The heat in Los Angeles didn’t just sit on the skin; it pushed against it, a heavy, invisible hand that smelled of exhaust fumes and expensive perfume. Arthur stood on the cracked pavement of a used car lot in Van Nuys, clutching a duffel bag that contained everything he owned in the world. Back in London, he had been a man of spreadsheets and steady paychecks, a digital marketing assistant who spent his lunch breaks staring at travel vlogs until his eyes burned. Now, he was just a guy with a sweaty shirt and a dream that felt increasingly like a fever dream.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” the salesman asked, slapping the hood of a 1969 Mustang that had seen better decades. The paint was a faded shade of blue, like a bruise that was almost healed, and the interior smelled of stale tobacco and old leather.
Arthur didn’t know much about engines, but he knew about aesthetics. This car would look incredible on camera. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Leica, the lens clicking as he adjusted the focus. Through the viewfinder, the car looked like a symbol of freedom. In reality, it was a gamble he couldn't afford to lose.
“I’ll take it.” Arthur said, his voice sounding thinner than he liked. He handed over a stack of cash that represented his entire savings.
He spent the next three hours in a cramped motel room, setting up his equipment. He had a tripod, two GoPros, a high-end shotgun mic, and a laptop that was currently screaming as it tried to render a teaser trailer for a channel that had exactly forty-two subscribers. Most of them were his cousins.
“Right.” he muttered to himself, clicking the record button on the main camera. “Day one. My name is Arthur, and I just quit my job to drive across America. No plans, no safety net, just me and a car older than my father.”
He watched the playback. He looked nervous. His hair was a mess of sandy brown curls, and his blue eyes looked wide and startled. He looked like exactly what he was: a man who had jumped off a cliff and was only now realizing he hadn't checked for a parachute.
The Mustang groaned as he cranked the ignition. It took three tries before the engine roared to life, a guttural, shaking sound that vibrated through the floorboards and up into Arthur’s spine. He pulled out of the lot and onto the 405, the sun setting in a violent explosion of orange and purple behind him.
He was heading north first. San Francisco was the goal for the end of the week. He needed content. He needed something that would make people stop scrolling. As he drove, the wind whipping through the open window, he felt a strange mix of terror and exhilaration.
By the time he reached the outskirts of Santa Barbara, the Mustang began to shudder. A rhythmic ticking sound started in the engine, growing louder with every mile. Arthur gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
“Please, not now.” he whispered. “Just get me to a gas station.”
The car didn't listen. With a final, dramatic puff of grey smoke from the hood, the engine died. Arthur managed to coast onto the shoulder of the highway, the silence that followed feeling deafening. He sat there for a moment, forehead resting on the wheel.
He got out and opened the hood. He had no idea what he was looking at. It looked like a labyrinth of greasy metal and rubber hoses. He took out his phone to call for a tow, but the screen showed no service.
“Perfect.” he snapped, kicking the front tire. “Absolutely perfect.”
A few minutes later, an old pickup truck pulled over. A man with a beard that reached his chest hopped out, wiping his hands on a greasy rag.
“Need a hand, son?”
Arthur sighed with relief. “I think it’s the alternator. Or the fuel pump. Or everything.”
The man, whose name tag read Silas, spent twenty minutes poking around the Mustang’s guts. “It’s the belt. I can fix it, but I don’t have the part here. You’ll have to tow it to my shop in town.”
As they waited for the tow truck, Silas looked at Arthur’s camera gear sitting in the passenger seat. “You one of them internet people? Looking for a story?”
“Something like that.” Arthur admitted.
“Well, if you’re heading to the city, you might want to move fast.” Silas said, leaning against his truck. “There’s some big fancy party in San Francisco tomorrow night. Some TV actress is launching a drink. My daughter won’t shut up about it. Beatrice something. Apparently, it’s the place to be if you want to see and be seen.”
Arthur’s heart gave a little thump. Beatrice. He knew that name. She was the lead in a legal drama that half the UK was obsessed with. She was untouchable, glamorous, and currently the most searched woman on the internet.
“A launch party?” Arthur asked, his mind already spinning.
“Yeah, some bar called The Gilded Lily. Probably hard to get into, but hey, you got that fancy camera. Maybe you can talk your way in.”
Arthur looked at his broken car and then at his camera. A breakdown was a setback, but a meeting with Beatrice? That was a viral explosion waiting to happen. If he could get her on film, even for ten seconds, his channel would be made.
He just had to get the car fixed and find a way into a room where he didn't belong.
No comments:
Post a Comment