Chapter 30: Turning 21
By the end of February 1991, time had slipped by almost unnoticed. Ever since Wayne sold his first film, he'd left the promotional work entirely in Fox's hands. After all, when it came to marketing, they were leagues ahead of a rookie director like him.
While waiting in his apartment, Wayne remained focused on writing. He had several projects in mind, each potentially shaping his future path. The Garfield Studio account still had $4 million sitting untouched. Aside from the $1.2 million he planned to send home, he had no immediate intention of spending the rest.
Wayne didn't know whether anyone would invest in his next film. That depended entirely on how Happy Death Day performed. But he had to prepare for the possibility that it might flop, leaving him once again in the wilderness of independent filmmaking.
To be honest, that thought terrified him. Making a film independently had already felt like dying once. Sure, it had been a learning experience—but not one he ever wanted to repeat.
A shoestring crew, doing the work of five people himself, sleepless nights, cutting corners everywhere... none of it had been fun. It wasn't the filmmaking experience he envisioned. Wayne wanted to direct—not juggle multiple production roles just to survive.
After the buyout money from Fox landed in his account, the first thing Wayne did was join both the Directors Guild and the Writers Guild, paying the $3,000 membership fee for each.
It was a strategic move. Once the film was released, there would still be a trickle of residual income—modest, but steady. As director, he'd be entitled to a small cut of box office earnings and VHS rentals, even under a buyout deal. It wasn't much, but in the long run, it was a reliable source of income.
Even though Happy Death Day hadn't hit theaters yet, Wayne began work on his next script. The pressure wasn't immediate, but writing helped him keep his focus and not obsess over his first film's outcome.
His top choice for a second film? Another thriller—but this time something more disturbing and cerebral. Not the usual jumpscares and gore. He envisioned a slow-burning dystopian tale, a film that subtly dissected racial tensions in modern North American society.
Of course, that was just Plan A. If no one stepped up to fund him, Wayne would fall back on another low-budget idea. This backup was inspired by a film that made a Chinese-American director a legend in horror circles—a minimal-cost, maximum-impact story.
After joining the Writers Guild, he quickly registered outlines for both scripts, ensuring that any future disputes over rights or production wouldn't cause trouble.
On March 1st, he set his pen down, packed up, and drove back to his hometown—Ventura County, in the greater Los Angeles area. His 21st birthday was just two days away, and he wanted to celebrate it with Old Man Garfield.
By now, Wayne had fully adjusted to the North American way of life. Legally, adulthood began at 18: you could vote, enlist, drive, and get a job. But turning 21? That was still culturally considered the true threshold into adulthood.
It wasn't just tradition. Many legal restrictions vanished at 21. You couldn't legally drink alcohol or gamble in public before then, and while buying cigarettes was loosely enforced, public drinking underage was strictly forbidden.
In practice, though, few people followed those rules to the letter—especially in familiar neighborhoods. Wayne had bought cigarettes and booze at convenience stores more times than he could count. Clerks rarely asked for ID.
But turning 21 still meant a lot. It meant access to casinos, adult clubs, certain bars and lounges—things explicitly off-limits before.
To Old Man Garfield, this birthday marked the moment Wayne became a man. From here on out, no one could tell him when or where he could drink, smoke, or gamble. It was time to start planning his life like a grown-up.
Wayne's relationship with Old Garfield had been forged over years of quiet, steady affection. The old man didn't know Wayne's true ideals—only that he'd raised him with care and taught him how to view the world with his own eyes.
Driving along Highway 101, listening to country music on the radio, Wayne tried to guess how his unpredictable father figure would celebrate his milestone birthday.
Please don't let it be a strip club, he silently prayed. That was how a lot of guys celebrated turning 21—but not him.
March 3rd. The big day.
The gift Wayne received didn't exactly fit his personality, but it was certainly better than a night in a strip joint.
He looked down at the massive revolver in his hands and then up at Old Garfield, utterly baffled.
"Dad… you expect me to go elephant hunting with this thing? I swear, not even an elephant would survive a shot from this monster."
Old Garfield chuckled proudly and gestured at the gun. "That, my boy, is a real man's toy. I picked it out just for you. But it stays on the farm—don't take it anywhere else. You can use it to protect your mom. And someday, maybe your wife and kids."
Wayne stared at the beast in his hand. A Colt Anaconda. Just released a year ago by the legendary Colt Firearms company. A double-action revolver that fired .44 Magnum rounds—the kind of thing that could blow apart a bear with a single shot.
