ROMANOV AUTUMN
Chapter Eleven

Jack reached Hollywood by noon, and, after paying the train fare, stepped to the ground. It wasn’t raining at all here, and Jack had to hold his breath when his eyes caught the glare of the sun. Once the tickle in his nose faded, he sighed with relief and took his first look around the city. Or at least, the section he was currently standing in.

Los Angeles was definitely more spread-out than Santa Monica. There weren’t as many families, either, he noticed.

Jack walked along one of the main streets, feeling like a foreigner. He’d forgotten to ask Mr. Atwood for directions to the studio; all he had was the building’s address and telephone number.

"You look lost, sir. Might I be of some help?"

Jack whirled around. "Oh…I’m…I’m looking for this address," he stammered, and the young man who stood opposite him took the card and read it carefully.

"Stormwood Studios? Oh, what a coincidence…I’m going there, too!" The man stretched out his hand, and Jack did the same for a vigorous handshake. "Are you auditioning for the new film, too? My name is Harold O’Connor, by the way, but you can call me Harry. In fact, I insist."

Jack blinked; the man could certainly talk! He cleared his throat, feeling a little shy, and shook his head. "I’m not auditioning, but Mr. Atwood said there was a job for a set designer. I’m an artist. And my name is Jack…Jack Dawson."

Harry beamed and encouraged Jack to walk with him. "A pleasure, Jack. And, wow, you must be good if Mr. Atwood asked you specifically to take the job! I hear he’s a rather difficult man to get along with; very picky about the quality of his employees, but I suppose one has to be in this business, do you reckon?"

Jack managed a smile. "Er…" was all he could think of to say, and Harry laughed heartily.

"Forgive me, Jack. I always talk too much. If I am, please don’t be afraid that it’ll upset me if you say it annoys you. I’m always being told I talk as fast as a locomotive, and I’m commonly known as Mr. Motormouth, you see. But I can tell you and I will be great friends already; where did you come from, by the way? Did you grow up in a different part of California, or are you from another state?"

Jack was about to answer when the sneeze that had hidden itself from sight decided to come out. Harry jumped in surprise and raised an eyebrow with concern once Jack straightened up again. "Bless you!" he exclaimed. "I hope you aren’t getting sick. That wouldn’t be good for your first week on the job."

Jack laughed. "No, not getting sick. Sunlight just bothers me sometimes."

Harry grinned back. "We must be nearly there, Jack…it says four hundred on that building, and Stormwood Studios is at 550 Lawrence Lane."

Jack nodded, checking his card. "And about talking too much, Harry," he began, "I don’t think you’re talking too much at all. It’s always nice to have someone to talk to. I’m not from California, actually…I’m from Wisconsin. Chippewa Falls, to be exact."

Harry nodded. "I had an old girlfriend who was from that area. We broke up because she found some wealthy bloke." He shuddered. "I hate how this society is all about money."

"Will they be paying you much, acting?" Jack asked. He didn’t know much about the entertainment business, personally, though it was certainly interesting to think about. He was pretty sure that anyone hired for an acting job would make a good bit of cash, considering it was they who had to carry the film to its success.

"I’m not sure," Harry admitted. "About a hundred dollars per picture, I think." He shrugged. "It’s a good sum, definitely, but then again, I’m not quite sure I’ll get the role."

"Do you know what the movie is going to be about?" Jack asked, and at this point, they were already at 550 Lawrence Lane.

"Something about a lady serving a salad, and I’m supposed to audition for the part of the owner of the mansion the lady works for. They didn’t tell me many details, but I heard the woman they got to play the lead is quite beautiful." He winked, and Jack laughed. "Oh, here we are!" he added, pointing to the studio. It was an old warehouse that had been clearly out of business for several years.

"Not very fancy, is it?" Jack pointed out, and Harry shrugged.

"I hear they make movie studios out of the most curious of places. And this is just supposedly the main headquarters; we’re supposedly going to be shooting at a mansion."

"A mansion?" Jack wondered out loud. Perhaps the style of the mansion was something Mr. Atwood wanted him to sketch. He had done drawings of landscapes before; he knew he would be able to make his employer proud. Mr. Atwood had already taken a liking to his work on the train, so no doubt was there trust in him.

