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Raining.

It didn't usually do that in California. The pattering of soft droplets, wet feet sloshing in the puddles on sidewalks, and the dole of rush hour didn't aid the sudden feelings of gloominess. Rain clouds, the swishing of windshield wipers, and the humdrum of quiet music blaring from the speakers of a tiny blue car in the midst of a large pile just inching past Rodeo Drive pretty much summed up the mood of the day. The perfect start to a perfect day, no doubt; well, really just the downhill slope from the perfect start. There was no longer the rambling of a seven year old in the back or the blaring of [i]Stuck Like Glue[/i] from her lips even if she had no idea what the words were. Most of all, no more infectious smile to get through the rest of the day. Left to his own devices, it was merely a session of mindless glowering at the brake lights of the car in front of him. There was no rush, though, mainly because he wasn't the type to rush, but the more the pattering of rain hit the window the more aggravating it grew and the more claustrophobic he became.

The film, [i]Point Blank[/i], was just about to wrap up the pre-production doldrums. The script was made, revised a million times and edited just as many, the right actors were cast in their respectful role—he couldn't stress enough that they had to have the [i]right[/i] actors—and the right crew was hired that would best carry out production—actually, he could stress [i]any[/i] of it enough. He was satisfied. Still, worry climbed him like the small mole hill he was and made a mountain out of the anxiety wracking his mind. It was etched further onto his face as the days passed by, only ever remedied by his daughter's blissful laughter, and further built to the paramount that was the current expression solidified onto his features. The wrinkles in his forehead, the dull bags under his eyes, and the always moving gaze that couldn't seem to find something to focus on or grasp to. His knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel until the flesh was pale, an achievement, seeing as he was already a stark, pasty white. He had a particular knack for convincing himself that something, anything would go wrong at anytime—all his hard work, all [i]their[/i] hard work for naught. No matter how many times he'd tell himself not to think about it, he would; he'd think about it until he was suffering from stress induced insomnia. His specialty.

And he thought about it all the way to work that day, all the way from rainy Rodeo Drive to just as grey and rainy Hollywood. They'd book various locations, but the reading would take place in a standard studio just for the convenience before they'd ship off to wherever the hell the director wanted to go. And, as per usual, he was the first to arrive.They were scheduled for 11:00 A.M. on a Saturday morning, 18th March 2014. He'd arrived a whole two hours early to help setup—not that it needed much setting up. Actors should have gotten their scripts and Amy should have gotten his memo to organize a production meeting at the same time, so that everyone would know exactly what their jobs were. And they could all intermingle because honestly, what better time to get to know whether the production would soar to expected heights or fall flat on its face.

He'd sent that right?

Scramble for the phone in his pocket.

Double check e-mails.

Turn the phone off.

Check again.

Sigh in relief and finally step out into the now torrential downpour.

With umbrella in hand, Vyacheslav Piotr Zolnerowich-Wahlstein made a bee-line toward the building, phone in one hand and a suitcase in the other. He didn't at all purvey the casualness of the event that he had prior. Dressed in a suitably sized, black suit and purple tie that somehow got drenched, in spite of the wide arcing shelter the umbrella gave. The sight and feeling of the wet fabric clinging to his skin provoked an audibly aggravating sigh from Peter Zolner, the 'pen name' that grew on him just for the convenience of others. He was always convenient and accomodating to others. And, with a furrow in his brow, he retracted the umbrella and made his way through the building to find the wide-open space where he'd booked the reading to take place. Finding it already filled with chairs and tables, as well as sizable stacks of extra scripts, Peter finally smiled. Really, the only thing he'd have to do was wait. But, being the worrisome individual he was, he made sure to bring up a spreadsheet on his phone to access the list of people who were to attend the reading and then began counting the chairs. 

He spent the next few hours preoccupying himself to making the room, large in its scope, as accommodating as possible for the entirety of the cast and crew. Making sure the staff he'd hired had set out a reasonable amount of food and drinks, as it would be nearing lunch as they began, and making sure he checked and double checked and triple checked twice that no one on the list had peanut allergies. Giving up, Peter simply ran out to dispose of the nut contaminated food and came back in. He'd forgotten it was raining. Though, at the moment, he didn't seem to care and was only satisfied when he found a nice sofa to sit on—his entire side was immediately soaked. Finally noticing the error he'd made, Peter sighed and simply let his head fall into his hands; he needed at least one moment to relax before people filed in.

Always one of the first to arrive and the last to leave. Finally, though, the beginning of something either grand beyond measure or so bleak that cancellation was just around the corner.