Then the man is smoking another cigarette at a table outside a bar, palm trees waving before a blue, cloudless sky. A medium shot: the same denim shirt as before, but his sunglasses off his face, and a waitress, looking up, switching out the ashtray on the man’s table, predicting the season’s one night of rain. She leaves, and he picks up a manila envelope on the table and slides out an eight-by-ten glossy, gently gripping the photograph by its thin white border. It is an image of the man, cut off at the collarbone. His light brown hair is soft and clean, a gentle wave down to his shoulders; his mustache is trimmed, pushing out just past the corners of his lips. His mouth unsmiling, his eyes dead on into the camera but seeming to look past it, behind the camera, to Cheryl and JD and all the other viewers in the little theater.
In a soft-focused past, a woman inside a different bar sits down beside the man. She wears her long, straight hair split down the middle, and her blue-jeaned hips fill the curve of the chair’s seat. A circle of beer bottles on the table, a few gentle flips of that silky blonde, backlit hair, and she’s telling him he should get headshots. That he has a face both familiar and mysterious. The kind of face that makes it unclear whether he is a good guy or a bad guy. He could be anyone, she says. The man leans away, slings his arm on the back of his chair, amused by this stranger, this woman, talking to him about his appearance. Would I shave, he asks, smirking. Never, she says. Not in a million years. Everybody leaves a day or two of hair on their faces these days. She has been an extra in a number of films, she says, and once her name appeared in a set of credits as “Pretty Girl #2.” As she speaks, the man shakes his head at the film titles, not recognizing any of them. He pulls out a cigarette and tosses his pack onto the table. The camera directs its attention to the woman’s easy-smiling mouth. Her teeth are white and straight; soft stars of light glint from her red lips. She does not know about the wife whom the man has left at home, and she doesn’t need to know. It’s not about who the man was or even who he is but who he can become. Everyone here looking forward to some unknown, glossy future, as slick and beautiful as the woman’s hair, the curtain of it folding around her as she reaches forward to take a cigarette from his pack and places it in the break of her smile.
The film returns to the man sitting alone in the warmth of the outdoor patio, flies buzzing around a sticky sheen on his table. Both his gaze toward the beach and the camera’s proximity point to where he’s dreaming: What fictitious name will accompany his own in that roll of white words on a black background? What song will play as his name slides to the top of the screen then disappears? Placing his photograph back into the envelope, he stabs out his cigarette and drains the last of his pint. He stands, replacing his sunglasses on his face, and pivots away from the camera, walking toward the sound of gulls and surf. A medium to long shot: as he walks, slowly growing smaller, the last of the day’s sun fills the frame around his body, whiting him out like the flash of light people are supposed to see before they die.
The screen blackens. Off, as though someone hit a switch.
The bald, cheery owner jogs down the aisle to the lip of the shallow faux stage, the lights turning from dark to dim.
We thought this would be a good time to call a break, he says. But before we do, I’d like to make an announcement.
Cheryl, even as she has enjoyed the movie so far, admits that it’s a gutsy move on his part to call an intermission. It has been a quiet, moody film without any Hollywood placeholders to explain itself to viewers. No bomb to dismantle or brass-filled, climaxing music; no hapless single woman in her thirties eating too much ice cream or tripping down a set of stairs. She has no idea what might push the film to three whole hours and wonders how many of the few moviegoers will leave.
The owner claps his hands, rubbing them together, and makes the same announcement he’s made every night for the past two weeks: In order to meet the demands of changing technology, the theater must purchase a new digital projector. Movie distributors are transitioning away from film, and the new projector is costly. Quite costly, he says. But we need it to stay open. And we can’t do it alone. We need your help. He lists different donation levels, counting them off on his fingers. He has the harried yet optimistic eyes of the overworked, the underpaid, the hopelessly dedicated. See the thirty-five-millimeter films while you can, folks, he says, then runs back up the aisle to man the concession stand.
