INT. COFFEE SHOP – WEST HOLLYWOOD – AFTERNOON
Ben sat at a corner table, nervously stirring a lukewarm coffee. The shop was loud—baristas shouting orders, indie music playing overhead, creatives tapping away on laptops. He checked the time again. Four minutes late.
Across the room, the bell above the door jingled. Kate stepped in wearing oversized sunglasses, a no-nonsense blazer over jeans, and the kind of expression that said "this isn't a meeting, it's a mercy killing."
She spotted Ben and walked over briskly, dropping into the seat across from him.
"Kate," Ben began, trying a smile. "Thanks for coming."
She took off her sunglasses and folded her arms. "Don't thank me. This is a breakup, not brunch."
Ben winced. "Okay. Fair."
She stared at him for a moment, then reached into her bag and pulled out a thin manila folder. Inside were a few stapled pages and a formal release form.
"You're officially no longer represented by me or my agency. You'll need to sign this."
Ben blinked. "Seriously? In person?"
"You embarrassed me in person, Ben. Consider this symbolic."
She pushed the folder toward him. Ben opened it and scanned the paperwork. His throat felt dry.
"Look, I know I messed up," he said. "The film thing, the pitch—it was desperate. I just… I thought it had potential."
"Everyone thinks their stuff has potential," Kate snapped. "But there's a difference between hustle and recklessness. You were reckless. You tried to pitch your film during lunch catering. You harassed a working actress."
"Okay, I didn't harass—"
"You gave her a DVD with Sharpie handwriting and asked her to pass it to Zemeckis. What would you call that?"
Ben exhaled, defeated. "A mistake."
Kate softened—just a little. She leaned back in her chair, gaze less sharp now.
"You've got talent, Ben. But you're trying to skip steps. You think knowing what worked before is the same as knowing what works now. It's not. Timing matters. So does maturity."
He nodded slowly.
"I get it," he said. "I really do. I just wish you'd believe me when I say... I'm not trying to cheat the system. I just want to survive it."
"Then start acting like someone worth betting on. And next time? Don't use people as stepping stones."
Ben sat staring at Kate, begging her to reconsider, but she wasn't moving and staring straight at Ben. Then, Ben turned to the unsigned release still in front of him. He slowly picked up the pen and scribbled his name.
Kate looked at him, then stood up, gathering her things.
She turned to leave, then paused, "For what it's worth… I hope you prove me wrong."
And with that, she was gone. Ben Gosling—agentless. But not broken. Not yet.
-------
Ben stared at the spot where Kate had stood moments ago, her words still ringing in his ears. "Don't use people as stepping stones."
He let the silence settle for a breath. Then, slowly, he pushed the release form aside and pulled out his phone.
No more sulking. If Kate wouldn't represent him, fine. Someone else would.
He opened his contacts list and scrolled through the names—most were classmates, production assistants, and a handful of indie producers he'd met at festivals or USC mixers. A few names had a vague Hollywood buzz around them. Not A-listers, but not nobodies either.
He tapped the first one.
VOICEMAIL.
"Hey, Marcy, it's Ben Gosling. I know it's been a while, but I'm looking for representation. If you know anyone taking on new clients—especially writers—give me a call, yeah?"
He hung up, no time for shame.
Next contact. Jackson, Once was a dependable extra on the set, now assisting at a boutique talent agency.
RING. RING. CLICK.
"Hello?"
"Jackson! It's Ben. Got a second?"
A pause. "Hey man… wow, uh. Yeah. I'm—uh—at work. What's up?"
"I'm looking for a new rep. Figured maybe you could—"
"Ah, dude, I'm not really in that position anymore. I mean, I'm interning at WMA now, but they're super picky. Like, only referrals from inside the company and vetted samples. Sorry, bro."
"No worries," Ben said, smiling with effort. "Thought I'd shoot my shot."
"Appreciate it, though. And hey—good luck out there, man."
Ben hung up, eyes already moving down the list.
Call. Voicemail. Call. Rejection. Call. A maybe. A hard no. A "who is this again?"
Still, with each call, he felt something shift inside—less desperation, more focus. He wasn't asking for handouts. He was chasing leads.
Finally, as the sun dipped lower and the café grew quieter, Ben reached the end of his list.
"Hello, did Josie ask for me?"
"No? That's fine."
Ben put down the phone, a little discouraged. Word had definitely gotten around. Just like a bad joke, the story had passed from extras to casting assistants, all the way up to agents. No one wanted to touch him now.
He kept calling anyway.
"Jason! How are you doing?"
"Oh… forget it."
--
It had been a few days since he started searching for a new agent or representative.
"Hey, Jack, can you ask your agent for me?"
"You too?"
"Huh?"
"You got dropped."
Ben sighed. "Yeah."
"Then good luck, man."
Click.
One by one, the numbers dried up. The people who used to ask him to crash industry mixers or grab a drink on set were now too busy, too cold, or just not picking up.
He didn't bother going home today. He wandered through a stretch of Melrose until he landed outside a small coffee shop. The kind where the baristas wore screenwriter glasses and every other customer had a laptop open and a script half-finished.
He leaned against the wall outside.
That's when he saw her.
Naomi Watts.
Not the version of her people would recognize a few years from now. No makeup, no entourage. Just Naomi in jeans and a gray sweater, sitting alone at a table with a half-drunk iced coffee and a script open in front of her.
