"GQ" Magazine?
Obviously, this was an important shoot.
Even Brad Renfro and Jas Franco hadn't received such an opportunity, let alone anything close to it.
Yet, Anson had earned his first career interview opportunity with "GQ"—
Though, as a model.
Originally, when Darren told Anson that there would be a magazine interview coming up, he assud it would be for a third-rate or regional magazine. After all, the sumr blockbuster season was approaching, and promotional opportunities were getting more competitive. But that would have been fine, allowing him to get used to photoshoots.
But to start with "GQ"?
This was simply...
Amazing!
Anson hadn't signed with a manager yet, and the agents from the actor's union don't handle non-contractual business. Since Anson got the interview opportunity through his connection with "Friends," David Klein stepped in, with his assistant Frank helping to facilitate communication and scheduling between "GQ" and Anson.
Pier 39 Studio.
Located on lrose Avenue, it was a once-abandoned warehouse filled with a hippie vibe. The outer walls were covered in graffiti by various artists, and it had hosted art exhibitions and gallery shows in the past.
Anson knew all this because Pier 39 Studio was just a six- or seven-minute walk from his place.
Driving? Clearly unnecessary. The ti it would take to find parking would easily exceed ten minutes.
So.
Anson chose to skateboard. Gliding with the wind, it didn't take long for the abandoned warehouse to appear in view.
Based on the original owner's mory, this should be Pier 39, but it was Anson's first ti here. Looking at the overgrown graffiti-covered ruins in front of him, he wasn't too sure. If this really was the studio, he was glad he hadn't driven—because there wasn't even a parking lot.
A quick scan—
This pier wasn't a traditional pier; there was no water or boats around.
Then, Anson noticed a figure at the entrance, curled up pathetically, hugging their knees and squatting while smoking, with a face that seed devoid of all hope.
Black T-shirt, black jeans, with a buzz cut. They were puffing away, their features obscured, but Anson could see that the hand holding the cigarette was painted with black nail polish. Their jeans had a large rip in them, with a knee poking out as if gasping for air, like they'd just escaped from the set of *Death Note*.
Anson wasn't sure if this person was holess, but he called out anyway.
"Hey, good morning! Is this Pier 39 Studio?"
Bruce didn't respond.
Smack.
He took another deep drag of his cigarette and carefully studied the figure in front of him:
White T-shirt, plain on the front, graffiti on the back; blue denim shorts, white socks paired with deep blue skate shoes. No excessive accessories anywhere, with short, slightly curly golden-brown hair dancing freely in the breeze. Bathed in the golden sunlight, youthful energy and vitality radiated from him.
Involuntarily, Bruce's professional instincts kicked in.
With the cigarette dangling from his mouth, Bruce raised his hands, using his thumbs and index fingers to form a framing square, composing a shot in his mind as if his brain were the film reel.
Click.
He ntally pressed the shutter, and in the dried-out, cracked desert of his mind, a stream of inspiration began to flow. In an instant, spring had returned, and his thoughts began to whirl back to life.
Exhale.
Bruce exhaled a long stream of smoke, once again obscuring his vision, while the framing in his mind's eye kept shifting. In an instant, the scene before him transford drastically.
This wasn't the image he had imagined—it was entirely different.
To be precise, it was far removed from the Hollywood image Bruce was familiar with. He tried searching his mory for a comparison, but...
Jas Dean?
No.
It still wasn't the sa.
Finally, Bruce spoke, "So, you're Anson Wood?"
Anson raised an eyebrow slightly, suddenly recalling the line, "If I call you Sun Wukong, would you dare answer?" It was absurd, completely nonsensical, but sohow amusing because of that absurdity. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Instead of replying directly, he shot back with his own question.
"Who's asking?"
Bruce took a few more deep drags of his cigarette, the tip burning quickly, then tossed it aside and turned toward the studio door, leaving only his back in view.
It seed that this was indeed Pier 39 Studio.
Tap.
Anson stepped down, flipping the skateboard into his hand with ease, and strode into the abandoned warehouse in front of him.
Tall, spacious.
That was the first impression of the warehouse—its towering ceiling made the space feel vast. Exposed pipes and weathered brick walls were left unadorned, yet sohow this created a post-modern, ruinous aesthetic. It seed dilapidated, yet it lacked the sense of decay one might expect—it felt special.
From top to bottom, as Anson's gaze drifted from the expansive upper reaches down to the floor, a starkly different scene unfolded below.
Backdrops. Lights. Caras. Long tables. Crane rigs. More lights. And people.
Hustling back and forth, crossing paths.
Organized chaos.
Everyone was busy, their feet barely touching the ground. The air buzzed with a sense of urgency and activity; it was impossible to take it all in at once.
The contrast between the vast emptiness above and the bustling energy below was striking.
A smiling face approached him—a woman in a white shirt paired with a gray suit, her long red hair tied up in a high ponytail that gave her a sharp, professional look. Dark red lipstick lent her a more subdued air, but no one would miss the ten-centiter-high burgundy heels that instantly grabbed all attention.
Click. Click. Click.
Each step echoed with the sharp sound of heels hitting the floor, kicking up dust like Hansel and Gretel leaving breadcrumbs along the way.
"Good morning, Anson. I'm Gretel."
Gretel Winfield flashed a polite smile and extended her right hand.
Anson: ???
Noticing the surprise and amusent in Anson's eyes, Gretel looked confused. "What is it?"
Anson didn't hide his thoughts, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I noticed your heels, leaving marks as you walked—like breadcrumbs."
Gretel quickly caught on and chuckled softly. "Because of my na, I've heard jokes since my school days. There have been quite a few, but I have to say, this is a first. Should I be thankful I chose these heels today?"
Anson responded with a deadpan expression, "The one who should be thankful is ."
Gretel looked puzzled.
Anson continued, "Otherwise, I might've turned into that 'guy who thinks he's funny but is actually just repeating the sa joke a thousand and one tis without any humor left,' and you'd be forced to give an awkward yet polite smile to get through it. That would've been a terrible start."
"God, I'm really thankful I dodged that bullet."
Was there... a way to respond to that?
Gretel was montarily stunned, but before she knew it, a smile spread across her face, brightening her entire expression and mood in an instant.
However, before Gretel could say anything further, the man in the black T-shirt called out from behind her—right in front of Anson.
"Gretel, this isn't the ti for flirting. Wardrobe, makeup, styling—tick tock, we don't have all day to lounge around here."
End of Chapter 8.
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