Hollywood Dreams
After the joke, Charlie Lee had to admit that as someone from a simpler background, he couldn't quite grasp the Rockefeller family's way of thinking. Perhaps it was what they called family heritage or elite education.
Even though he couldn't fully understand their ideals, Charlie felt a responsibility to contribute something meaningful to his homeland—even if his ties to it in this life were tenuous at best.
As for Aria's parents, they had been killed long before Charlie's arrival in America, casualties of a ruthless warlord's ambitions.
"Lawrence, I'd like to make a donation to the Rockefeller Foundation to fund education in China," Charlie said, smiling faintly.
"Of course, Charlie. How much are you planning to donate?" Lawrence replied with a knowing grin. Lowering his voice, he added, "Although I suspect this is just a small piece of your grand plan."
Charlie paused for a moment, his heart aching at the thought of the sum he was about to utter. "Ten million."
Lawrence's jaw dropped. "Ten million dollars?! Damn it, Charlie. You lucky bastard," he exclaimed, his envy palpable. "Do you know how much you could build with that in this era? You must have made a killing in the stock market—at least $200 million, right?"
Charlie didn't bother to refute the claim. His composed demeanor only confirmed Lawrence's suspicions: the new friend he had made from China had masterminded this plan from start to finish.
Before Lawrence could press further, the car rolled to a stop. "Gentlemen, we're here—Hollywood."
Charlie stepped out of the car and surveyed the scene. The small, dusty houses and unkempt streets were a far cry from the glamorous image he had in his mind.
The people milling about were covered in dust, and the waifs huddled against walls with sacks of meager belongings at their sides. Even the so-called stars of the future moved through the town with an awkward elegance, dressed far too formally for the gravel roads and potholes they walked upon.
On either side of the street, train tracks served as the only public transport connecting Hollywood to Los Angeles. Rows of pepper and palm trees lined the roads, but their unmanaged state added to the town's disarray rather than its charm.
"Talk about a destroyed image," Charlie muttered to himself, feeling a wave of disappointment wash over him. He had spent two lifetimes dreaming of Hollywood, only to find it looked more like a neglected village from the 1980s.
Hollywood, established in 1903, had joined Los Angeles in 1910 for better access to water and sewage facilities. It wasn't until director David Griffith arrived in 1910 that the town began to gain notoriety. Filmmakers seeking refuge from Edison's patent monopoly had flocked here, escaping his trusts and inadvertently creating what would become the cultural epicenter of cinema.
As for the iconic "Hollywoodland" sign erected in 1923, Charlie could barely make out its vague outline in the dark.
"Lawrence, maybe we should just go back to Los Angeles. There's better cigars, beer, and a nice big bathtub I can fill with gems," Charlie joked.
"Come on, man. Let me show you the real Hollywood," Lawrence insisted, his enthusiasm unshaken.
They walked through the streets for about ten minutes until Lawrence stopped in front of a slightly more presentable area. "This is Hollywood Boulevard!" he declared, spreading his arms wide.
The street was noticeably smoother, with fewer potholes. Brightly lit shops lined both sides of the road, and the pedestrians—dressed in evening gowns and tailored suits—seemed like they belonged to a different world altogether.
"Is this… the Avenue of Stars?" Charlie asked sarcastically, looking around. "Where are the stars? Were they eaten by a dog?"
"Charlie, look over there!" Lawrence pointed at a banner in the distance. "There's a movie premiering tonight—a talkie starring Wallace Beery."
"A talkie, huh? How thrilling," Charlie deadpanned. The idea of watching a movie with a man didn't appeal to him in the slightest.
"Who's the leading lady?" he asked instead, focusing on the only detail that mattered to him.
Lawrence looked sheepish. "I don't know."
"No stars, no red carpets, no flashing lights—this is just sad," Charlie muttered.
As they wandered, Lawrence bumped into a man. "Hey, are you alright?" he asked, steadying him.
The man, dressed plainly but neatly, nodded apologetically. "I'm fine, just distracted." He quickly walked away, his demeanor distant.
"Maybe he's dealing with something heavy," Lawrence shrugged, turning back to Charlie. "So, what's next? Should we go meet Mickey Mouse?"
Charlie froze. "Wait. What did you just say?"
"I said, what's next?"
"No, no—the Mickey Mouse part. Is Mickey Mouse here?" Charlie's eyes lit up, his excitement nearly childlike.
Lawrence raised an eyebrow. "It's just a cartoon, Charlie."
"To hell with that. Where is it? Take me there right now!" Charlie practically dragged Lawrence along.
When they finally arrived at the Chinese Theater and saw the animated short featuring Mickey Mouse, Charlie felt an overwhelming wave of nostalgia.
"Finally… something familiar," he whispered to himself. The sight of Mickey holding the ship's wheel brought a sense of comfort and belonging he hadn't felt since arriving in this strange new world.
As the theater filled with laughter, Charlie's heart softened. For the first time, this alien world felt warm, alive, and meaningful.
When the show ended, Charlie turned to Lawrence. "Do you know the company that created this?"
"I think it's something like Disney?" Lawrence answered hesitantly.
"Take me there tomorrow," Charlie said firmly. His excitement was palpable, and his mind was racing with possibilities.
Lawrence looked at him in disbelief. "Charlie, are you serious?"
"I've never been more serious in my life."
After stepping outside, Charlie spotted a payphone on the wall. "Lawrence, do you have any coins?"
Lawrence handed him some change, and Charlie quickly made a call. "Hey, Ben. I need you to send someone to Hollywood—right now. Meet me at the Roosevelt Hotel in the morning."
As he hung up, Lawrence gave him a bewildered look. "What's the big deal? It's just a cartoon."
"It's not just a cartoon," Charlie corrected him. "That little mouse is going to be worth a fortune."
Lawrence chuckled nervously. "Maybe you should consider becoming an animator yourself."
"Animator? No. But Disney? Disney is my future," Charlie said, his voice filled with conviction.
As they walked toward the hotel, Charlie's mind buzzed with plans.