Sal. Sal is his name, Cheryl thinks, a fact she likes knowing. She’s already given the recommended sixty-dollar “friend of the theater” donation, and she’ll probably put a couple of bucks in the box on her way out. She’ll just keep giving and giving, she thinks.
She leans back, stretches her arms out to either side, and with a soft fist, gently knocks JD in the jaw: Pow, she says. I don’t like that guy.
What? Oh, yeah, funny, he sniffs. He takes out his phone, its screen lighting his face.
Last week at the bar, a man whom Cheryl had once gone out with started giving her trouble, calling her names in a voice that was too loud, that would have embarrassed her were she the kind to get embarrassed. When JD returned from the bathroom to find the man leaning over her, both hands on the table, spitting bile, JD, in a swift, clean motion, approached, pulled him back with one hand, and, with the other, punched him in the face.
The look that flashed across Cheryl’s face just then, with the man deflating into a pile on the floor—a new look surging up from some hidden wonder in her stomach: Whoa, what the fuck, JD? Not anger, but a true marveling confusion, a please-fill-in-this-blank what?
I don’t like that guy, he responded, pointing down, one sort of fierceness draining from him, another rising in his throat.
I guess not.
Then the owner coming up, putting a hand on JD’s shoulder because they were friends, because JD used to date his younger sister, Angela, in high school, the owner the real reason why they came to this bar in the first place, with its washed-out, graying beer posters and fake wood paneling, the owner, Jerry, saying, You two should probably leave.
Shit, Jerry, I’m sorry.
Cheryl up now, the three of them looking down at the black-haired man on the floor like a glass of beer one of them had spilled and then the spill sitting up, jerking away as JD and Jerry bent down to help him. JD setting him in a chair and Jerry turning behind him, asking the bartender could he put some ice in a towel, then turning back, saying, I’ll give you a call tomorrow. And Cheryl, already having gathered her purse and tucking it beneath her arm like a stolen loaf of bread, led the way, she and JD slinking out, the eyes of the other patrons still on them, the place pulsing with excitement: Something happened! Just now! We saw it!
Outside in the parking lot—the night cooler and quieter—the two of them stood, not quite knowing how to stand.
Jesus, JD. You got some pent-up testosterone or what?
He walked a few strides to his left then returned. His shoulders, the broad shoulders of a swimmer, were pushed back, his arms out, tense like another man’s appendages attached to his body, but then, with an exhale, his torso folded inward, chin dropping to his chest. Cheryl leaned on one leg, trying to decide what to do with her arms.
I’ve never punched anyone before, JD said.
Could’ve fooled me.
I’ve broken up plenty of fights.
Cheryl nodded to his pacing.
But I’ve never liked that guy. He’s a jerk, he said.
No friend of mine.
Think he lost any teeth?
I don’t think you got him that good.
He paused in his turning, spread out his hand, examined the back of it, a hand more bony, more delicate than anything else. Looking up, he asked, Are you okay?
I’m fine.
He started walking again.
Are you okay, JD?
Stopping, turning back to her, his legs slow, his head filled with air. Yeah, fine, he said.
She regarded the sheen of sweat on his forehead, thought of the way his anger had bro
ken away from him. She thought of the only time she’d ever seen her mother drunk. A careful, staid woman with long, thick hair the color of dead grass whom Cheryl had only known to drink at weddings. It was the night her older sister had earned her law degree and Cheryl had met her and their parents downtown: one of the city’s oldest restaurants, a small Belgian pub with black and white tile and old, round-bellied waiters. Her mother had ordered a glass of raspberry lambic and had quickly become giggly and rosy-cheeked, leaning over to ask the table next to them what they were eating that looked so good, then clapping when their food arrived. Cheryl had been happy that her mother was having a good time, that everyone had had a reason to get dressed up, get into the city, and spend some money. But she remembered feeling a twinge of embarrassment at seeing her mother’s shyness and melancholy fall away, acting so unlike herself, as though people should only ever be exactly who they were.
Well, I should probably take off, Cheryl said. That’s enough excitement for one night.
