Six Days Later
The rickety train sped onward, carrying Jack ever closer to California. He looked out the window and watched as the scenery passed by, too fast to distinguish what it was. He was alone, completely lost in thought. Oblivious to what was going on around him, he tried to work everything out in his mind.
Jack was almost twenty-eight years old. For his age, he felt as though he had barely accomplished anything. It had only been recently that he had become proud of his art.
As passengers boarded and got off the train, he watched them, wondering why they were headed his way. A holiday? Packing up to live? To visit family? Or perhaps just throwing it all away to chase their dreams?
Jack wanted to be by himself to think about things. The chugging of the train and the movement made him feel sick. His stomach was already churning. It was hard to believe that just a few years before he had spent all of his time traveling from place to place on a train, hiding in compartments, under seats, and other crazy places to avoid paying for a ticket. He and Fabrizio had traveled from place to place on tramp steamers, rode the rail, and sneaked onto ships. It was only now that he felt nauseous from being on a train for not even a long period of time. He felt old compared to how ballsy he had been as a young man, and now, just thinking about it, he seemed boring in comparison.
He had awakened at six after sleeping for only five hours. Sleep hadn’t come to him very well the night before. The sunlight streamed through the windows, causing him to squint. The train had left New York at ten o’clock AM s few days before and was due to arrive in California soon. It felt as though he had been on the train forever. Passengers slept, but he just sat and awaited the arrival. He felt as though there was nothing else he could do. He was waiting to see how much California had changed and what memories the place held for him.
The train pulled into California on time and the passengers disembarked. Stepping from the train, Jack’s eyes gazed at the new scenery. People waiting for trains, people waiting for passengers, workmen, and children were all scattered around the platform. The air felt cooler, but the sun still shone and he felt the sun on his cheeks. He felt a hint of excitement inside. Maybe this would be a new beginning for him.
He clutched the one small bag that held his belongings. He had never been one to carry much around with him. When he was there years ago, a small backpack held all of his worldly possessions. Even now, it didn’t hold much—just the bare necessities.
In the early 1900s, filmmakers had begun moving to the Los Angeles area to get away from the strict rules imposed by Thomas Edison’s Motion Picture Patents Company in New Jersey. Since most of the moviemaking patents were owned by Edison, independent filmmakers were often sued by Edison to stop their productions. To escape his control, and because of the ideal weather conditions and varied terrain, moviemakers began to arrive in Los Angeles to make their films.
When Jack had been here last, he hadn’t seen one movie set or camera, but nowadays, the headlines seemed to be alive with stories from Hollywood and the famous faces that had now settled there.
*****
Jack took a cab from the station to the Beverly Hills Hotel, as instructed. He arrived just about on time.
It was a glamorous spot in the silent film era, attracting stars from the neighborhood like Charlie Chaplin, Gloria Swanson, and Rudolph Valentino. The hotel was also the place for community activities, including children’s schooling, holiday gatherings, and celebrations such as formal dances and weddings in the ballroom. Raucous parties on Saturday nights would give way to church services on Sunday mornings.
Visually, the hotel was spectacular. Jack shaded his face from the sun while he looked at the large courtyard. On each side of the motorcar were tall palm trees. He could now understand why this particular destination had been chosen. He hadn’t been prepared for the opulence of the entire place. It had changed massively since his first trip there more than ten years before.
“May I help you with your bags, sir?" the chauffeur asked. He was used to driving the stars and rich people to and from the hotel, and he guessed Jack was just another rich boy staying in California.
"Yes. Just remove them from the trunk."
The chauffeur ran around the back of the car and removed his suitcase before putting it on the ground. Jack eyed the hotel through squinted eyes. He couldn’t see where the entrance was.
A small cough broke his attention and the chauffeur smiled and nodded at him. Jack frowned, not getting him. He held out his hand as if expecting something before coughing again. Jack raised his eyebrows.
Of course. He wants a tip. Goddamn rude! he thought. He dug into his wallet and pulled out the first thing that his hand found, which was a dime. He tossed it to the chauffeur, who clearly expected a larger tip, but nonetheless accepted it before driving off.
Jack Dawson stood before the hotel. It was God knew how many stories high. He put a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun as he looked upward.
The opulence stunned him. Once again, he felt out of place. Men and woman of obvious upper class status sashayed in and out of the glass doors of the entrance, casting dirty looks at Jack.
Ignoring the narrow-minded people, Jack entered the building. Inside, the hallway spanned what seemed like miles. More people inside looked his way.
When he found the front desk, a small man in a black suit and spectacles stood before him. Clearing his throat, Jack spoke. “I’m here for Derek Johnson. My name is Jack Dawson,” he told the clerk, who eyed him suspiciously.
“Of course, sir.” He nodded. “Rita, go find Mr. Johnson and inform him of a Mr. Jack Dawson’s arrival.” He spoke to a colleague, who nodded before presumably wandering off to find Mr. Johnson.
Jack felt awkward and knew people’s eyes were on him. He cleared his throat before leaning against the front desk. His eyes fell on a young woman who was carefully applying some thick, blood red lipstick before curling her hair around her index finger. A man put his arm around her. He suspected him to be her father until she kissed him once. Something caught his eye—a huge diamond on her finger.
Jesus! He sighed. He would have to get used to being surrounded by these people who thought they were royalty…at least while he was here.