hey this is rough and needs worked

The Indian summer was casting a glow across the northeast, the daylight dwindling and the trees stubbornly refusing to give up their green. On an isolated street in the northern end of the city limits a single three story brick house was the only thing holding back the continual press of nature to take back what is hers.

Stan Dombroski stared out of the bay window in his third floor study. His patience was nearing an end, almost six months without a job or even an audition and frankly city theater just doesn't pay the mortgage, let alone the child support. He stubbed out his forth cigarette of the hour and buried his head between his hands.

There was a faint buzzing from somewhere below in the house and Stan left his study for the first time that day. Making his way downstairs to the kitchen he saw his phone had vibrated off the tile counter top and landed face down on the linoleum floor. Bending over with some effort he picked up the phone and flipped it open.

“Yeah?” He grumbled into the receiver.

The answer was a flurry of sentences spat out without so much as a breath to mark the space between thoughts. “Stan, it's Dan Friedman from the agency. How are we doing today?”

“How do you think I'm doing? All the money I pay you hasn't gotten me a job in months and the last part I had was three lines in a teen comedy. Let me count the dollars you promised me I'd be seeing when the movie became the summer blockbuster you guaranteed it to be. Here I think I have that money in my pocket, three dollars. I can't even buy a damn pack of cigarettes today. “ His voice had gotten to the point where he was holding the phone away from his face just so he could direct his shouts at it.

“Stan I realize you are upset and that's why I'm calling. You know it is hard to find lead roles for a middle aged man who isn't a Hanks or a Clooney. However, I think I'm on to something here.”

“What might that be? Getting my ass kicked in the next Jackass movie? Maybe I can start doing voice work as a cartoon dad who does nothing by get screwed by everyone around him.”

“Hey man, just listen for five minutes. There's a spot in some new independent movie Fox is financing and your name came up as a potential. Apparently the director saw some of your early work and wants to bring you out here to give a read through and meet with him.”

His interest piqued, Stan softened up a bit and sat in one of the stools at the island in the center of the room. “Keep talking.”

“Well I don't want to get your hopes too high but it sounds like a good deal and it's not a big movie but it has the potential to have some serious word of mouth behind it when it opens. So why don't we fly you out here to have a chat?”

September fell into October and Stan Dombroski's life was getting just a bit better. The meeting with the director had went extremely well and the script was definitely better than anything else he had read for in years. Some touching family drama about a man getting older and what it all means when you start to get near fifty. Stan had faith in the picture and the director, even though he seemed like he just got out of high school.

“You aren't a young man anymore Stan.” He told himself, as he watched the leaves twist and tumble to the ground outside. He picked up the script laying on the table next to the window and started to shape himself into the patriarch of the Millen family.

Broken, on the verge of divorce, and losing his kids to starlets and musicians, Thomas Millen was a natural role for Stan to lose himself in. The events of three years past playing vividly in his mind as he found himself saying lines that could have been ripped from his life.

He set the script down an hour later satisfied that he was Thomas Milen, Stan walked into the kitchen and turned on the TV for some background noise while the coffee dripped into the pot.

Country In Crisis! That seemed to be the prevailing theme of every cable infotainment station the careful alliteration worming its way into every viewers brain. Even Stan was starting to believe in this financial crisis. The buzzing in his pants brought him out of his internal monologue and he pulled his phone and flipped it open.

“Stan, it's Dan. I have some, well some good news and bad news.” The sound of Stan's teeth grinding was clearly heard on the other end of the phone. “Hey, I don't want you to worry, the picture is still on and you still have the role, they just want to push production back until the start of the new year so they can make it part of next year's budget. It's just a financial move and a smart one if you ask me. This way they can line it up for awards season next December.”

Stan breathed out and shut the phone. Not all bad news, he thought to himself better than whats on the TV anyway.

January reared her ugly head in a mess of arctic wind and snow storms. Stan was alright though. He was packing up the last of his things before he headed out to Los Angeles. He just needed to get the flight details and arrangements for housing from Friedman.

“Hey Stan, we need to talk. Look, have you been following the news at all lately?”

“A bit. What are you trying to tell me here Dan. Is the picture off.?”

“No not at all. But Stan, I don't know how to even say this...”

“Just spit it out Friedman.”

“Well apparently Kevin Bacon lost almost everything because of this whole Madoff thing, and being who he is, he pulled some strings and got the Milen role. But listen to me Stan we are gonna fight for you, they have at least offered you another role in the movie.”

“As what, the lovable neighbor who has two lines in the whole fucking movie?” The words carried so much venom that spit was flying from his mouth with each word. “Fuck you Friedman, this was my shot and you fucked it up, just like everything else you get me involved in.”

The phone shattered into a hundred pieces as it hit the tiled counter top. Stan fell against the closet door and in a fit of fury wrenched it open without turning the handle, splintering the frame. He grabbed the biggest bottle he could find and walked up to the study.

He collapsed into the desk chair and tore the cap off the bottle of Glenfiddich. The burn hit his throat and he just kept drinking, throwing the empty bottle against the wall three hours later. In a haze of inebriation and double vision Stan rummaged through the desk drawers finding what he was looking for in the bottom right drawer.

He never tasted anything quite like it, metallic, oily, and cold. For Stan, nothing ever tasted so right as that barrel did.