"Of course I love it, Dad," Wayne said with a grin. "Don't worry—I'll never take it off the farm. If a cop in L.A. sees me carrying this thing around, they'll empty their whole clip into me before I can explain."
He placed the revolver back in its case, carried it to his bookshelf, and tucked it away with a chuckle.
"Your mom's in the kitchen baking you a cake," Old Garfield added. "And I had James butcher a lamb for dinner. Now then, young man, how about a proper adult drink? I've got some premium stuff stashed away. Let's go out back—don't want your mom catching us."
With a mischievous glint in his eye, he pulled Wayne toward the backyard of the villa.
.
"Dad, didn't you promise Mom there'd be absolutely no alcohol in the house?" Wayne asked in mock disbelief as he took the glass. "Where the hell have you been hiding this all this time without getting caught?"
Old Garfield grinned and poured them each a drink. "Your mom gave me an ultimatum—alcohol or guns. I chose guns."
He took a sip and added with a conspiratorial smile, "Son, this is one of those marriage secrets every man learns. You've got to have a secret stash, a little space that's all your own."
Wayne laughed, soaking in the warmth of home. His father was, by any standard, an oddball among Jewish families. He had zero interest in chasing money or success. By his mid-thirties, he'd settled into a slow, easy life running a big farm—and never looked back.
Wayne had pieced together bits of their past. Something traumatic must have happened to his father, some mental or emotional blow that made him retreat to this quiet corner of the world.
His own memories before age five were hazy, but he was sure that, before the farm, they'd lived in a huge house by Malibu Beach.
"Ruben! Wayne! Dinner's ready! Don't think I don't know what you two are up to in the backyard!"
At the sound of his mother's voice, Old Garfield hurriedly hid the Chivas in the tool shed beside the stables. Only once it was safely tucked away did the two of them make their way into the house.
"Honey, starting today, you're a man," Anna said emotionally, wrapping her arms tightly around her son. "One day you'll move out, start your own life, your own family… Just thinking about it makes me so emotional."
"Mom, I'm not starting a family anytime soon," Wayne assured her, hugging her back just as tightly and whispering in her ear. "I still have dreams and a career to chase. Even if I start my own life, I'll always love you."
"Alright, alright, sit down and try the cake I made for you," she said, pulling him to the table and setting him in front of the birthday cake. "And look—check out the gift I got you. Do you like it?"
Beside the cake sat a carefully wrapped box. Unlike Old Garfield's straightforward gift—a giant revolver handed over bare—his mom's presentation was much more delicate and thoughtful.
Wayne untied the colorful ribbon and peeled back the wrapping paper. Inside was a sleek, elegant wristwatch.
It was a Hamilton mechanical watch—subtly stylish, leaning toward a business look. Clearly, his mother had picked it with his future career in mind.
"Thank you, Mom. I love it," Wayne said, immediately strapping the watch on. Then he got up and gave her another tight hug.
"Let's cut the cake already, Mom. I'm starving!"
"Not so fast, young man. First, you have to blow out the candles!"
---
The peaceful rhythm of farm life made time pass all too quickly. Each day, Wayne would either go for a ride on horseback or stay home, writing relentlessly. He was preparing two sets of project proposals—one for each of the two films he had in mind, depending on whether or not he'd secure outside investment.
He even submitted a few short stories to Random House, using connections from his mother's side.
Before he knew it, April had quietly crept in.
Wayne left his father a check for $1.2 million, then hit the road and drove back to Los Angeles.
It had been over six months since he started writing Happy Death Day, and now the scheduled test screenings were just around the corner. 20th Century Fox had finally locked down a release window.
Even with a second lifetime's worth of experience under his belt, Wayne couldn't contain his excitement. He was desperate to see his work on the big screen.
The reason he'd rushed back to L.A.? He had seen his movie's promo ad on TV—a 15-second trailer he had personally edited—airing during a primetime slot on the Fox Cable Network.
As far as he knew, Fox had only produced forty prints of the film—split between twenty theaters in New York and twenty in Los Angeles. These two cities were widely considered the most accurate barometers of public taste in North America.
Naturally, the target audience was young viewers, and these cities were the most active hubs for that demographic. April was part of Hollywood's spring lull, traditionally a quiet season for movies.
All Wayne hoped for was that Happy Death Day wouldn't bomb completely—and that if it did well enough, the studio would expand the release to more theaters.