ROMANOV AUTUMN
Chapter Ten

When Jack awoke the next morning, he began to feel the unpleasant aftereffects of alcohol. He lay on his pile of blankets, fighting against his rolling stomach and the pounding ache in his head.

Al continued to sleep, lying flat on his stomach, arms hanging over the edges of the bed. His snore woke Jack--a loud, rumbling noise, and that was what did him in.

Jack struggled to his feet, stumbling over to the wash bin. Terrible bouts of retching soon followed, leaving him faint and exhausted. He swallowed; the leftover taste of vomit still thick in his mouth. He reached clumsily for a wash rag, knocking over a glass. Its crash caused his heart to skip a beat, and he glanced anxiously at Al.

Al merely grunted, smacking his lips together, and turned to the side. Groaning miserably, Jack lifted the wash bin and carried it out of the room. If this is what it’s like to be drunk, he thought, then I really don’t care for it. He dumped the wash bin’s contents into the public bathroom’s toilet, and the mere smell of it caused the retching to start up again.

Without realizing it, he’d left the door to the bathroom wide open. A young woman, who happened to be on her way to the washroom at that moment, heard the noise.

"Newbie, huh?" she asked, and Jack wanted nothing more than to disappear through the floor.

"I guess you could say that," he croaked, and she smiled.

"I have some candied ginger in my room if you’d like it. It will help settle your stomach. Believe me, I’ve had enough hangovers to know this."

Jack was willing to try anything that would settle his nausea, and he nodded, grateful for the lady’s concern. When she walked away, he hunched over the bowl again, though nothing but a bitter liquid came up. He collapsed against the floor, resting his head against the wall.

"Here," the woman announced when she returned, and offered Jack a small tin box. He accepted it, popping it open, and the strong scent of ginger protruded from it. The candies were tiny, no larger than a pin, and were a sparkling brown color. He took one and popped it weakly into his mouth. "Might want to take two or three," the woman told him thoughtfully. "One won’t do it."

Jack took two more and sucked on them. The taste of the ginger itself was calming. It was a strange type of spice, similar to cinnamon.

"Thanks," he whispered after returning the tin to her. She closed it and stepped back.

"What’s your name, kid?" she asked, helping him to his feet.

"Jack."

"I’m Melanie Hessey," she replied. "But everyone here just calls me Mellie. I haven’t seen you before. Did you just move in?"

Jack nodded. "Well, my friend lives here. I’m just staying with him."

Melanie led him into the hallway. "Well, the only person your age in the building is Alexander Pullings. That’s him, right?"

Jack wanted to laugh at the sound of his friend’s full name, but he was too weary to make a joke of it. "Yeah. He was a neighbor of mine from Wisconsin years ago."

Melanie smiled. "So, how do you feel?" she asked, watching as he pondered the question for a moment. He shrugged, rubbing the back of his head.

"Well, my stomach’s definitely empty now." He smirked, and she laughed.

"Yeah. It’ll take at least an hour before you start feeling any different. But at least the ginger’ll prevent you from getting sick again for a while."

Jack looked at her and nodded. "Thanks a lot," he told her thoughtfully. "I really appreciate it."

Melanie waved her hand briskly at him as though it were nothing. "Just get some sleep," she told him, and, after making sure he got back to his room without any trouble, she disappeared down the hallway and back into the bathroom. Jack entered the apartment just as Al was getting up, and his friend seemed to be in a bit of a daze himself.

"Mornin’," Al muttered, stretching. "Been up long?"

Jack shook his head. "Well, not too long, I guess."

"Doing okay?" Al added. Clearly he’d heard Jack getting sick in the room, and Jack felt himself turning pink with embarrassment.

"Better, thanks," he replied. "I don’t think the beer agreed with me." He flopped down onto the pile of blankets, hugging his knees to his chest. The sounds of a new day’s start were beginning to occur, and the building was slowly starting to come to life again.

Al snorted. "No kidding, Jack. You had at least six."

