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Henry had finally moved into Gary's apartment building.
They say having an old man around is like having a treasure and while Gary was only pushing sixty and not exactly someone you'd call "wise," he did have one thing going for him:
He was old-school Hollywood.
Not from some elite family of directors or A-listers. Not the kind who could name-drop their way into a studio. But his family had lived near Hollywood since before it became Hollywood. And in a town where proximity often counts for more than pedigree, that gave Gary a kind of local expertise… or at least a convincing illusion of it.
To Henry new guy, partial amnesiac, and just Kryptonian enough to know he should be skeptical it was still useful. Even if half of what Gary said was probably made up.
The old man liked to talk. More importantly, he was surprisingly flexible when it came to house rules. Once Henry explained he needed to make some minor kitchen upgrades, Gary just shrugged so long as Henry didn't burn the building down.
The reason? Simple: American kitchens weren't built for smoky cooking. anything involving actual flavor too smoky. And let's be honest, most restaurants in L.A. at the time? A tragedy.
Now that he had his own place, Henry couldn't stop craving real food.
He wasn't about to risk burning down his apartment, though. So he played it smart. With Gary's approval, Henry hit up the local hardware store, loaded his car with supplies, shut the door behind him, and with Kryptonian speed transformed the kitchen like it was a scene from Extreme Makeover: Intergalactic Edition.
Once the work was done, he invited Gary up to inspect it. And to prove his culinary chops, Henry whipped up a proper three-dish, one-soup kind of meal: West Lake vinegar fish, pork, and broccoli in oyster sauce.
By evening, the table was set, the dishes were hot, and Henry raised his glass.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
Gary clinked bottles with him. "Merry Christmas. You know, I really didn't expect this. I was starting to think you had a thing for my old ass or that you were getting desperate. Gotta say up front, kid, I'm not that kind of guy."
Henry rolled his eyes. "Shut up, you Irish bastard. Just because it's Christmas doesn't mean I won't knock you out and toss you in the snow. Landlord or not."
Henry gave up and handed him a proper spoon and fork. "Try not to embarrass yourself."
Gary took a bite and nodded, impressed. "First Christmas I've ever had with this type of food. Not bad."
Henry was already working through his own plate. "I told you I needed to modify the kitchen for cooking. You didn't believe me. Said you'd make me tear it down if the results didn't impress. Well, today's Christmas. And I'm a man of my word."
"You could've just dropped off some leftovers in a Tupperware, you know," Gary said. "Didn't expect a whole invite. Is this an Alaska thing?"
Henry paused, then shrugged. "I'll keep that in mind next time. Honestly, I figured Christmas Eve was for couples and awkward office parties. Christmas Day's more of a family thing. Doesn't your son come visit?"
Gary's expression soured like spoiled eggnog. "Maybe at my funeral. He and his sweet-hearted mother will probably be fighting over my will before the casket's even closed."
Henry winced. "Should I say 'congrats on the divorce' or 'sorry your family sucks'?"
Gary waved him off. "Don't say anything. Let me pretend this meal isn't depressing."
Still chewing, he pointed his fork at the pork. "Damn, this stuff's good. I get it now. You made the kitchen work."
"Told you," Henry said smugly.
"You said you had questions. Ask away."
Henry handed him another Heineken and waited for the first one to disappear. "Fabio said your grandfather used to work with Charlie Chaplin. Carried his camera or something. That true?"
"Hell yes, it's true," Gary said, straightening up. "More real than the Queen's chastity. I've got photos of Grandpa and Chaplin together. Whole crew shot after filming The Kid in '21. Want me to show you sometime?"
Gary, now a little buzzed, started to sound less like a flamboyant landlady and more like a grumpy old man which, to Henry, was a welcome shift.
"And it wasn't just my grandfather. My dad worked in one of the big eight studios after the war. Lighting, set construction, grips—real crew work. Knew half the big names from back in the day."
"What about you?" Henry asked, curious. "You ever work in the industry?"
Gary puffed up with the pride of a forgotten supporting character. "Hell yeah. I was in props. Did a lot of work in the '70s. I even helped build sets with Harrison Ford before he was Harrison Ford. That guy and I were both doing carpentry. Then George Lucas, that blind son of a bitch, goes and picks him to play Han Solo. Left me behind like yesterday's news."
He shook his head, pretending to be bitter. "So I said screw it. Came back, took over the building, and started renting to the next generation of dreamers."
Henry blinked. So this is the real-life version of "I didn't become a star, so I inherited an apartment complex instead."
The building wasn't tiny. Six stories, ten units per floor each nearly 800 square feet. Some units were split, others rented whole. First floor had a laundromat and a small convenience store. The rest? Gary's property.
No way that kind of real estate came from just working behind the scenes in film. Henry didn't press. He wasn't here to audit the guy's taxes.
But now that he had Gary talking…
"So," Henry said, keeping his tone casual, "with all that background, I bet you know a thing or two about how Hollywood really works, huh?"
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