Chapter 146: Pride Is Great, But It Doesn’t Make Money

When Cook called, James was still helping the kids with their homework. Among these truck drivers, he was one of the few with “higher education.” Not that he went to college—he finished high school and spent a year at a proper technical school.

This wasn’t a factory training program set up to scam educational subsidies, but a legitimate technical school where he learned truck driving and basic truck repairs.

Cook and the others had learned their repair skills from James. He might not stand out in the group, but for this small community, he was a key figure.

People often came to him for advice because he had the highest education level.

James didn’t have a home phone—not because it was too expensive to install, but because having one wasn’t very useful. No one contacted him regularly, and he didn’t need to contact others. Most families didn’t have phones; instead, they used public phone booths about every hundred meters.

When filling out their home phone number, they used the number of the nearest booth. If it rang, someone on the street would pick up and then…

“James, your phone!” A scream came from outside, sounding like something terrible had happened. A line appeared on James’s child’s homework that shouldn’t have been there.

James straightened and went to the window. A neighbor stood by the phone booth, holding the receiver and looking at him, lowering his voice: “Your phone, James!”

“I’m not deaf!” James grumbled, but his tone wasn’t really complaining—it had a hint of gratitude.

This was ordinary people’s neighborhood and life. They rarely said thank you properly. Sometimes they used curses or rude gestures instead, but they understood gratitude more genuinely than the hypocritical upper class.

When James appeared at the phone, he had a folded flatbread wrapped in old newspaper, possibly stained with ink, but delicious.

The neighbor took the flatbread, bumped shoulders with James, handed over the phone, then walked away eating and strolling.

Nobody had a real job. They wandered the streets all day. At home, their wives would scold them for laziness, telling them to find work outside. Somehow, equality issues were forgotten at times like this.

James nodded a few times after answering the phone and hung up. It was Cook calling, telling him to come to a certain place. He quietly memorized the address.

Most drivers, car or truck, had a remarkable ability: given a detailed address, they could quickly locate it mentally and even see the surrounding scenery.

After telling his family downstairs, James hurried out.

With Lynch paying him now, life wasn’t as hard as before, and the atmosphere with his wife had improved.

Around nine at night, James arrived outside a huge luxury villa, feeling very nervous. His palms were sweaty and uncomfortable.

He wanted to wait for them to dry before going in, but Cook came out to meet him, so he wiped his palms on his pants.

“Is there something urgent to see me this late?” James asked quietly on the way.

Cook looked odd. “Don’t you always tell us stories? Now’s your chance!”

Cook didn’t really think James would impress the big shots. He felt a mix of envy and jealousy because if James succeeded, he’d be different from them.

Actually, Cook was wrong—becoming a screenwriter wouldn’t make James important. Screenwriters were the least valued.

Directors complained; capitalists compromised.

Actors complained; capitalists compromised.

Crew complained; capitalists compromised.

Even film critics complained; capitalists compromised.

But when screenwriters complained, the capitalists told them to get lost.

Despite this, Cook still felt a bit envious but hoped James would succeed—that was the light he held on to.

After a brief explanation, James grew even more nervous.

He knew this was his chance to change his life. He wouldn’t give up.

Confused, James appeared in the villa’s living room with Cook. Besides Lynch, two obviously wealthy bosses and some stylish young people were there.

They might not be very rich, but their faces showed pride and disdain—an expression James had seen on some university students who weren’t from the bottom.

He got even more nervous. Lynch poured a glass of wine and had Cook bring it to him.

“Don’t be nervous. We just want to talk, but first, read this script and tell us what you think.”

Cook handed James the wine and script. After a sip, James relaxed a bit.

It wasn’t really the wine—it was a psychological effect, a conditioned reflex in society.

He read carefully for about ten minutes, then closed the script and sighed heavily.

“An excellent script. The author must have drawn on myths or religious stories. It’s full of metaphors.”

Fox Jr. and his college friends smiled but stopped quickly when James made them quiet again.

“This kind of script could win awards, but audiences don’t like it. They want relaxation and fun…”

He forced himself to say what he thought. He had written some scripts sold to studios and unions in the past two years. At first, he couldn’t say this.

Like the author, he tried to prove himself through artistry, and all his scripts were rejected. After studying many blockbusters and giving up some principles, he succeeded.

His scripts became part of studio or union reserves, so he was qualified to judge this one.

Lynch nodded approvingly. “So, do you think the story is engaging?”

James was more relaxed, confident in his strength. “Cut the complex plots, simplify the story, add trendy elements—aliens, spaceships, road killings, ketchup, and naked actresses…”

“Adult-rated?” one script author sneered but said no more. His tone mocked James’s ability to critique their work, suggesting that’s all he could do.

Using sensory thrills to grab the audience is the lowest form of appeal, and they wouldn’t stoop to that.

James faced these young college students better than Lynch expected. He didn’t get angry or insult them but lifted the script with a smirk.

“This is also an adult-rated script.”

Those mocking him fell silent immediately, their expressions souring. The investors outright rejected their script, and their peers looked down on them, which annoyed them.

One stepped forward, took the script from James, and with a disdainful smile as if to say, “You’ll realize how foolish your choice was,” glanced at Lynch and Mr. Fox, then said goodbye and left.

The others stood up to leave as well. Since Fox couldn’t secure investment, there was no reason to waste time.

Fox Jr. felt awkward. By now, he understood these classmates and alumni came only to seek investment—or to scam money—which embarrassed him because he had doubted Mr. Fox’s judgment before.

Lynch ignored them and looked at James with mild amusement. “If you were to write this script, how long would it take?”

James’s heart quickened. He sensed that his long-awaited chance was just within reach.

After careful thought, he gave a reasonable estimate—three days.

The three who wanted to review James’s script before deciding told Cook and James to leave; they had other matters to discuss.

Lynch was a professional and fully committed. When he learned the Foxes’ plan had begun, he didn’t hesitate.

No matter what, this venture would bring him wealth, influence, and lay a cornerstone for his legendary status in the business world.

He wanted to talk with the father and son about how to make money before the movie was even filmed.