Noisy, crowded, busy.
In the morning, New York operates at ten times the normal speed. If anyone claims that life in Los Angeles is fast-paced, they should experience life in New York to understand what it means to live in fast forward. It's hard for the eyes to keep up with everything.
Of course, the Upper West Side is somewhat better. Here, there are no towering office buildings, and the traffic has noticeably reduced by half. You can even spot people jogging leisurely, and the pace slows down a bit.
For a moment, it almost feels like Los Angeles, but one deep breath confirms that this is definitely New York—
The oxygen level in the air is clearly insufficient, with exhaust fumes and carbon dioxide filling the lungs, sending warning signals to the body through a lack of oxygen to the brain.
Screech.
Anson stops his skateboard at a crosswalk, pulling back slightly to stand at a distance, positioning himself at the rear of the bustling crowd.
The small intersection is packed with hundreds of people, like sardines in a can. A man in an Armani suit walks through the crowd, talking confidently on his phone, trying to make his way to the front. He causes no disturbance until a blonde woman in ten-centimeter red stilettos turns around and glares at him, prompting him to hang up and immediately strike up a conversation with her.
The ripple effect of the crowd almost causes a hungover man, leaning against a mailbox with his eyes half-closed, to lose his balance. He wobbles, trying to steady himself, but fails and falls flat on the ground. This creates a small clearing, just enough for a short-haired girl carrying a tray of six coffees to make an emergency stop, nearly spilling everything. The bag on her right shoulder is stuffed full and looks even bigger than she is.
Seeing this, Anson quickly steps in to steady the short-haired girl.
The girl looks up, about to thank him, but her voice is drowned out by the noise of screeching brakes and engines—
The light has turned green.
The crowd surges across the crosswalk, and the short-haired girl is no exception. She turns her head and shouts something to Anson, but her voice is completely swallowed by the surrounding noise. In an instant, she disappears into the crowd, though he catches a glimpse of the Armani man and the woman exchanging business cards on the sidewalk.
Whoosh.
The light turns red again.
**In Front of the Crosswalk**
A small crowd, including Anson, remained gathered at the crosswalk, not yet ready to move. But before he could catch his breath, more people arrived from behind, once again overflowing the intersection.
In that instant, Anson's memories of his previous life as a working man became vividly alive.
Finally, at the second green light, Anson managed to cross the crosswalk smoothly, continuing on his skateboard, weaving through the dense crowd until he left the noise and congestion behind. He eventually stopped at a coffee shop.
Dense. Surging.
Taking a quick glance around, he noticed that the seats weren't completely full, with an occupancy rate of less than 70%. However, the line of people waiting to order at the counter was packed tightly, filling the spacious area between the two street-facing walls. The air was thick with heat.
Anson hung his skateboard on his backpack, freeing his hands, and then joined the end of the line, waiting patiently. It was only then that he took a serious look around.
The coffee shop had a rough, rugged style. The exposed pipes and brick walls were left bare, showing traces of the industrial era, yet the deep red, dark brown, and light gray tones gave the space a sense of depth, creating a rare open area in the crowded Manhattan.
And then, Anson saw Sam Raimi—
Sure enough!
Despite Edgar's mistakes yesterday, he showed his ability when it came to his professional duties. Within less than twelve hours, he had found out the director's whereabouts and accurately pinpointed his location.
The audition for "Spider-Man" was scheduled for this morning. Edgar hoped Anson could make an impression on the director beforehand, but not through an arranged meeting, which would seem too deliberate and eager. Sam was probably used to such tactics.
A chance encounter, the key was to keep it casual.
Sam, now forty years old, gained fame in 1981 with the low-budget horror film "The Evil Dead," creating a new genre within horror films and earning high regard among niche fans.
However, for the past twenty years, Sam had remained on the fringes of indie cinema, never quite entering the mainstream. It's no wonder that when he was chosen as the director of "Spider-Man," there was opposition. If Sam hadn't been such a fan of the original comic, he probably wouldn't have fought so hard for the position.
Right now, Sam looked like a bookworm, wearing a dark green T-shirt. His brown hair was messy and unkempt, as if he had rolled out of bed without fixing it. Even the collar of his T-shirt was loose and worn, seemingly tortured by the washing machine countless times.
He sat alone, quietly and isolated, by the window. Although the bustling street was just to his left, he paid it no mind, staring intently at his coffee as if examining it for microorganisms. His eyes were almost crossing as he disconnected from the world around him.
Practically invisible.
Despite the constant flow of people in the coffee shop, no one seemed to notice Sam's presence. The director was like an abandoned puppy curled up in the corner.
So, how should Anson break the ice?
This director had been in Hollywood for twenty years. Even if he hadn't experienced such things firsthand, he would be familiar with the tactics through hearsay. Making a lasting impression without being obvious was no easy task.
Maybe—
If he couldn't achieve his goal quietly and naturally, why not go the opposite route and create some noise? The bigger and bolder, the better?
Becoming the center of attention?
As these thoughts churned in his mind, Anson noticed some movement in the corner.
Someone was approaching Sam, leaning slightly forward with their shoulders hunched in curiosity. Then, they straightened up, and even from the back, Anson could sense their excitement.
"Sam?"
"Are you Sam Raimi?"
The person glanced around, as if trying to draw the attention of others, but the busy New Yorkers couldn't care less. They refocused on Sam, unable to believe their chance encounter.
"Sam, I really, really love 'The Evil Dead'!"
The performance was slightly exaggerated.
Of course, it could also be a genuine moment—a die-hard horror fan recognizing Sam Raimi. After all, this is New York, where nothing is too surprising.
But!
Anson recognized the person—Scott Speedman.
According to the latest information from Edgar, this gentleman was also a candidate for "Spider-Man."
It seemed Anson wasn't the only actor trying to impress Sam outside the audition office. And that man had beaten him to it!
Second update.