Ben knew her from a short indie they'd both worked on. He was grip for two weeks. She played a waitress with two lines. They'd smoked the same cigarette behind a trailer once.
He hesitated, then walked over.
"Naomi?"
She looked up, squinting through the sunlight.
"Ben?"
"Yeah."
She offered a small smile. "You look like hell."
"Feel worse," he said.
"Sit down."
He sat. Neither of them said anything for a moment.
"Still acting?" he finally asked.
"When I can. Mostly auditions. One commercial last month. I was the mom who spilled juice on the couch."
Ben nodded. "That's something."
She shrugged. "It paid for groceries."
He looked at her for a beat, then asked, "You hear what happened?"
She didn't answer right away. "I heard something," she said. "About you and… that actress from Forrest Gump?"
Ben winced. "Yeah. That one."
"Ben, you can't do that. You know that, right?"
"I wasn't being weird. I just thought… if someone saw the short, maybe—"
"I get it," she said, cutting him off. "I really do. But they don't. And they talk."
He leaned back in the chair, staring past her. Naomi took a sip of her coffee and looked at him.
"It's not just about the film," she said. "It's the way you went about it. Nobody wants someone who's chasing too hard. It makes people nervous."
Ben was quiet. She added, more gently, "I'm not saying you don't have talent. But this town… it decides fast. And once it decides you're a mess, it's hard to shake that off."
He ran his hand through his hair. "So that's it, then."
Naomi looked down at her script. "This place doesn't have room for people who trip at the starting line. You've gotta look perfect while you're drowning. Smile through it."
Ben scoffed. "You sound like someone who's been through it."
"I am," she said. "I've been in LA six years. I've done more waitressing than acting. I've smiled through worse."
Ben looked at her. She wasn't pitying him. She was just being real.
"I'll figure it out," he said, standing.
"I hope you do."
Ben didn't move for a second.
The noise of passing traffic, the buzz of a nearby espresso machine, the quiet flipping of a page from Naomi's script—it all seemed to blend into a dull hum.
"I appreciate you telling me," he said, finally. His voice was low, but steady. "Most people just hang up."
Naomi looked at him. Her expression softened. "Most people are scared to be honest. Afraid it'll come back to bite them."
"Yeah, well," Ben said with a small, tired laugh, "I think my reputation's already in the trash, so you're safe."
Naomi smiled faintly, leaned back in her chair. "Just don't let it make you bitter. That's the part that really sticks."
He nodded. "I won't."
He started to stand, then hesitated.
"Thanks," he said again. "For not pretending."
Naomi gave a short nod. "It's a brutal town, Ben. But sometimes, someone tells you the truth before you fall all the way down. If you're smart, you use it."
Ben tucked his hands in his jacket pockets. "I will."
Then he turned and walked off into the late afternoon sun, his head still heavy—but his steps just a little lighter.
He paused, then asked, "Would you ever read a script, if I wrote one?"
She smiled, tired. "If you write something worth reading? Yeah. I'll read it."
Just as Ben walked off from the café, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He froze.
Nobody had called in two weeks. Not since the mess.
He dug it out and glanced at the screen. Michael Connor Humphreys.
Ben blinked, surprised. He picked up. "Mike?"
"Hey, man," came the familiar voice, casual as ever. "Still alive out there?"
"Barely." Ben tried to sound light, but his voice cracked a little. "What's up?"
There was a pause. Then Michael said, "I've been thinking of enlisting. Military. Feels like time."
Ben stopped walking. "Wait, seriously?"
"Yeah. Acting's been dead for me. You know how it is. One role when you're a kid, and everyone expects you to stay in that box."
Ben knew the feeling. "Yeah."
"I still remember that film you showed me," Michael said. "The experimental one. I didn't get it, to be honest. But I saw you believed in it."
Ben let out a dry laugh. "You and everyone else didn't get it."
Michael didn't laugh back. "Look, man… I know you wanted that film to be your calling card. But maybe it's time to let it go. Just for a minute. Write something new."
Ben stayed quiet. "There's this new boutique brokerage," Michael continued. "Just opened a few days ago. Heard they're still green, still hungry. They're looking for clients—writers and directors too. I figured, if anyone could give you a shot right now, it'd be them."
Ben leaned against a lamppost. "What's it called?"
"Star Talent Brokerage. Not big yet, but they have got hustle. You should try them."
Ben ran a hand through his hair. "You think they would even look at me?"
Michael chuckled. "You're not toxic, man—just pushing too hard. The problem isn't the film itself; I actually think it has potential. But you've been shoving it in people's faces at the worst possible moments, and that's what's turning them off. I reckon, the real issue is that no one has actually taken the time to watch it yet. Just… dial it back a bit, wait for the right moment."
Ben exhaled, staring out at the slow-moving traffic.
"Thanks, Mike."
"Anytime. And hey—maybe when I'm back, I'll see your name on a script. Just don't forget who gave you the push."
Ben smiled for the first time in hours. "I won't."
They hung up.
The phone felt heavier in his hand now—not from weight, but from possibility.
Ben slid it back into his pocket and started walking again, this time with something closer to purpose.
Maybe it wasn't the recognition of the short that mattered.
Maybe the real film—the one that would matter—was still waiting to be written.