Chapter 12.5: Sideways Side Quests
LA, California. January 2004.
Filming was done, so I’d flown back home. Cuaron had stayed on the project, and Goblet of Fire would be monumentally better than it would have been otherwise. I’d seen that travesty enough times to truly learn to hate it - especially after being in the revamped versions of the movies from my perspective.
Not to toot my own horn - but the new Harry Potter renditions were legitimately superior.
Cadbury walked into the room, silently handed me one of the two cardboard boxes she was holding, grabbed her purse, and signaled the driver. “I’ve spoken to Mr Wyatt. He will meet us there along with the representative from Fast Retailing Co.”
We were all scheduled for a meeting at WB offices - specifically the merchandising department. With the benefit of future information, I was well aware that merchandise accounted for approximately 40% of the $44 billion franchise revenue. If I could swing this deal, I’d have a nice slice of that pie for myself.
The executive greeted us when we reached the office. “Bas Rhys, I’ll admit I was extremely surprised to see you schedule this meeting.”
“No time for pleasantries, I’m afraid. Let’s get to it.”
He humored me and ushered us all in. “Alright, what have you got?”
I cleared his coffee table and put down both cardboard boxes. Cadbury held Ben Wyatt, my business manager, back and allowed me to proceed with my plan. Fast Retailing Co. - the parent company of Uniqlo clothing had sent a representative from Japan to help with this presentation.
Tadashi Yanai, the CEO I’d previously met, had helpfully assigned the English proficient Shinpachi as my official liaison to the company.
I opened the first box, revealing the current batch of official Harry Potter licensed clothes. “This is what fans of Harry Potter can currently purchase on the market to clothe themselves.” I took out the frankly paltry selection and spread them out over the WB exec’s table. “Cheap polyester and nylon - which if you wash a handful of times, you won’t even be able to see the Harry Potter graphics on anymore.”
I then opened the second box. Cotton and cotton blend shirts in all four house themes, winter wear like beanies, scarves, and gloves. Each with multiple iterations of the same design in different hues, all house themed. Smart casual uniform trousers, skirts, and shirts with inconspicuous Hogwarts emblems. Hogwarts bathrobes. Quidditch jerseys and tracksuits.
The WB exec looked astounded at the difference in both quantity and quality of products on display. The sad little comparison of the presently available selection only highlighted their attributes. “In a little over three years, the movie franchise alone has earned well over 2 billion dollars. Why are we wasting that potential when it comes to merch?”
“This is high-quality stuff… I’m not sure if the cost of production for these would allow an acceptable profit margin.”
“That is where I can assuage your worries.” Shinpachi, his bowl cut hair combed, and round glasses shining, stepped over and handed the WB exec a prospectus.
This was the last nail I needed to hammer down. JK Rowling and the publishing house were already onboard, and David Heyman himself was the one to set up this meeting for me.
I gave a thumbs-up to an, as usual, thoroughly flabbergasted Ben. You’d think he’d be happy that I was setting myself, and through me his firm, with another line of credit.
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Korea Town, LA. February 2004.
The way you looked on a massive movie poster and the way you looked at yourself in the mirror sometimes felt like staring at two entirely different people. It also probably had to do with the fact that the poster shots were taken nearly a year ago, and being smack dab in the middle of puberty tended to change teens like me pretty quick.
As I tightened the blue belt with a red stripe over my brand new taekwondo dobok, the changes were readily apparent.
I was taller, obviously. I had better be too! Cadbury has been making me chug raw eggs every morning since my growing pains began - I’d be livid if I hadn’t put on height.
But, personally, the difference in my looks that pleased me the most was my growing definition.
My muscles, earned from years of martial arts and gymnastics, finally seemed to find space to grow. I adjusted the top of my uniform to be a little wider in the gap to show off my budding pecs.
I couldn’t begrudge that little vanity.
I leaned my face closer into my reflection as I studied my jaw. Not quite sharp enough to cut glass just yet, but maybe it could slice through butter. Cut me some slack, I was hitting fourteen, not forty. I still had plenty of baby fat left to lose.
I rubbed my fingers along my jaw. A little peach fuzz, but thankfully nowhere near visible enough to need to start shaving yet.
My eyes were still that striking green, not dulling with age, my skin a little tanner, edging on beige, due to time spent out in the California sun. God, I was getting good looking.
“Vanity is not a virtue.” Oh Dae Su, my taekwondo master, entered the locker room.
“I’m just so handsome, I can’t help myself.” I lamented as I jokingly flexed in front of the mirror.
“In Korea, you are too ugly for girlfriend.” Now that was just uncalled for! “Come fast. It is time for your final test.”
I stood alone on the sprawling blue mat as a couple dozen martial artists faced me from the gallery. I bowed, then subsequently waved to the camcorder held up by Cadbury. A couple of spars, a few flips, kicks, and a bunch of shattered boards later, I removed my blue belt and tied on my fresh new red belt. 2nd geup was what I’d successfully accomplished today, just two levels away from a black belt. It would only be the first dan, but a black belt was a black belt.
