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English
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Published:
2019-09-04
Updated:
2020-07-03
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5,829
Chapters:
4/?
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114
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dark was the night, cold was the ground

Summary:

It's 1928, and things are looking up. Not just for America, but also for Noel Miller - who's finally landed the job he's been striving for - but a distraction by the name of Cody Kolodziejzyk is about to change everything for him.

Chapter 1: the theatre on vine street

Chapter Text

The newspapers on the stands along Vine Street all have variations of the same headline. “Hottest summer ever!”, “Record-shattering heat in Los Angeles!”, “Summer of ‘28 is one for the record books!” and “HOT? It’s not cooling off anytime soon!”.

Noel wishes he could go to the beach and look at girls skimpily clad in bathing suits. But finally, at the age of 27, he actually has a job to fill his days. The job requires the right attire - which is a suit and tie, unfortunately. Noel can’t afford the high-quality shirts - yet - and can feel the cheap shirt prickling his skin, only adding to his already increasing irritability due to the blistering heat.

It really is hot. Must be at least 100 degrees, Noel thinks to himself, and silently thanks the heavens that the theatre is only a couple of blocks away. He pulls his pants up higher, and tightens his belt so they would stay up there. No way was he going to put on his hat until he absolutely has to, so it just remains in his hand for now.

The street is naturally busy - it is 11 a.m. on a beautiful day. Cars are going by, a musician plays his trumpet for coins, and further up ahead someone is selling tamales, Noel could instantly recognize that smell. He had had many tamales after long nights at his favourite speakeasy - a vendor had the brilliant idea of setting up shop right outside the apparent barber shop at 1 a.m. How much money had that guy made this summer? Loads, Noel figures, cause he alone must have bought enough tamales to pay for a half month’s rent.

Noel’s eyes keep glazing over the many girls who walks by him on the busy street, and only the occasional honk of a motorcar averts his attention elsewhere.

A beautiful woman just a few feet from him catches his eye - her neckline is slightly more plunging than most girls’, and her skirt just a bit shorter. He can see the bottom of her knees. She has long, dark hair and plump lips. His eyes lifts to hers, but his gaze isn’t met.

“Hey! Stop that, young man!” comes a voice. It belongs to an older woman walking beside the beautiful lady - most likely her mother. “I don’t want a man like you to look at her!”

The gorgeous woman, still not looking at him, smirked.

“Sorry, ma'am,” replied Noel, and respectfully bowed his head as they walked by him. He walks a few steps further, before turning his head - he couldn’t resist taking a quick peek at her from behind, too.

To his surprise, the woman does the same. For the first time, their eyes meet, and Noel winks. She smiles. He blows a kiss. The mother catches their secret exchange, and yanks on the woman’s arm, forcing her to keep her gaze straight ahead - away from Noel.

Noel kisses his teeth. He will never see her again, he knows it. Just like every other thirty second-fling he’s had.

The Hollywood Playhouse is finally in front of him. It opened just last year and is truly beautiful. The entrance is enthralling with all of its ornate details, and the nickname “America’s Most Distinctive Dramatic Theatre” deemed fitting.

Noel places the hat on his head as he swings the door open into the theatre’s hall. He was expecting, or hoping, for it to be even cooler on the inside, but it was a blessing to just avoid the scorching sun for a little while.

“Sir,” came a voice sternly. A porter hurries over from the ticket booth towards Noel, who already knows what he wants. The Mexican man never remembers Noel, even though this is his sixth visit to the theatre in the last three weeks.

Noel already has his press card ready when the porter reaches him.

“I’m from Los Angeles News. I’ve been accredited. Name’s Noel Miller.”

The suited man pulls out a list of names from seemingly nowhere, and runs a finger down it.

“Oh, yes, there you are. Sorry for that, mr. Miller. It’s just through the doors, and you’ll see them. You’re one of the last ones to come, so you may have to wait for a bit, they’re a bit cram-”

“One of the last ones? But I’m five minutes early?” interrupted Noel, deepening his voice.

“No, mr. Miller, it started at 10,” says the man, apologetically.

Noel had unintentionally puffed his chest up and let out a deep sigh as he fumbled for his invitation in his pocket, before pulling it out.

“Mine specifically says 11 o’clock,” he argues, and hands the invitation to the porter.

“Ah, yes, mr. Miller. Sorry. We have a new owner now, and he insists that certain… people… come last.”

“You mean coloured people,” says Noel, deadpan. Discrimination is something he deals with every day, but seldom at work. “What’s the new owner’s name?”

“His name is Alexander Hemsgrove, sir.”

Noel said a quick thanks, and made his way through the doors to the theatre. He couldn’t let his anger show - he was at work, and there was no way he would do anything to jeopardize this. He loved reporting, even though he had to do some shitty jobs every once in a while.

This was one of those shitty jobs.

