A/N: Yes, everything I write has been made between 12am and 3am. Sorry. Even if no one likes it ... at least I got it off my chest and out of my brain. :)
The seawater sloshed aboard the S.S. Venture, dousing it's crew. Above, in the sky, dark clouds were full and rounding - preparing to spill their collected contents of precipitation below. Captain Englehorn sat on a crate of chloroform and sighed. He had to go pick up Carl -- Carl ... something. With a D ...? D-ham? Carl D - the self-centered director of a new movie. It gave him a headache just thinking about it - him and his damned crew taking up his space and boat. Tomorrow, he and his headache will be sailing with ... Carl D ... And as heavy rain began to fall and mix with the salt water, Englehorn cursed out loud. For a sailor, his mouth wasn't that dirty.
Carl was pacing back and forth on the streets. The ship was late and the police were coming. In the last 24 hours, his luck had dissipated - lost his actress, no funding, film sunk, was ripped apart like a lamb between lions by horny big time company guys, police after him, and now this. At least he found Ann. She, well, Ann, she was all he had now. And Jack better have the script completed. And, well, if it wasn't for Jack, Ann wouldn't have agreed to come along. Just 'cause he's some big playwright. Hmph! Well, Carl Denham is better than any run-of-the-mill theatre man. Yes, those two are all he has. Oh, and his assistant, Preston, he supposed. While pacing, he snuck a glance at Ann. She was thinking, he could tell. Plus, she looked like the thinking-sort of girl. But she was still beautiful - shoulder-length blond hair, glowing green eyes, long legs, size 4. She saved his life. How could you possibly shoot a romantic action film without a leading actress?
Finally, a roaring steamship, er, floated towards them. Carl motioned for Ann and pointed towards the boat. Quickly, the captain walked out towards Carl. The captain coming down to talk to him; that probably wasn't a good thing. Captain Englehorn was tall and tired-looking. He didn't bother to force on a smile - a good sign, no bullshit.
"Carl..." Englehorn began, his hand extended.
"Denham," the shorter man replied, and shook the other's hand. "Oh, yes," Carl shifted and gently pulled Ann forward. "Our new actress, Ann Darrow." She, too, outstretched her hand to shake. This time Englehorn flashed a toothy smile Carl was obviously not worthy of.
"I will be your captain ma'am - Captain Englehorn at your service." He then took her hand and kissed it. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, miss." She hadn't spoken in Englehorn's presence yet. But Carl knew she was feisty even though she had only spoken to him briefly. Then the captain moved towards Carl and began to whisper close to his ear. "Er, Carl. Some, er, work needs to be done to the ship before we shove off again. It won't take 'em 'eery long, just an hour about." Carl's face hardened.
"Whatdoya mean? Englehorn, man, I've got places to go, I'm on a tight schedule! People are ... Well, I've got to go!" Captain Englehorn rubbed at his scruff thoughtfully.
"Why ya in such a rush? Ya sound, ahha, I dunno ... anxious? Nah. Worried? That's not quite it ... Desperate, yeah, that's it - desperate." Carl, who was looking down previously, slowly looked up. His eyes were shifty.
"Now, no. I'm not desperate, pfft. I'm just a very busy man, you see. A movie director. Me and my cast and crew have got to get going. As I said, Mr. Englehorn, we are on a tight sc--"
"Yes, I'm sure you're on a very very tight schedule, but what we must do helps insure your safety. We insist upon it. Anyway, hows about I take you and Miss Darrow for a meal quick in the meantime?" The swift sailor pulled out a wod of cash from his knicker pockets. Carl heaved a heavy sigh and turned his attention towards Ann; she was marveling the large ship. Who didn't like food? Not Carl, that's for sure. With a sniff of the salty air, Carl faced Englehorn and gave his hand a firm shake.
"We'd love it. But let's make it quick."