Right, yeah, JD said, putting his hands into his pockets. I’m sorry.
It’s fine. What are you apologizing for? It was kind of awesome.
He sniffed. Yeah, right. Jesus.
See you on Monday, she said. And relax. She was not standing close enough to put her hand on his shoulder and wasn’t used to touching him anyway, so she turned, and he watched her walk away, watched her put her hand up to wave behind her.
When JD told his wife the story the next morning at breakfast, the drunk man had grabbed Cheryl by the wrist, and his face had been just inches away from hers. He hadn’t meant to lie, but in the telling, JD realized that the scene was, perhaps, different than it had all seemed at the time.
But did you have to hit him? his wife had asked, scraping butter onto a piece of toast.
I know.
What if he sues us?
That guy’s not smart enough to sue anyone.
Let’s hope not.
Jerry said he just got a black eye.
She crunched into her toast, her face caffeinated and awake. Still, I kind of wish I could have seen that, she said.
I did get him pretty good.
That guy’s such a bum. I can’t believe Cheryl went out with him in the first place.
Well, JD started, but he couldn’t quite figure out what point he was working toward. It was a small town, but even so. His wife was right. That guy was a bum and Cheryl had agreed to go somewhere with him, chat him up, and who knows what else. But even now in the half dark of the theater he doesn’t want to take it back. It had felt good, natural. Something he didn’t have to think about before doing, something he didn’t have to mull over. It had felt like the final step in a dance he has known all his life: one, two, three—POP. JD doesn’t dance but sometimes imagines swaying with Cheryl to something old and full of heartache, something by Patsy Cline or any other Technicolor singer lost to tragedy. It’s not because he thinks of touching her—he keeps those kinds of thoughts inside the quiet, locked rooms of his mind—but because sometimes she seems sad and he wants to step inside that sadness with her, swim in that dark, warm pool where her laughs come out heavy and sigh-like, where she must think she remains unseen.
Are those new jeans? Cheryl asks, slumping down in her seat, her hands folded over her stomach.
Yep.
Nice.
I’m not sure I like them.
Yeah, me neither.
Then what’d you say that for?
I don’t know, new clothes are funny.
She’s smiling, amusing herself, but he nods, thoughtful. She sits up, digs in her jacket pocket, and offers up her flask. He sneaks a peek behind them. The other patrons are ambling up the aisle into the yellow lights of the lobby.
Come on, Grandma.
He bristles, taking the flask. Unscrewing its tiny silver top, he dulls his eyes at her.
You’re a bitch sometimes, you know that?
I do. I’m just surprised it took you this long to figure out.
He takes as much of the liquor into his mouth as he can and swallows.
Jesus, what’d you put in here?
Peach schnapps, she says, grinning proudly.
What are you, in high school?
I was feeling nostalgic. She shrugs and takes a pull then slips the flask back inside her jacket. I’ve gotta pee, she says. She slides down the row away from him. Although she has the shrunken hourglass body built for tight shirts and bell-bottoms and he is tall and lean, people sometimes ask them if they’re related. They usually shake their heads and laugh, but sometimes she takes JD’s hand and strokes his forearm, saying, Yes, yes we are. He turns behind him and watches her disappear into the lobby.
JD thinks of how the man in the film does not remind him of himself, nor the woman his wife, even as the driving put him in the world of long childhood car rides with his parents and younger brother to Yellowstone or the Badlands. All the games they played to keep themselves occupied. I spy and license plate or Etch A Sketch, Wooly Willy—that peach cartoon face with the magnetic dust and wand. JD would put all the black dust on one side of the face, so that half was dirty with hair and the other was clean and smooth. He’d try to keep those minute particles in place as long as he could before his brother would elbow him or the car would hit a bump and mess it all up.