The theatre was large, and the seats were mostly empty - except a few that were occupied by reportes, surely jotting down the essence of their brief interviews. The room had high, rounded ceilings, but all the reporters, theatre directors, management and actors were sucking on cigarettes that turned the air completely smoke-ridden. You could hardly see through it. A shame, Noel thought, since the interior of the theatre was actually just as pretty as the exterior.

The actors and directors were all gathered at the stage, taking to one reporter at a time. Noel was just going to ask quick, easy questions - just enough to fill out a few inches of the newspaper.

Truth be told, he didn’t really like the premise of the play. It depicted a struggling painter’s strained relationship to a harlot. Apparently they were both so damaged from the Great War that they couldn’t be truly together. Bullshit, Noel thought. He was a hopeless romantic, deep down.

He let his anger from the racist owner sink along with his pride and put on a pleasant, fake smile as he strode down the stairs towards the stage.

Noel took his place at the back of the line of reporters. Only three people are part of the cast, it seems like - a short man with simple clothes, a muscular, large man and a woman in full makeup.

Noel hates standing in line, and the only thing he can think of to make time go faster, is small talk. He hates small talk almost just as much as waiting, but it beats staring out into the smokey air.

“What do you think - this play sounds kinda shitty, huh?” Noel leans in to ask the reporter in front of him, just loud enough for him to hear.

The man turns his head. He’s in his late fifties, has slightly too tight clothes and a thick moustache - but no apparent hair under his hat. He takes a full-body look at Noel - from his dark grey hat, to his untailored, grey suit, to his worn shoes. It’s a slow and burning look. Noel hates it. The reporter turns around again, not uttering a word.

Noel’s fake smile dampens as he folds his hands and rests them in front of his crotch, and lets his head tilt back slightly.

“God, I hate this city sometimes,” he mutters quietly.

After a few more minutes of waiting, the plump reporter in front of him has carried out his interviews, and gives a short “hmphf!” as he walks past Noel. The 27-year-old plasters on his smile nonetheless - it’s finally his time.

Suddenly, a loud whistle fills the room, and a single man’s loud clapping follows.

“Thank you all for coming, that’s it for today!” shouts the man, who is standing in the third row of the theatre. He’s got nicely placed, ginger hair and a tight, tailored purple suit. In his hand is an obnoxiously unnecessary cane. He’s staring directly at Noel, and there’s no doubt in his mind; it has to be the theatre’s new owner.

The cast and crew instantly start chatting to each other as they make their way off the stage - everybody, except for the short actor.

“What? No, excuse me, I’m just-” Noel argues, loud enough for the owner, Hemsgrove, to hear.

“Sorry, late-comers will not be given special privileges,” says Hemsgrove coldly.

Noel’s fuming. The rage he has kept in has reached its boiling point, and he unintentionally clenches his fists.

“Psst.”

The sudden noise breaks Noel’s concentration, and he quickly looks towards the source of it. It’s the short actor, standing just a few feet from Noel. The actor’s looking at him with a small smile on his lips.

“I’ll happily talk to you, if that helps.”

He’s about the same height as Noel, which is instantly comforting. His face is gloriously uncomplicated, and inviting in a way Noel can’t quite put his finger on. Unlike the other actors, he's not overdressed - just regular, high waisted pants, a loose shirt and suspenders. He's holding a sixpence in his hands, and his hair is slightly longer than most other men's.

Noel’s anger quickly calms down, and he smiles to the man - genuinely, for the first time since he set foot inside the theatre.

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate that.”

Before Noel gets the chance to, the man has already extended his hand. Noel takes it, makes a mental note of how absurdly soft it is, and shakes it.

“I’m Noel Miller from Los Angeles News.” In the corner of his eye he notices Hemsgrove staring in disbelief. It only adds to his smile.

The two men break their handshake, and Noel’s ready with his notebook to jot down the actor’s name.

“I’m Cody Kolodziejzyk.”

“Uh…” Noel looks up from his notebook, and this man, Cody, lets out a loud, wheezing laugh.

“I love telling my name to reporters for this very reason. I’ll jot it down for you,” he says playfully, and grabs the notebook out of Noel’s hands. He places his name on the paper in quite bad hand lettering. “But you can just call me Cody Ko. Or, you know, just Cody.”

“That’s an unusual name,” Noel says as the actor hands the notebook back to him.

“I’ve got ancestors in Poland,” he explains.

“No, I meant your first name,” jokes Noel, and it takes a few, agonizing seconds of awkward silence before Cody catches up.

“Oh,” he starts, before he interrupts himself by letting out another wheezing laugh. “I like you!”

Noel can feel the breath he didn’t realize he was holding in exit his body, and chuckles.

“Maybe we could talk outside? I’m getting cold from a certain someone’s icy look.”

Cody looks to the third row and struggles with not breaking out in laughter.

“He hates me too, so that’s a good idea.”