After lunch, Adrian Knight stepped out of the glass fortress of CAA with a stack of errands in one hand and a restless itch in his chest. He wasn't content to just ferry envelopes across Los Angeles. He was determined to use every errand as an excuse to scout for the future superstars of Hollywood.
That afternoon, one delivery took him west to Santa Monica. After dropping a check into the hands of a minor celebrity, he wandered down toward the pier. The salty Pacific breeze hit his face as the gulls circled overhead, crying out over the crash of waves.
"Phew," Adrian muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead though the air was brisk. "Running errands across half the city isn't glamorous, but at least it buys me time to look."
The ocean stretched out endlessly before him, silver and blue under the pale winter sun. For a moment, he allowed himself to breathe, to feel the scale of where he was. Six months ago, he had been a mailroom rookie with nothing but ambition. Now, he was on the cusp of something more, but "on the cusp" wasn't enough.
CAA had drilled one thing into him from day one: clients come first. That meant he needed to stop thinking like an errand boy and start thinking like a hunter. If he didn't find talent to represent, he would never step out of this shadow of servitude.
"I need a car," Adrian told himself aloud. Waiting for buses made him feel like a loser. If he was going to chase actors, directors, and producers across Los Angeles, he needed wheels.
Two days later, after haggling for hours with a slick salesman in Koreatown, Adrian drove away in a battered 1982 Chevrolet Corvair. The thing rattled like a tin can when it hit forty miles an hour, but it was his. He had spent $680, nearly a quarter of his savings, but at least he could now show up to sets, studios, and film schools without smelling of bus exhaust.
He named the car "Lucky." Not because it was pretty, but because luck was all that kept it running.
With his new independence, Adrian established a rhythm. Mornings were spent at CAA running errands, learning by osmosis in Paula Wagner's office. Afternoons were his hunting grounds. He prowled film schools, community theaters, and low-budget sets scattered across Los Angeles. He kept his ears open in coffee shops near UCLA, hoping to catch whispers of rising talent.
But days bled into weeks without results. It was like searching for diamonds in a quarry of broken glass.
One crisp afternoon, Adrian joined Jack Wells, a fellow Assistant Agent, for another trip to the USC School of Cinematic Arts. The campus buzzed with youthful energy, students lugging reels and cameras across the quad.
Adrian lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl upward. "This is like buying lottery tickets," he said. "The odds of finding someone worth representing are microscopic. Better to believe in myself than in God."
Jack smirked wearily. "What's the alternative? We throw a wide net, pray one of these kids lands something, and then we ride the wave. Networking is the only way forward."
Adrian frowned, his mind turning. "What about New York? Half the actors breaking through in the early eighties came from there. They didn't all have representation. Maybe that's a better place to look."
Jack shook his head. "Those days are slipping away. More agents are circling every year. Even half-decent newcomers are snapped up before they've even finished their first show. If we want real leverage, we should groom someone from the ground up. Package them, push them, and build their name from scratch."
That word package echoed in Adrian's head. CAA's entire revolution had been built on packaging talent: writers, directors, and actors bundled into irresistible deals. If he could build his own package from nothing, maybe Paula would stop seeing him as just another kid in a suit.
Still, hours of aimless wandering through classrooms left him restless. His memories of future Hollywood stars hadn't helped; none of the faces he hoped to stumble across appeared.
"Maybe I should focus on foreign talent," Adrian muttered. "Or track down indie directors. Spotting them through their work is smarter than wandering like this."
Jack laughed, clapping him on the back. "Enough philosophy. Let's grab a drink. Maybe inspiration will hit after a pint."
Adrian smiled faintly, but his thoughts lingered. Actors, directors, producers, screenwriters, those were the bricks of the empire he wanted to build. He just had to find them.
That night, back at his Koreatown apartment, Adrian lifted his mattress and pulled out two Glock pistols he had purchased through a questionable "friend of a friend."