On the screen is a frozen cartoon of some kind of animal JD can’t determine. A maniacally smiling mouse-like face with a thin snout and black, shiny nose. It’s popping out of a dark circle, leaning on its rim with one arm, seeming to emerge from the screen itself. Above the cartoon’s head in an old-timey script it reads, See you again soon! They usually put him up after the movie is over and all the credits are done. The thing is winking and giving JD an exaggerated thumbs-up. Maybe everything is fine! it shouts. Maybe you can do whatever you want! He thinks of the man in the car, how he left his home for no discernible reason, moved from one place to another as swift and silent as a ghost. Some people can do that, he thinks, just leave. How easy it is to do anything at all if none of it need be explained, no cell phone ringing in the man’s pocket, no letter left behind. JD is logical, practical. He’s old enough to know that about himself, but he can’t help feeling that, like the man in the movie, his story is happening somewhere else without him. People are returning to the theater, squeaking down in the old, springy seats, cracking their necks, preparing for another hour and a half of something they don’t understand. JD turns behind him, sees a few stragglers in the lobby.
Outside the theater, a gentle wind pushes around a few leaves on the sidewalk, swirls them, and lets them fall. It isn’t yet autumn, but Cheryl is anxious for it, wants to speed it along by walking in any direction, as though the season were a location she could travel to. A group of couples passes in front of the theater—light skirts and khaki pants—pointing at each other animatedly, debating something hilarious. No way. So not true! one of them asserts. Not just one pair, but a whole slew, a loose mass of well-groomed citizens. Surely there is a name for such a group, she thinks, just as there can be a pride of lions, a murder of crows. Those laughing teams of husbands and wives: A prance of pairs, maybe. A coup of couples? She doesn’t know how people live inside their happiness so effortlessly. She seems to drag hers around like an unwitting child forever tugging backward on her hand. What are you doing back there? Keep up! When she finally gets her happiness beside her, she never knows exactly what to do with it. She’ll ignore it, shout it away, or stand it up, make it do a little dance for her friends. Show all the nice people the cute thing you did for Mommy! Do it just like I showed you! Inevitably it will fail her, tripping on its black shoes or raising its white, fluffy skirt above its head. She doesn’t care, Cheryl tells herself. She left it inside the theater. By now it’s probably crawling around on the soda-sticky floor, tying JD’s shoelaces together or telling strangers her secrets—Mommy has a flask in her jacket pocket, I saw it!
That is, of course, the way JD must see her, she thinks. A silly
, brassy thing doing leg kicks and getting him into trouble. He called her a bitch. Isn’t that the way she always plays it? The tough guy? She’d probably shake and shake with nervous cold were he to ever touch her. It would have to be an accident, like him hitting that man, something he would feel embarrassed about later.
A young, skinny thing jogs down the sidewalk toward her, dark-rimmed glasses and a pair of beat-up tennis shoes. He gives her a smiling nod and a hey before ducking through the theater’s double doors. She had allowed herself the pleasure of disappearing into the film, of watching the man move through its world with no purpose, like watching a pair of neighbors through a window silently eating dinner. It was more than just how it looked—the past of the film giving it all a matte, grainy mystery, a this-kind-of-thing-doesn’t-happen-anymore glow—but there was something disquieting in its moody anticipation, a feeling that the more that nothing happened, the worse it would be when something finally did. Or nothing will happen, Cheryl thinks. The film will just keep going and going until it stops—no climax, no big coming-to-a-head scene, no resolution to take home with her.
She wishes she smoked. She never knows what to do with her hands when she’s outside doing nothing. To that group of couples, she must have looked like she was waiting for someone. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she walks toward the dark, wooded park across from the theater. When she gets to the end of the street, she crosses and keeps going. She thinks about going home, what awaits her there. She will pull her dark hairs out of her hairbrush, twist them into a coarse ball, and throw them away. She will call in sick on Monday and maybe the day after that. Or she won’t call at all, won’t tell anyone. Let them imagine, for a time, their lives without her. Taking a left down an unlit street, a canopy of dark trees that will soon lose their leaves, she sees JD sitting in the theater, adjusting his cap, sighing, as the movie begins again. With films like that one—quiet, difficult to understand, meaning kept hidden—she won’t be surprised when the little theater doesn’t make it.
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