Hell's Actor Chapter 252: His Friend’s Loneliest

In a mini theater, reserved for private viewing, two old n sat in the front row.

One was the first black actor ever to play the lead in a major production, a legend who shaped Hollywood into its modern state: Earl Portman.

The other was his long-ti friend, a director known for creating masterpieces and breaking box office records for decades, Richie Aberdeen.

Both were in their late 80s and often joked about who’d croak first, yet they saw each other more often than their wives did.

It wasn’t a wonder to anybody how they beca friends. Those who knew the two in their younger days knew how angry they used to be at the film industry. After all, they were never treated with respect back then.

Tis had changed, but the discrimination from back then still bothered them. It had affected them deeply.

They had been pelted with classist and racist remarks, which had made them bitter n. In their spite, they had beco good friends, the kind that wanted to prove sothing to the world.

And prove, they did.

They proved many, many things to the world. They repaid contemptuous gazes with arrogant ones, thanked repulsive remarks with sarcastic tones.

They flushed out the filth of the industry and lavished it with so grace and culture. Now, they were retired and only acted as the voice of authority in the industry.

There were still many disgusting people in the ever-growing circle of stardom, but the few that crossed the line never received another opportunity. And it was all because of two very old bald n.

They weren’t belligerent rulers, and although many didn’t like them, no one questioned their integrity.

No matter how great one’s artistic talents were, certain things simply could not be excused. The art and the artist could not be separated.

After all, it is said that the artist pours his soul into the art. If the artist is tainted, could one truly appreciate the art?

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" Earl asked in a monotone voice.

"If I did," Richie answered, "wouldn’t I have ntioned it?"

"Hmm, you never would have shut up."

The two n jested, but not a single muscle on their faces portrayed playfulness. Their expressions were cold as stone slabs at night.

"What do you think?"

This was the third ti they were watching the film.

"Words can’t do it justice."

On the screen, The Lady was playing the drums.

The intensity of that seemingly insignificant mont was palpable. The pair of old n felt it on their skin as their fingers twitched and joints locked.

The mont to grasp it was now, but they knew that The Photographer would not be able to capture her here, unfortunately.

That sense of loss, that pure regret, could not be put into words.

They could feel it lingering on their breath.

"One young man did both roles." Earl scoffed self-deprecatingly. "What have I been doing all my life?"

Richie had never heard his friend be so cynical. But he understood the sentint to a degree. An actor who had dedicated his life to acting and believed he had reached the very peak was shown that there were heights he could never reach.

"Why torture a retired actor like this?"

He wanted to stand up and walk away, but his legs refused to move. He wanted to escape, but the film wouldn’t allow it.

"I’m not the superstitious kind, so this must really all be acting."

He knew he was bewitched, and he knew that the longer he remained, the more dangerous it beca.

"Richie."

"Yeah?"

"Could we have done that?"

The man deliberated needlessly.

"We are old n."

He thought that was the best answer he could give. This was the only way he could acknowledge the young actor’s achievent without denying their own.

Earl didn’t say much after that; he simply watched.

After a while, Richie asked, "What do you see?"

"Hmm?"

"I see too many things to describe them. What do you see in her?"

Earl scoffed. He understood that his friend didn’t want to reveal what he saw; why was he asking him then? Did he seriously expect an honest answer?

But for so reason, he didn’t want to argue.

"I see...myself falling." He sank into his seat, his eyes overco with sorrow and elation all at once. "From a clear sky."

He saw twilight over the golden horizon. He saw the clouds flaked with snow. A clear sea stretched endlessly down below.

The man’s lips shook. He could feel the wind on his face, see himself reflected in the single droplet racing him towards the surface of the shimring sea, and sll the freshest of ocean air.

It was a joy he never thought possible.

The sensation of swimming in the air, the unrestrained freedom of knowing nothing could bother him high up in the sky, and the unsure future with endless possibilities stirred his old heart.

"I always thought diabetes would get , Richie." His voice trembled. "But at this rate, my heart might give out."

"Turn your head away then, you sick geriatric."

Harsh as those words were, they weren’t ant for his friend. They were primarily ant for himself.

Just as Earl felt regret watching the actor’s performance, Richie felt sothing similar. The idea, the execution, this perfect casting—how much excitent Jean-Louis Groux must have reaped from this production he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

All this ti, he believed that he and Earl had ended their careers after achieving their dreams, that there was nothing more left to do, that they were done with the industry.

’...It’s the industry that’s done with us.’

Every ti his daughter called, she would ask if he was lonely, saying she could always make ti for him if he wanted.

It always made him mad.

’What kind of needy man do you think I am?’ he would ask her.

And she would console him, saying that it was natural for people to feel lonely in old age, which would make him angrier.

Age might have troubled his physique, but it had never bothered his mind.

Yet today, he felt that emotion his daughter talked about.

He felt lonely.

Yet the only words that consoled him were his friend’s, and they were the loneliest.

"I wanted to act like that, Richie."