Bruce sighed. “Now is the era of civilized people. I remember when I just left the army, I dared to hold an AR and have shootouts with other gangs. I was really foolish back then, didn’t understand that my life was my own.”

Martin asked, “You were in the military?”

“That was in the nineties, stationed in the UK,” Bruce said. “I was forcibly discharged.”

Martin was a bit curious and asked, “Why? If it’s inconvenient, just forget I asked.”

Bruce chuckled. “A British soldier lost a bet to me but refused to pay up. Aren’t the Brits supposed to be civilized gentlemen? I used a bit of a civilized man’s method to collect the debt.”

Martin exclaimed, “Can I just say? You did an awesome job!”

Bruce asked, “You think that was civilized too?”

Martin bumped fists with Bruce. “If there’s ever another chance like that, count me in!”

Bruce was quite a talent; it never hurt to have a good relationship with him.

Over the next two days, Martin practiced shooting for an hour during the day, read the newspaper for job listings, and looked for suitable opportunities. At night, he went to work at the club.

Every night, he could earn about $20 in tips. If the club had more customers, that number could easily double.

But at the Beast House, there were rarely more than 50 customers present at the same time.

On Wednesday afternoon, Martin received a notice from the Marietta Troupe to go to Midtown Art Theater on Thursday to wait for the group audition.

Chapter 12: The Priority of Debt

Early Thursday morning, Martin drove his old Ford to the Midtown Art Theater.

On the theater plaza next to Peachtree Street, hundreds of people had gathered.

This was the gathering place for Atlanta’s extras.

To put it bluntly, it was a temp labor market.

Martin had come by yesterday morning and even ran into a TBS TV show picking audience actors, but he wasn’t selected.

Whether in Los Angeles or Atlanta, the supply of low-level actors far exceeds the demand.

Lacking connections and without some organization, even finding pure background artist work required luck.

Martin found a place to park, and as soon as he entered the plaza, he spotted Robert’s big head.

Robert’s hair was neatly combed, and he wore an old-fashioned suit. He said, “Let’s wait, the director hasn’t arrived yet.”

Martin glanced him over. “You dressed up for this?”

Robert said, “This way, I have a better chance of being picked. Honestly, I don’t have any other expectations—just want a line.”

This really came down to luck. Martin said, “Buddy, good luck to you.”

People from the Marietta Troupe arrived one after another. Including Martin, they were all temps and broke.

The director, Jerome, drove up in a Lexus, had everyone from the troupe wait at the edge of the plaza, made a phone call, and when a bus stopped on Peachtree Street, he shook hands with a fat man who got off, exchanged a few words, and waved to the plaza: “Get on the bus.”

The fat man, seeing there were no oddballs or particularly strange-looking people, said something else to Jerome before starting to pick temps.

Martin moved quickly, getting on the bus first. He glanced at the first row by the front door; a folder was on the inside seat.

He chose the seat on the other side of the same row, and Robert sat inside.

Martin sat by the aisle, watching the plaza through the window.

The fat man was picking people, and his method was simple: he picked whoever looked pleasing to him.

Based on the information he’d gathered recently, Martin could easily tell that Atlanta, far from film production centers like New York and Los Angeles, had just rolled out incentive policies and didn’t yet have a mature extra market or supporting agent system.

Jerome was, in a sense, acting as an agent.

California and New York laws didn’t apply here.

The bus quickly filled up, and the fat man was separated from Martin by only a narrow aisle.

Martin didn’t strike up a conversation rashly.

The bus hadn’t gone far down Peachtree Street when it suddenly slowed down.

Up ahead, near the state capitol, there was a parade.

There were also TV and newspaper reporters following along.

The fat man craned his neck to look ahead. Instead of cursing, he said, “Let’s give way to those people. Once they pass the next intersection, we’ll detour.”

The marchers’ vests were printed with “ATL Freedom Association.” Judging by the fat man’s attitude, Martin mused to himself, “Are they fighting for legal rights?”

He didn’t speak loudly, but the fat man heard him and replied, “That’s Atlanta’s famous freedom and progressive group. They’ve done a lot of great things.”

Martin realized the fat man sided with the marchers and immediately shifted in his seat. “Are they doing something great this time too?”

The fat man clearly knew what was going on. “A few conservative leaders from the Georgia Methodist Association claimed women are just subordinates in the family and must obey the family’s will. That sparked this protest.”

Martin said, “That’s a very socially meaningful action.”

The fat man was proud. “One of the organizers of this event is our company’s boss, Ms. Kelly Gray of Gray Company.”

Who would have thought—the fat man was a loyal employee who shared his boss’s concerns. Martin quickly found a topic to get closer and said, “My friend, and many of her friends, have always wanted to join the Freedom Association and do something for the cause of freedom and rights. For activities like this with social significance, they’re always ready to participate. It’s just a pity they can’t find a suitable person to introduce them.”