by Keri Knutson
~~~
At 7:30, Bela Lugosi was telling his dinner guests that he didn't drink wine, and I was giving up any hope that Jason would show tonight. I gripped the over-sized chrome flashlight until my fingernails dug into my thumb and glanced to the right entrance where Pete leaned against the wall. His deeply grained face held a broad smile that trapped the black and white movie flickers for a second before letting them go. Every few moments I would see the detail in his cap, the red cording, the gold insignia centered over his forehead. Pete Torrence, world's oldest usher.
The crowd that spilled out after the first feature hadn't lived up to my expectations. Scrubbed college students, young professionals, blue collar workers who hovered just above minimum wage, punctuated here and there by the blood red lips of a passing goth. Half the crowd had bought all-night tickets, and they moved toward the smooth deco curve of the concession stand, streaming and flashing like a school of fish. The others passed the red velvet ropes, their feet whispering across scarlet and gold carpet laid in 1982 as part of the Orpheus' long period of restoration, a graceful nod away from the oranges and browns of the '70s. Their voices echoed into the ornate barreled ceiling as they opened the doors onto the night.
I could see Irene looking like a gypsy fortuneteller in a penny arcade, trapped by the round glass of the ticket booth, surrounded by black-laced teens in Doc Martens. Glittery studs and gold hoops sprouted from odd places -- noses, cheeks, eyebrows -- and the pack passed through the lobby in a cloud of clove cigarettes and patchouli. I hoped they were only trying to look dangerous.
The crowd was getting darker by degree, and larger too. I knew by the time midnight rolled around we'd be looking at a full house. Good for business, bad for me. I started mentally counting the minutes, like I was stuck in high school algebra waiting for the bell. I paced for the last thirty minutes of Frankenstein, as if I was the one waiting for the villagers to storm the castle.
In the break before the final feature, I headed for the alley entrance with my cargo of candy boxes and greasy popcorn tubs, the night air cool against my skin after the stifling press of bodies inside the theater. I tossed the bags into the open dumpster and walked to the mouth of the alley, drawn by the citrusy scent of oleander bushes that grew along the grassy front courtyard of the Orpheus. The ornamental gaslight at the corner of the building cast a protective circle around me as I glanced toward the parking lot to make sure my car was intact.
A red Cabriolet heading east on Hollywood made a careless turn into the lot, stopping just beyond the reach of the streetlamp. The headlights died. Nobody got out of the car. I waited for the car to pull out or the driver to show himself, then caught movement and turned to see a running figure split the headlights of three oncoming cars. I recognized it. Jason.
He crouched by the driver's door and I caught the glint of the window sliding down. Jason punctuated the conversation with furtive glances, and then turned his shaggy head and looked straight at me. He stared for a beat, then sprinted around the front of the car and yanked open the passenger door, cutting me another look before disappearing behind the tinted windows. The car shot backwards and took off down the boulevard, and I watched until it disappeared around a corner, unsure of what I'd just witnessed and what, if anything, I would tell Irene when I got back inside.
The midnight crowd looked like trouble. Posers had given way to gang girls with hair sprayed into shapes as threatening as Stephen King's topiary animals and boys pretending to be men strutted around, big pants slung low on their hips, hiding switchblades and crack pipes. I said a silent prayer and stood in the darkness long enough to make sure they were seated and not scaling the velvet drapes before heading back to the lobby to find Irene.
She was sitting behind the oaken desk in the small office off the main floor of the lobby looking wilted, her cheer from earlier in the evening nowhere in evidence. I positioned myself in the doorway so I could keep one eye on the closed doors to theater.
"Irene, I just saw Jason take off in a red Cabriolet, but I couldn’t see who was driving. Sound familiar?”
Irene shook her head and slumped back into the chair. "I don't know his...friends."
I glanced back at the theater doors and imagined the chaos that could be occurring on the other side.
"I'd better get back. I just wanted you to know that Jason was around." I hesitated, unsure of what else to say. "Do you want to get together for an early lunch tomorrow? We could get spring rolls at Wong's."
Irene's shoulders lifted slightly at the suggestion. "That would be wonderful, Maddie. You go on. I'm leaving this for now. I need a good night's sleep." She waved me out. "Go on, you don't want them tearing the place up."
I knew she was right, but that didn't make leaving her any easier. I glanced back once before pulling the door shut. She looked small behind the massive wooden desk, like a child lost in the world of grownups.
On screen, Larry Talbot was undergoing his first transformation, man to wolf, innocent to killer. The same metamorphosis did not appear to be affecting the audience, and the movie ended without incident, the crowd shuffling out to wreak their havoc elsewhere. Pete and the counter girl followed them, and I was alone with the Orpheus now except for Gene, a twenty-something teddy bear of a film nerd, who was tending his roost in the projection booth.
After forty-five minutes, everything was shut down and bagged up and Gene was downstairs leaning against one of the decorative columns smoking a joint.
I walked over and punched him in the arm. "Don't you have any respect for a landmark? You could burn the place down, you know?"
"At least then it'd look like the rest of the landscape. Besides, you don't want to be mean to me. I'm only hanging around to walk you out to your car."
"Well, don't think I don't appreciate it,” I said. "Just give me five minutes and I'll gladly allow you the privilege of escorting me to my carriage. And don't drop any ashes on the carpet."
"You got it, babe,” he said with a wink.
I changed as quickly as I could, glad to shed the black polyester skin, then grabbed my purse and pulled out my keys. Back in the lobby, I noticed the white bags on the carpet.
"Damn, I forgot the trash. Give me a sec, okay?"
I didn't wait for a reply, just grabbed the bags and ran for the side entrance. I fumbled with the lock and finally got it open, then kicked the wooden wedge under the door so I wouldn't lock myself out. I traversed a litter of empty popcorn boxes spoiled by yesterday's rain shower, and heaved one bag after another into the waiting mouth of the dumpster. Something gauzy and turquoise curved under a corner of the receptacle like a small river, glittering in the sodium lights, too unsullied to have been there long. In spite of myself, I walked over and reached down for it.
I could see around the edge of the dumpster now, into the brick corner of the alley alcove. I lost my balance and sat down hard on the cracked asphalt. It didn't matter; I didn't feel it.
Irene was crammed into the small space, her gypsy finery spotted with blood gone maroon in the shadows, her glassy eyes staring into the stars above Hollywood.
Look for Darker By Degree, coming soon.
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