Harry hurried up the small set of steps to the main door and timidly opened it. The two of them stepped inside the dimly lit building, which had two floors. The first floor contained enormous pieces of machinery, covered in dust and cobwebs; there were at least twenty-five or more long tables, each covered with different types of tools. Jack wished he had about eight more pairs of eyes so he could take everything in.

"Mr. Atwood?" Harry called, his voice echoing along the steel walls. "Hello?" He looked at Jack with uncertainty as they passed through one of the aisles of tables.

"Mr. Atwood?" Jack repeated, wondering if they had been scammed. "Anyone here?"

"Hello, there!"

Both young men jumped with fright and saw a man coming out of the shadows. Jack recognized him immediately; Mr. Atwood certainly hadn’t changed since their first introductions on the train to Santa Monica. "I apologize…I was in my office taking a call from Mr. Thomas Edison. He’s planning on stopping by one of these days to survey our progress." Mr. Atwood did not sound the least bit excited about this, though; in fact, in Jack’s opinion, he looked rather disgruntled.

"Thomas Edison?" Jack asked, surprised. "Wasn’t he the man who invented the light bulb?"

Mr. Atwood let out a small grunt. "Yes, yes, he did. And he has been a great force in the movie industry; he’s formed this blasted trust, trying to take control over every aspect of movie-making. Well, Mr. Gleeson and I won’t stand for it. What’s the use of being able to create something extraordinary if you have so many bloody restrictions?" He raised his hands exasperatedly and then his lips split into a grin. "I apologize, boys. I did not mean to go off like that. Come into my office, lads…the director is preparing your script, Mr. O’Connor. And Mr. Dawson, do you have your portfolio on hand to show him? Good, good. This way, chaps!" He took the lead, and Harry, thoroughly amused, nudged Jack and winked.

"Is this where the movie is going to be filmed, sir?" Jack asked as they walked further into the musty building.

"Oh, goodness gracious, no!" Mr. Atwood laughed. "We have not begun progress on the set yet; that is why we were planning on hiring an artist to come up with ideas for it. This is just our meeting place for script discussions and what have you."

"Oh." Jack had difficulty hiding his relief; he wasn’t sure if he could stand working day in and day out in such a miserable place.

"Do you know where you’re going to be filming this movie, Mr. Atwood?" Harry asked as they entered an office, which was well-lit by three medium-sized lamps. A rather large, beefy man sat at the desk by the wall, scribbling something on a piece of parchment and muttering to himself.

"Mr. Gleeson?" Mr. Atwood spoke up, and the director let out a low growl.

"Busy, Atwood!" he snarled, and Mr. Atwood cleared his throat.

"Yes, I apologize, but Mr. Dawson and Mr. O’Connor have arrived. Mr. O’Connor is here for his audition, and Mr. Dawson is your new scenic designer, sir."

Mr. Gleeson dropped his pen at once and stood up. "Ah…excellent, excellent. A pleasure. My name is Ed Gleeson; feel free to call me Ed. If you try calling me Eddie, you’ll be out of here before you can say cut!"

Jack wet his lips, feeling butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. "Now, are both of you familiar with this film?" he asked, and the boys shook their heads.

"Well," Harry corrected himself, "I know generally but it’s about, but I don’t remember the title, sir."

Mr. Gleeson nodded. "The title of this film, which is only going to be five minutes in length, so not very long at all, is called Bridget Serves the Salad Naked. Staring Bridget Campbell, who is a lovely lady, it is mixing together on the edge art with film."

Jack felt his cheeks grow warm, and when he dared to look at Harry’s expression, he found his friend’s mouth hanging open in shock.

"Did I hear you correctly, sir?" Harry asked, shuffling his feet from side to side. "She’s going to be serving a salad naked? Completely naked?"

Mr. Gleeson nodded. "Do you have a problem with that, boy? If you do, you can catch a train straight home."

Harry gulped. "Oh, n-no, I just…I was a little surprised."

Jack wondered whether Mr. Edison had the least idea what this movie was going to be about; he was certain the man would not be at all thrilled when he found out it was going to be a pornography film. Nudity today was considered disgusting, and even Jack, though he was exceptionally open as far as artwork was concerned, felt a little uncomfortable with the idea. But he had to take the job if he wanted to make any sort of living for himself.

