After breakfast, Martin ventured out alone, his legs feeling better after a night's rest, and his recollections of his past life growing clearer by the day.
Of course, he couldn't afford to waste time now that his physical condition was improving; there was much to be done.
He retrieved the burned discs, picked up a JVC camera, and headed to the grocery store in the northern part of the community.
Early in the morning, Scott Carter was already indulging in his drink. The sunlight accentuated the redness of his nose, which was brighter than the traffic light at the intersection.
Martin placed the camera on the counter and remarked, "I've returned your belongings. By the way, Harris received treatment."
Scott actually put down his bottle, stood up, and carefully inspected the camera. Suddenly, his nose turned even redder. "Boy, where's my cassette? You stole my cassette!"
"Don't jump to conclusions," Martin replied casually. "The tape inside the cassette was used as a splint for your son. You can ask Elena for it."
Ignoring Elena, Scott's eldest daughter, Scott settled back in his chair and continued, "Tell that rascal Harris that the cassette is worth $20, and he needs to pay me back tomorrow."
Martin sidestepped this issue and asked, "Do you have any inexpensive mobile phones?"
The mobile phone he'd taken the day before had been borrowed from Mrs. Wood by Lily.
"Poor guy, do you have money to buy a mobile phone?" Scott pondered something else. "Has that scoundrel Jack returned? Tell me where he is! If someone's wife is abducted, it's supposed to be a life-and-death feud."
Scott's thought process was anything but conventional. "Let me calculate how many days that scoundrel kidnapped Emma. Damn, who knows how many times they've taken Emma? I want to charge him a daily fee, at least $100... no, $200 a day!"
Communication with someone on a completely different wavelength was futile. Martin had no interest in engaging further and was about to leave.
Scott produced a mobile phone from under the counter. "European-made, extremely sturdy. It even works after you die."
Martin accepted it. It was a gray candy bar mobile phone, a second-hand model he'd used in his previous life, a Nokia 3210.
Something seemed off, though. Martin turned it over and noticed that the back cover had been cracked and crudely glued back together, with a hole in the center of the crack.
Scott took a sip of his drink and explained, "This is a lucky phone. I don't show it to just anyone. An Eagle Gang member got into a shootout, and this phone took a bullet for him. The battery's dead, though. I acquired it later."
Martin powered on the phone, confirmed it was working, and asked, "How much?"
Scott waved his hand, seemingly generous. "Take it."
If it had belonged to Harris or Elena, Martin would have taken it without hesitation. However, this was a product of Scott's, a deadbeat drunkard and drug user who hadn't spent money on his children since Elena turned sixteen.
Martin retrieved $20 from his pocket, placed it on the counter, and left with the phone.
Scott was surprised. "When did this fool become smart?"
Martin found a spot to complete the internet setup, bought several newspapers, especially ones covering social economics and entertainment and returned to his rented home to read them thoroughly.
Understanding the social landscape was essential.
Since the 1996 Olympics, Atlanta's development had accelerated further. The city's black population, which comprised 40% of its residents, had seen significant improvements in their economic, political, and social status.
In response, black gangs that had previously operated mainly in the southern part of the city had started encroaching into prosperous areas, leading to frequent clashes with the original white factions and a surge in robberies and shootings.
Martin also came across a casting notice in a tabloid for the "Hulk Mansion" a newly opened club that was recruiting male stripers.
Should he investigate?
A shiver ran down his spine, and the window behind him rattled.
It had become windy.
Martin moved to close the window. The backyard was overgrown with weeds. Suddenly, he remembered that there was a buried body in the yard, the same hole he and Elena had dug.
The warm spring breeze had suddenly turned into a chilly gust.
Perhaps he could arrange a backyard party in a few days, inviting more people over and playing heavy rock and disco music to dispel any lingering unease.
After getting some much-needed rest the previous night and a midday nap, Martin roamed around Clayton Community in the afternoon. He was scouting for quick money-making opportunities.
As expected, there were plenty of opportunities, but most residents resorted to odd jobs, similar to Elena's part-time work. Stable jobs were a rarity.
Martin, in his previous life, had never held a steady job. He had long relied on Elena's financial support. His frequent visits to the Marietta Community Theater Company were driven by his dream of becoming a star.
After a day of rest, Martin's body had mostly recovered. Coincidentally, it was the weekend theater troupe's scheduled activity time, so he hopped into an old minibus headed for Margaret Square.
Margaret Mitchell, the author of "Gone with the Wind," had her memorial hall located there. Martin approached the memorial hall, caught sight of the words "When Hollywood Met Marietta" on the entrance wall, circumnavigated the memorial hall, and made his way to a small theater at the rear.
A truck sat at the theater's entrance, and Jerome Mitchell, dressed formally, directed the unloading efforts. When Jerome spotted Martin, he issued a command, "Hurry up, come and help!" Jerome, said to be related to Margaret Mitchell's family, also happened to be the director of the Marietta Community Theater Troupe.
With a slight limp, Martin deliberately carried a small box into the theater. Jerome inquired, "You disappeared for a week and delayed a lot of the troupe's work."
Martin limped past him, replying, "I injured my leg. I just got out of bed and rushed over as soon as possible." Jerome's gaze remained sharp, scrutinizing Martin like a boss who'd caught a lazy employee.
After delivering the goods to the warehouse, over a dozen people gathered in the small theater, taking their seats in twos and threes beneath the stage.
In the United States, there were more than 7,000 community theater groups, and Marietta was just one of them. The only noteworthy detail was that Mr. T1000 Robert Patrick had once been part of the troupe during his youth.
Martin quickly scanned the room and noted that ten people were unfamiliar faces to him.
Fatty Robert approached, concerned, and asked, "I heard you broke your leg?"
Martin nodded and gestured with his eyes, asking, "A lot of newcomers?"
Robert sighed, "The theater life has its ups and downs. We have to take on odd jobs to make ends meet, and us extras don't earn much. The troupe's membership fee is due soon, and some have quit. We need to fill our stomachs to keep dreaming of stardom. It's a choice between reality and dreams."
Jerome stepped to the center of the stage, clapped his hands to gather everyone's attention, and announced, "I have some exciting news for you."
Without preamble, he continued, "Channel 2 is collaborating with Gray Film and Television Production Company to produce a plantation-themed play. They'll be holding auditions at the Midtown Art Theater next week, and I've already contacted the casting director. Everyone will have a chance to audition." The newcomers were filled with excitement.
Robert remained composed, knowing that they were only recruiting extras.
Jerome's tone took on a hint of grandeur, "As you all know, I have some Hollywood connections, and I've just received a major scoop. A big-budget film starring Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet, costing tens of millions, will be filmed in Atlanta soon. To cut costs, they'll be recruiting actors locally. I believe the Marietta Theater Company can produce another Robert Patrick." Martin wracked his brain, trying to recall the collaboration between Fat Winner and Jim Carrey.
With the enticing bait laid out, Jerome began reeling them in, "The troupe belongs to all of us. We share these public facilities and need to cover play rehearsals, theater maintenance, and other expenses. That's why we're introducing a $300 monthly membership fee."
It was no longer a free performance; it had become a paid opportunity. Martin, well-informed from his career, wasn't surprised. He recalled a fellow starlet who'd allegedly sold several houses for a supporting role in a previous drama. Such payments were not uncommon, as many aspired actors were willing to pay for their dreams.