Jack’s eyes widened. "Six?" he exclaimed, starting to gather his things. "And you didn’t stop me?"

Al snickered. "Well, you seemed to be enjoying yourself. I didn’t want to interrupt that. But, yeah, drinking that much does have consequences."

Jack groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. "Well," he muttered, "I’ll never do that again."

Al patted his shoulder. "You get used to it after a few tries. Believe me, I was sick for hours after my first time. You’re lucky you only threw up a few times."

Jack didn’t think it was anymore pleasant to throw up once or twice than it was to be doing it for hours on end, but he guessed his friend was right. He just knew he needed fresh air, and probably the smell of the salt from the ocean would be calming.

"Hey," he spoke up after a few moments of silence, which started when the boys began getting dressed, attempting to make themselves look somewhat decent for the public. Jack did miss having a good bath twice a day, lounging in Esther’s bathtub filled with warm, soapy water. He didn’t miss Olivia’s sneaking in, splashing him, and then running away giggling. Sisters, he thought with a shake of his head as he picked through his art supplies. The money he’d made the previous day had gone towards dinner, and the beer, no doubt, so he was left with what he’d started on when he arrived. Thankfully, I kept that in a safe place, he thought. "Do you know Melanie Hessey?"

Al turned to him, an eyebrow raised. "Melanie…Mellie Hessey?" he asked, and Jack nodded.

"Yeah. She gave me some ginger when I was getting sick in the bathroom. She seemed to know you."

Al wet his lips. "Oh, yeah," he muttered. "I know her."

Jack cocked his head to one side. "Not good, huh?" he asked. Melanie hadn’t seemed like a bad woman, though she did seem to have the ability to get a bit feisty at times.

"I’d keep away from her, Jack," Al replied.

"She’s not the one who…"

Al nodded, and Jack gulped. "Yeah. That party," he agreed.

"Damn." Jack blew out his breath. "I guess she knew better than to take advantage of me when I was hung over." He chuckled.

"Don’t get too comfortable," Al warned. "So. Going back to the beach today?" He peered out the window and his eyes widened. "Well, I’ll be darned!"

Jack blinked. "What?" he asked, joining his friend. He hadn’t really looked outside yet since he’d woken up, and he now saw that it was pouring rain. Al scratched his head in confusion and turned to his friend.

"It hardly ever rains in Santa Monica during this time of the year," he explained. "It’s been so hot and dry lately. You must be good luck, then." He winked, and Jack snorted.

"Yeah, good luck." He set his duffle bag down. "Looks like the beach plan is out of the question," he added, and Al pointed at him.

"Well," he began slowly, "it’s a good day to check up on that agent guy. You know, the one who gave you his card on the train? Maybe you could give him a call and set up an appointment."

Jack shrugged. He really wasn’t quite ready to make the travel to Hollywood, not when he’d just arrived in Santa Monica. Besides, he’d barely gotten started on his private art business, and wanted to see what a couple more days of it would bring.

"Not quite ready for that yet," he admitted, and Al gave a shrug.

"It sounds like a golden opportunity, Dawson. If I had a talent like you with art, I’d be right on it."

Jack nudged his friend jokingly. "Hey," he replied. "They are looking for actors. You’d make a great candidate."

Al smirked. "Yeah, right. I could so see myself in a nickelodeon. Make a total idiot of myself, probably."

Jack folded his arms, giving Al a serious look. "But acting is basically just that," he replied. "Making an idiot of yourself in public. And you get paid for it."

Al snorted. "Nah, kid, I’d rather not be bogged down by that union. I’m enjoying my freedom here. But if you ever do get to LA, let me know."

The two decided to get a bit of breakfast together, and had to keep under the shops’ and restaurants’ multiple awnings. The rain was coming down pretty heavily, and Jack was greatly amused by the confusion of the Santa Monica residents, who were questioning the sudden change in weather. Was it really that bad that he’d left home and came here if rain was the only weather he brought? I hope that doesn’t become customary, he thought as they entered the same diner that he’d been in on the first morning.