Walking briskly, it seemed even colder in New York. With his black trench coat on, collar turned up, Jack Driscoll felt different -- unlike himself. Quiet, tedious, and introverted, sure. But Jack Driscoll is a writer, that makes those characteristics somewhat necessary for him. Or so everyone thought. But really, the playwright was far deeper. There was always followers of his -- fans, he supposed -- that were always a few steps behind him. But not tonight. Tonight, it was quiet. He stepped off a curb and into a puddle, which devoured his whole left foot, causing him to yelp. "Christ!" Jack stopped in the middle of the street to try to dry his shoe to no avail, and angrily stomped another four steps and looked up. He was there.
Blinking uncertainly, Jack looked around. Where was Carl? He was so eager over the telephone. 'Be right on time. No, be five minutes early.' And now where was he? Probably stopped ... Jack didn't know. What did Carl even do in his spare time? Interrupting his thoughts, a clean-shaven uptight-looking bespectacled man cleared his throat. Jack looked over at him and didn't make a move until the other man cleared his throat again. Unsure, but not wanting to hear that horrid, guttural sound, Jack spoke up. "Er, hello. Do I ... know you?" Perhaps it was an admirer. No, Jack doubted that. He didn't want fans like this man. Jack's work was proclaimed "soul-lifting" "joyous" "unexpected" and "classical". This man was not a product of any of those adjectives.
"No, I'm Carl's assistant, Preston. Carl has accepted Captain Englehorn's suggested proposal of dinner. They should be back shortly. But the Captain said if you were to arrive before them to go into one of the cabins, make yourself at home, and await their arrival." Jack took him up on the captain's offer and, script in hand, walked aboard the S.S. Venture. There, Preston showed him to a cozy little cabin where he was to remain for the next twenty-five minutes. Which during that time, he checked his watch seventy-three times (it didn't seem that many to him), changed his sitting and leg positions twenty-one times, and read over his typed script seven times, which was possible only because he'd only written Carl a beginning with some notes to go along. Jack's not lazy, it's just, he had other plays to become occupied with. And this ... this was film. Jack's true love was theatre. Film was nice, but it's not theatre. Something about the live performance and the captured spirit-and-soul of it all right in front of your eyes was just ... unbelievable. Magic, if you will.
Finally, finally, twenty-five long minutes later, Carl bounded in. After being asked to stay aboard (and it being found that there wasn't really a whole, true script) Jack could only reply with,
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no," he paused for a short, sharp intake of breath. "I've got a play to take care of, Carl. I can't possibly stay." And with the depression at hand and money being offered (just to stall him, much to Jack's unbeknownst), Jack thanked Carl for such a rare, self-less act. Two messed-up checks later, Jack gave up and had to run. Below their feet, an engine began to churn and spit with the coals thrown into the billowing fire. Their feet were going to Hell, didn't adapt their sea-legs. Running out with a "Pay me later!", Jack tried to make it off the boat. Snooty actor trying to enter his too-small room in the too-small corridor trapped him, forcing Jack to take the long way. Sprinting to the stern, he had to do some quick thinking. To jump or not to jump? Could he possibly make it? No, knowing his luck, he'd probably completely miss and fall into the water and get sucked into the blade ...
Jack Driscoll doesn't fit in here, he thinks. Skin smelling of ivory soap with luxurious clothing layering on top, nice shoes. He doesn't know what kind or brand or whatever of the sort. But Jack bets Jimmy could, though. He's just got that ... air about him. Or perhaps it's because he's so young. A shiver ran down Jack's spine. It couldn't be the cold, just being on the ship's deck for a few short minutes and he'd adapted to the harsh winds. What was he thinking about again? Oh, yes. How out of place he felt. The others, even Carl, slightly, have this ruggedness that Jack just doesn't have. After pacing for a second or two, trying to figure out what to do, Jack sat down on a bench with a creak and cringed. He took his head in hands and massaged his brow. Headaches were all to common to Jack Driscoll. A chunk of dark hair fell in front of his eyes, he liked it there. Something ... mysterious to it.