I was sure Mrs Stephens would be just as proud when she got the video.
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Bas’s Home, LA. February 2004.
The phone barely had a chance to ring before the ever dutiful Cadbury answered it. “Mr Rhys’ residence. How may I help you?” The low mumble that responded on the other end was inaudible to me. “Please hold.” Cadbury covered the speaker's end and turned to me. “It’s Mr. Heyman, for you.”
“Thanks, Cadbury.” I gestured for her to hand it over and immediately spoke into the phone. “Hey man, Heyman!”
“You must attempt to find another pun for my name, Bas. This one’s gotten quite old. I was calling to ask if you’d like to make your way over to London a little early this time? I saw that your karate showcase was over. We’re tidying up the casting for a few of the side characters and I thought you might like to be involved. Plus, it’ll give the casting director a chance to see who you’d have better chemistry with.”
“Yeah, sure, I’m not doing anything till production starts, anyway. It’s Taekwondo by the way, and it was my promotion exam - how’d you even hear about that?” I was genuinely quite surprised. I hadn’t bothered sharing the news about it yet with anyone outside of my inner circle. Only Cadbury, Mrs Stephens, Anita Specter, and Ben Wyatt knew so far.
“Find out? Bas, it’s all over the tabloids! Do you not read the news at all?”
“I only read the financial times and good housekeeping. Rags aren’t on my radar. I don’t see much point reading about what I did when I’ve already done it, or as is more usually the case what I haven’t done.”
“Well, they’ve got photos and a full video of it. They’re calling you the Wizard, Wushu Warrior, Wunderkind."
“Gross.”
“That’s the Sun, for you.” I could practically hear him shrugging on the other end of the line.
I looked towards Cadbury. “Did Anita sell my video for PR or something?”
“I don’t believe so. It is most likely the local paparazzi having snuck into the event. I shall, however, enquire with Ms Specter about it, regardless.”
“It’s rather good press, so I wouldn’t worry too much.” David Heyman chimed in, again. “So, shall I have the team book your flight?”
“Mhm. Go ahead, I’ll see you soon.” I hung up. I couldn’t help but feel a little wary about my first real run in with the paps. I hoped, maybe futilely, that this wouldn’t become an issue down the line.
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Oxfordshire, UK. March 2004.
There were few things that the UK could give me, that the States couldn’t. In this case? Some quality time behind a steering wheel.
When I made the decision to expedite my return to the isles, I left my normal host of hobbies by the wayside. However, instead of wandering about with my thumb up my arse, I found a new set of skills to learn that would facilitate my career.
I’d told Anita exactly what sort of project I’d like to undertake next and she’d aggressively begun sniffing about for even a drop of blood.
I wonder if you know what I’m talking about.
I was sitting in a beat up old Subaru. Just a handful of months ago, only my forehead would’ve had any chance of viewing anything above the dash, but the puberty deity had done me a solid and I sat comfortably in the driver’s chair without having to push the seat all the way forward.
The passenger side door opened, and my instructor parked himself behind his own special steering wheel and pedals.
These rally training cars were funky.
“Right.” He clipped his seatbelt. Beer was probably a staple in his diet with the way the strap struggled to stretch over his round belly. “Ever been behind the wheel of a car before?”
“Not in this life.” Honesty was the best policy, especially when it was the truth and a lie at the same time.
Even fourteen years out, I didn’t feel a hint of anxiety. Driving this car would be like riding a bike - a four wheeler bike with a four-cylinder engine.
“Far be it from me to fight my bottom line, but aren’t you a little young to be learning how to drive? Surely if you wait a year, you’ll be able to register for a bog standard provisional license.”
“I didn’t come to rally school to learn how to drive on a flat road.” I went about checking my mirrors. I knocked on the helmet on my head, “and I doubt we’d be wearing these unless we were very special boys.”
“You see that track down there? That’s the beginner’s run, and it even has mixed asphalt and gravel terrain. Those orange cones aren’t for show, mate. You’re going to have to keep this fat cow inside the lines and not scribble tracks all over the colouring book. I can teach how to toss a car around the corners like a gymkhana pro. What I can’t do is teach you what pedal makes the car go vroom, what makes it stop, and what the colours on a streetlight mean.”
I’d spent so much time around people who’d grown more and more aware of my mature mindset that I’d forgotten what it was like when someone who had no clue who I was spoke down to me like they would the average teenager.
I wasn’t fond of it, but I understood. Didn’t mean I wasn’t going to stick a banana in his tailpipe.
I released the parking brake, pushed the clutch, shifted to first gear, and launched off the mark with the full roar of 125 horses.
“Road rules later, Scandinavian flick now!”