"Don't sweat it, Jack," Al soothed as they sat in one of the booths. "This is a good thing...we needed rain! Things were shriveling up!"

Jack leaned his chin in his palm and gazed out the window, watching as sheets of water flowed down the glass. "I guess a little rain can't hurt anyone," he agreed, and Al winked.

The waitress served them their usual cups of coffee, and the boys didn’t even need to order. She rattled off what they’d gotten there the last time, and Jack looked at Al. "That’s impressive," he whispered, and Al smirked.

"Doesn’t get many customers this early in the morning," he replied.

"Al, I’ve been meaning to tell you something," Jack began, once they were settled. "If I do get this job in Hollywood, I’m not going to be staying with you. When I travel, I pretty much take everything with me."

Al raised an eyebrow and Jack shook his head. "It’s not an insult or anything," he insisted. "I just can’t stay in one place too long. Just like you can’t hold one job down too long because you’re afraid it’ll keep you here permanently."

Al grinned. "No problem. At least you had some place to kip while you were here," he said. "So what kind of job do you think you’ll get? Drawing movie stars? That would be something! Maybe ask them to pose nude for you?"

Jack stuck his tongue out. "Maybe. Or maybe I’ll help design the sets for the films; sketch what they tell me they think they want, and then use that as floor plans when they start building it."

Al folded his arms. "You lucky bastard," he laughed, and Jack snorted. "I should have you autograph my napkin in case you’re famous one day."

"Oh, give it up," Jack retorted. "I’m not even sure I’m going to get the job."

After breakfast, Jack and Al parted ways. Al went to his most recent place of employment and showed Jack where the telephone was in the apartment building. His hands were shaking so hard that he had a bit of difficulty ringing the operator after he removed the agent’s card from his pocket. He caught sight of old Mr. Branson, the apartment’s landlord, muttering quietly to himself as he read through the weekly account books. He seemed to realize that Jack was looking at him, and he gave a rather nasty glare.

"Charles Atwood speaking," a voice on the other end of the receiver suddenly spoke, causing Jack to jump. He swallowed, trying to wet his sandpaper-dry throat, and was afraid he’d sound like an idiot over the phone.

"Um…hello? This is Jack Dawson. I’m calling in reference to a job offer you gave me a little while back?"

"Dawson?" Mr. Atwood sounded confused. "I don’t think I know anyone by that name. You sound like a kid, though."

Jack felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach, and was afraid he’d be sick on the spot. "Well, I met you on the train last week, Mr. Atwood, and you asked me if I’d like to work for you. Well, first you wanted to see if I’d be a star, and I said no…"

"Ah…right! You’re that kid! The artist! I was waiting for you to call me, junior. You in town now?"

Jack felt his entire body sag with relief. "Well, I’m in Santa Monica right now, but I can catch a train to Hollywood as soon as I need to."

There was a pause, and Mr. Branson came up to Jack. "Hoggin’ the phone, eh?" he asked, his voice sounding an awful lot like a toad’s croaking. "Five minutes per call, kid. I ain’t rich, you know."

Jack blushed, and watched as the old man hobbled back to his desk. "Yeah, the job is still open," Mr. Atwood finally spoke. "Can you be here by three o’clock this afternoon? We’re starting auditions for our new film, and would like you to sketch headshots of the actors."

Jack felt his heart leap into his throat. "Thank you, sir!" he exclaimed. "I had to give myself a little time to think the offer over, or I’d have given you notice sooner."

"Four minutes, kid!" Mr. Branson shouted from his desk, and Jack glared at him.

"I’ll be there, Mr. Atwood. Thanks again," he added, and, after they hung up, Jack shot one more nasty look at the landlord before making his way up to Al’s room.

He stood in the doorway for a couple of moments, listening to the rain that splattered against the windowpane. He gathered his things and eventually made his way to the train station.

Chapter Eleven
Stories