track record. Maybe a few small companies would take a look, but don't get your hopes up. I'm funding this because your last name is Greenberg. That's the only reason."
Wayne wasn't surprised. He'd known this was how the industry worked. His father's honesty was just a more polite version of what a studio exec would say—if he even got through their doors.
"Alright. I'll show Mom later. Maybe she'll have some notes. You know how long I've been preparing for this. I don't want anything to go wrong."
"I know," his father said. "But sometimes I wonder if you're rushing. Maybe you should wait until after graduation. Get some experience. Build a crew. Then make your movie."
Wayne didn't respond. He couldn't afford to wait. 1991 was approaching fast, and with every passing year, his window narrowed.
"I'll go check on Mom's stew," he said, gathering the documents. "Then I'll put this back in my room."
Wayne carried the box down the hallway to the room at the end of the second floor. It looked just as he'd left it. His mother must still clean it regularly.
At the foot of the bed, two small nests remained—makeshift beds he'd built years ago for the golden retrievers. They were far too big for them now, but the memory lingered.
The room was simple, warm, and lived-in. A desk sat by the balcony window, and a wooden bookshelf stood nearby. Alongside a handful of books were relics of his childhood: old toys, stacks of comic books, and a dusty guitar with a broken string.
He opened the box and carefully unpacked the videotapes—seven or eight experimental short films he'd made during university.
After peeling off the tape, he lined them up neatly on the shelf, then stepped back and nodded with quiet satisfaction.
Then he headed upstairs to the kitchen.
"Mom, I smelled the stew before I even walked in," he said, stepping into the warm light.
His mother stood at the stove, stirring a pot with practiced ease. She looked younger than his father—tall, graceful, with soft blonde hair pulled into a loose bun. English by descent, she carried herself with a gentle elegance that contrasted with her husband's rugged charm.
"Oh, honey," she said, turning with a smile. "How was school? I saw this beef stew recipe on TV and thought I'd give it a shot. Doesn't look like I've ruined it."
She set the spoon down and wrapped her arms around him.
"It's going fine," Wayne said. "I've got enough credits to graduate, but I told my professor I'm using the rest of the year to shoot my final project."
"You're going to be a great director," she said, brushing his hair back. "And I'll be the proudest mom in California. Now go call your father. If he's still fiddling with those old guns, I swear I'll toss every last one into the barn."
"Hey, dear," came a voice from the doorway. "You'll need a better excuse than dinner to get rid of my collection."
Old Greenberg stepped into the dining room, pipe in hand, grinning as the two golden retrievers padded in behind him.
Wayne smiled. For all the tension and ambition swirling around his future, this moment—this house, this family—was the one place where everything felt grounded.