"Naturally, it is going to be a silent picture," Mr. Gleeson said, "as we have not developed a way to add sound into the films. So the stars will have to focus on their movements and facial expressions. You may speak, but you must lip read as clearly as possible any lines you may have."

Harry nodded. "I’m not familiar with the movie business, sir, though I have acted onstage before."

"Good, good. Any experience in acting will be good for this position. Now Mr. Dawson, Mr. Atwood tells me you’re a sensational artist. Do you have samples of your work that I might be able to look at?"

Jack was still trying to take in the idea of a film where the main female lead was going to be completely naked. He’d forgotten what he was there for.

"Oh…y-yes, I do." He timidly handed his portfolio to the director, who straightened his glasses on his nose and opened it eagerly.

Jack stood waiting anxiously for Mr. Gleeson’s response. Harry sat down on one of the folding chairs, reading over the script. He suddenly let out a chuckle, apologizing afterwards when everyone jumped and stared at him.

When Jack felt he couldn’t take the suspense any longer, Mr. Gleeson handed the portfolio back. "Well, boy, you’re good," he complimented. "You’re very good, in fact. Just the man I’m looking for."

Jack sighed in relief as he shook the director’s hand, and by this point, Harry was laughing so hard that he was doubled over in his seat. "I take it you’re willing to attempt an audition?" Mr. Gleeson asked, and Harry, when he managed to take a decent breath of air, nodded.

"Y-yes," he choked.

"Good. You’ll follow me into the main room, and Jack…you’ll stay in here, where Mr. Atwood will go over the details of what your job will entail…salary, your hours, etc."

Jack nodded, trying not to look too excited. "Thank you," he replied, and, after Harry and Mr. Gleeson disappeared, Mr. Atwood pointed to the large chair at the desk.

"Have a seat, son," he offered, and Jack shook his head.

"Actually, I don’t mind standing," he replied, and Mr. Atwood raised an eyebrow.

"Don’t be ridiculous," he retorted. "Sit."

Jack sat, feeling so tiny and insignificant amongst all of the clutter in the room. He watched as Mr. Atwood dug through one of the drawers in the oak desk and pulled out a folder. "I am going to have you sign your contract, Mr. Dawson. Your contract lasts for one year, which should be more than enough time to finish the film. If you decide, after you’ve completed your first set of drawings, that you like what you’re doing, we will renew your contract. You will be making a dollar an hour, and will earn one percent of the film’s profits. As the movie is not going to be very long; only five minutes, we’re charging a nickel per customer."

Jack nodded, clearing his throat. "Will I…er…have to do nude drawings?" he blurted, and suddenly felt rather stupid. Mr. Atwood chuckled warmly and patted his shoulder.

"Yes, Jack, you will be expected to sketch portraits of the lead actress for advertising purposes. I assure you, you needn’t be timid working for us. Mr. Gleeson is a very liberal-minded man; he’s open to anything that comes to his head. As far as your hours are concerned, you will report to this building at seven o’clock Monday through Saturday, and your Sundays will be free, unless we’re running behind schedule with the filming process. Are you understanding all of this?"

Jack nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good. You will begin work first thing tomorrow morning. Now, if you please, would you please sign this form? Feel free to take time to read it over carefully, and if you have any other questions, don’t hesitate to ask, all right?"

Jack nodded again. "Thank you," he replied, and took the contract into his hands. The print was very tiny, so he had to squint in order to read it. When he was sure he agreed with all that was required of him, he accepted the pen from Mr. Atwood and quickly signed his name on the bottom line.

"Excellent, excellent. Welcome aboard, Jack. Now, feel free to call me Charlie from now on, all right? We go by first names here."

Jack smiled. "Okay."

"So, I’ll see you at seven AM sharp tomorrow, then?"

Another nod, and both men shook hands. Jack, beaming, left the tiny office and stopped to watch as Harry was finishing up his audition. Mr. Gleeson noticed Jack and gave a small wave, which Jack returned. "I’ll see you tomorrow, then?" he asked, and Mr. Gleeson nodded.

"Right you are. All right, Mr. O’Connor, that will do." Harry held his breath, looking worried. "You have the part."

