Back to 17, My Brother is the Cult Leader

When the plane landed in Los Angeles, Fang Yuan glanced out the window—

The land was grayish-yellow, the houses were low, and the highways stretched out like gray ribbons.

This was his first time in the United States.

After passing through customs and collecting my luggage, I pushed the cart toward the exit.

Just as I rounded the corner, a sound exploded from the right:

"Fang! Fang! Here! Look here!"

Ellie stood behind the railing, leaning forward, and waved one hand vigorously above her head.

She wore a bright red T-shirt, which stood out terribly among all the dark clothes.

Fang Yuan pushed the cart over.

Ellie rushed over to him and gave him a warm hug.

"You're finally here! I've missed you so much! I've been waiting for almost an hour—you've lost weight!"

"Okay, Ellie, I missed you too. I haven't lost weight! You've worked so hard."

"Come on, come on, the car's outside. I'm telling you, I've arranged everything."

"The union form is filled out, the appointment with Warner is at 2 PM the day after tomorrow, the hotel is booked, it's a 15-minute drive from the studio—oh, by the way, are you hungry? The food on the plane probably isn't good, shall I take you to get some Chinese food?"

"Ellie," Fang Yuan interrupted her.

"Um?"

"Can you let me say a word?"

Ellie paused for a moment, then laughed: "Okay, okay, you go ahead and tell me."

Fang Yuan said, "Okay, I'll follow your arrangements."

Ellie slapped him on the shoulder: "Let's go! Get in the car!"

Fang Yuan was pushed by her to walk outside. The July sun in Los Angeles beat down on his face, making him squint.

Ellie pressed the car key, and a gray Honda Accord nearby made a sound.

She stuffed the suitcase into the trunk, clapped her hands, opened the car door, and got into the driver's seat.

Fang Yuan got into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt.

Ellie had already started the car and turned the air conditioning up to the maximum, blowing it loudly.

She spoke as she reversed the car, her words coming out in rapid succession.

"I've sorted everything out for you—you just need to sign something at the union; you don't need to worry about it."

"Warner Bros., Michael Ersh, you remember? I told you about him."

"I remember. You told me he helped us with the distribution of 'Comet'."

"Yes, yes, yes! He was a great help."

Ellie drove the car onto the road and changed lanes very sharply, so Fang Yuan grabbed the car door handle.

She caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of her eye, chuckled, and said, "What are you afraid of? Don't worry about me driving."

Fang Yuan didn't respond.

“Michael,” Ellie continued, “is the vice president of Warner Bros.’ independent production division.”

My relationship with him—well, how should I put it—has helped us a lot.

Not only for "Coherence," he also helped facilitate the North American distribution of "The Man from Earth."

Anyway, you'll know when you meet him. He has a very good impression of you and has read all your scripts.

Fang Yuan glanced at her: "He's read my script?"

"Of course! Your scripts can all be found in the Writers Guild."

In addition, I have also been in contact with several Hollywood production companies.

Why are you nervous?

"Ellie, you're driving too fast."

Fang Yuan took his hand off the armrest and wiped it on his pants. Ellie laughed even louder.

After driving for about half an hour, we exited the highway and turned into a quiet street.

There are two or three-story buildings on both sides, with red tiles and white walls, and palm trees planted at the entrance.

Ellie parked her car in front of a small hotel; it wasn't big, but it looked clean.

"We're here," she said, turning off the engine. "I booked you a quiet room on the second floor, near the corner. I checked it beforehand; the air conditioning works, and the water pressure is fine."

Fang Yuan got out of the car, and Ellie took a suitcase out of the trunk and dragged it into the lobby.

While checking in, she stood to the side, chatted briefly with the front desk, and confirmed the breakfast time.

She went upstairs to her room, put her suitcase down, walked to the window and pulled the curtains closed, then went to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. She came out and nodded.

"Okay, sure."

She walked to the table and patted the manila envelopes and folders on it:

"The envelope contains union forms; you can sign where I put the sticky note."

The folder contains Michael's information, as well as details of several projects Warner has worked on in the past two years.

"Just flip through it tonight, and get a general idea."

Fang Yuan picked up the folder and flipped through it. It was a thick stack of pages, each with handwritten annotations—some circled, some marked with asterisks, and some with brief English notes written next to them.

Ellie waved her hand: "You should rest for a while and adjust to the time difference. I'll pick you up for dinner tonight."

"OK."

"Would you like Chinese or Western food?"

"Chinese food, please."

"I knew it!" Ellie smiled. "I'll pick you up at six. Don't oversleep."

The next morning, Ellie arrived at the hotel at nine o'clock sharp to pick him up.

Fang Yuan got into the car, and Ellie stepped on the gas, and the car sped off.

"I'll go to the studio first today," she said.

"You haven't been there yet. Everyone wants to see the real boss of the studio."

The car turned into a not-too-bustling neighborhood, with office buildings and warehouses on both sides.

Ellie parked her car in front of a three-story building with a light gray exterior and a black iron-framed glass door.

"We're here," Ellie said, getting out of the car, opening the door, and stepping aside to let him in first. "Welcome to your studio."

Upon entering, there is a small reception desk, and further in is an open-plan office with five or six desks.

Three people were already there, and they all stood up when they saw Fang Yuan come in.

Ellie introduced them one by one—Lia, Mark, Susan.

Fang Yuan shook hands with everyone and exchanged a few simple pleasantries.

The studio wasn't big, but it had everything it needed—an editing room, a meeting room, Ellie's office, and a small screening room that could seat seven or eight people.

The progress charts of the projects underway were posted on the wall. Fang Yuan glanced at them and saw that they were all the ones he knew about before.

"How is it?" Ellie asked him from her office downstairs.

"Better than I expected."

Ellie smiled. "Is that a compliment?"

"certainly."

In the afternoon, Ellie drove him to the Writers Guild.

The union's office is in Hollywood, in an unassuming office building.

The receptionist was a Black woman. Ellie went up to greet her and gave her Fang Yuan's name.

The aunt flipped through the register and pointed to the window next to her.

Fang Yuan handed in the signed form, paid the membership fee, waited about ten minutes, and received a temporary membership card.

A plastic card with his name and membership number printed on it.

"The official card will be sent to the studio," Ellie said, "in four to six weeks."

"You will be notified via email through the management channels for formal members."

Fang Yuan put the card in his pocket.

From this moment forward, he is a full member of the Writers Guild of America.

As they left the union building, Ellie patted him on the shoulder: "Let's go, tomorrow's the main event."