He didn't need guns for agency work, of course. But something about Los Angeles, with its sharp edges and darker corners, had awakened a hunger in him. He disassembled and reassembled them on his bed, feeling the click of precision in his hands.
Half an hour later, he was behind the wheel of Lucky, heading east into the industrial ruins of Los Angeles. Abandoned warehouses loomed against the skyline, graffiti screaming from their walls.
In the shadow of one crumbling factory, Adrian set up makeshift targets. The first shots rang awkwardly, but with each magazine, his accuracy sharpened.
"Bang. Bang. Bang."
The smell of gunpowder filled his lungs, intoxicating in its own way.
"I'm a natural," Adrian whispered to himself, chest heaving with exhilaration. "An equalizer."
For years, he had been powerless, just another cog in the Hollywood machine. But here, alone in the dark, he felt in control.
When the last magazine clicked empty, he holstered the pistols, climbed back into Lucky, and disappeared into the night.
The next morning, Adrian requested a meeting with Paula. When he told her his plan, she raised an eyebrow.
"You want to go to the Sundance Film Festival in Utah?" she asked. "What, hoping to strike gold with indie filmmakers?"
"That's right," Adrian replied, steady. "This random street scouting isn't working. It's luck, not strategy. But Sundance's where the independent spirit lives. Directors, actors, raw talent. If I find the right person, CAA could shape them from the ground up."
Paula tapped a pen against her desk. "You're only nineteen, Adrian. No college, no social circle beyond errands and the mailroom. What makes you think you can identify talent where veterans sometimes fail?"
Her skepticism was fair, but Adrian held her gaze. "Because I'm not guessing. I know what I'm looking for. If I see the right spark, I'll recognize it."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Finally, Paula leaned back and shrugged. "You've got nerve, I'll give you that. Sundance is Robert Redford's baby, still young but already making noise. If you're serious, then take this."
She scribbled a check, tore it from her book, and slid it across the desk.
Adrian picked it up. $1000.
"This isn't charity," she said. "Tom and I are pleased with your effort lately. You've earned this shot. Don't waste it."
Adrian folded the check carefully, suppressing a grin. For someone living on less than $5000 in total savings, this was a lifeline.
"Thank you," he said simply.
"Don't thank me," Paula replied. "Bring back someone worth representing. That's thanks enough."
Landlord Trouble
That evening, Adrian returned to his Koreatown apartment, his mind already mapping out the trip to Utah. He was halfway up the wooden stairs when his landlord, Rafael, intercepted him.
"Adrian, my friend!" Rafael said with a wide, greasy smile. "Rent is due." He rubbed his belly like a satisfied cat.
Adrian sighed. "Dear Rafael, you always appear right on time when it comes to collecting money."
He jabbed a finger toward the shaky staircase. "This place is falling apart. The lock on the main door is busted half the time, and the neighbors party until dawn. You should fix something instead of smiling at me."
Rafael lifted his shoulders helplessly. "Price is price, my boy. You want better, you pay better. That's Los Angeles."
Adrian's eyes hardened. "Tell those neighbors that if they throw another all-night rave, they'll regret it. I need my sleep."
The landlord's smile faltered at the steel in Adrian's tone. "I'll… remind them. You're not the only one who's complained."
Adrian pulled a check from his pocket $150, and pressed it into Rafael's hand. Then, without waiting for more excuses, he unlocked his door and stepped inside.
The apartment smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and old wood. Adrian dropped his bag on the bed, pulled out a suitcase, and began packing. Shirts, jackets, a few ties, everything he might need to look professional at Sundance.
As he zipped the bag closed, he felt the weight of possibility pressing down on him. Sundance wasn't just a festival. It was a chance to rewrite his story.
For six months, he had been a runner, an assistant, a shadow in CAA's corridors. But in Utah, among the raw voices of independent film, Adrian Knight intended to make his first real mark.