Jack grinned, wondering how many people had come by for an audition, if Harry had gotten the part so fast. Clearly not as many others were as open-minded about a pornography film. "Thank you, Mr. Gleeson," Harry breathed, his body sagging with relief.

"Ed," Mr. Gleeson insisted. "Call me Ed. Now, boys, we’ll see you first thing in the morning. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep, because we’ll be working hard."

"Yes, sir," Jack and Harry replied in unison before exiting the building together.

"Can you believe it?" Harry asked, breathless with pleasure as they began walking down the street. "It was easy as anything, that audition. I was scared to death, though, before I started. I’m not used to acting without having to read lines out loud."

"That’s great," Jack replied. "Want to grab a beer to celebrate?"

Harry nodded. "Sure. There’s a bar on Ashbridge that I’ve taken a liking to. Follow me," he said, and Jack complied.

For an hour or so, he and Harry sat at one of the corner tables in the dim bar, talking happily about their plans for the future. "If you need a place to stay," Harry began, "you can come to my building. There’s been a room available for decades, it seems, and the landlady has been all in a flutter trying to find someone to take it."

"Why?" Jack asked, and Harry grinned mischievously.

"It’s supposedly haunted," he said, and Jack snorted.

"You’re joking, right?"

Harry shrugged. "Well, I’m not sure. Every time I pass it to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I always hear someone knocking from the inside."

Jack shuddered. "Well, I…er…I don’t believe in ghosts," he said firmly. "If it’s a cheap room, then I’ll take it."

Harry smiled. "Mrs. Logger will be thrilled."

"Does she know it’s haunted?" Jack asked, and Harry nodded.

"Of course. She was still running this building when the occupant died."

Jack gulped. "What happened?" he asked, trying not to let his nerves get the better of him, and tried to focus on his beer.

"Happened five years ago," Harry began. "Supposedly there was a couple living in the room, and they had a rather nasty quarrel; ended with the husband shooting his wife and leaving in a rush. No one found the body until a week later."

Jack was grateful for the dim light; he was sure he was white as a sheet with fear.

"Oh." He swallowed. "Well, I—I’m sure it’s just a story. People always want to make towns more exciting, so they make up things."

Harry laughed. "You’re scared out of your wits, Jack. Admit it. Believe me, I don’t go up there anymore after I heard that knocking. No one in my building does."

Jack set his lips in a straight line. "I’m taking that room, Harry, okay? If there is a ghost, then she’ll have to live with me."

After they finished their beers, Jack followed Harry to his boarding house, where the landlady, a tall, thin old lady who reminded Jack seriously of a hag, was grateful when Harry announced that Jack wanted to take the vacant room.

"You have no idea how much help this is to me," Mrs. Logger said, her dark eyes wide. "I’m sure you’ve heard the stories?"

Jack nodded. "They’re really true, then?"

Mrs. Logger nodded. "Sadly, they are. But don’t you worry, son. She’ll like you, I can tell, and she won’t be a bother."

"She’ll…" Jack gulped, and found himself staring at the door of Room 5. "Pardon the mess," Mrs. Logger apologized after opening the door. Jack sneezed as a large cloud of dust formed, and he waved his hand in front of his face. The room was very dim, containing a small bed in the corner with white sheets and an old, peach-colored comforter.

"We tried so hard to get the stains out of the sheets, but unfortunately, blood doesn’t wash away that well." Mrs. Logger sighed, and Jack felt sick.

"Blood?"

"She was shot in her sleep, poor dear," Mrs. Logger said with a wistful sigh. "What a lovely lady she was, too. Not much older than you, in fact, and only married a year. Husband was a ruddy drunk; why she chose him, I’ll never know. Poor thing found out too late."

Jack nodded, having a feeling he wouldn’t be in his room very much. "Well…er…thank you for…" He cleared his throat.

"No trouble at all, my boy. Just make yourself at home."

When Mrs. Logger left, Jack stood in the center of the room, clutching his pack and portfolio, his heart racing in his chest. He immediately walked over to the bed, pulling down the comforter, searching for evidence of the lady’s story. Sure enough, there was a large, faint brown spot in the center. "Why didn’t they just change the sheets?" he asked aloud, wishing he hadn’t tried to be so brave. "There are no such things as ghosts," he told himself, and began to set up his things.

Chapter Twelve
Stories