by Kris Ripper
“It won’t be much help, then. The system is really just cobbled together Microsoft Access databases. I know I need to replace it with something, but I’m always worried that there’s so much going on in the background I’ll export all the wrong things.”
“Wow. Well, I’m impressed. Keith, look at this. Look at these reports.”
Keith pulled himself away from reading many years of notes gouged into the crumbling sheet rock beneath the counter (my parents’ handwriting was down there somewhere; I’d show him if I thought about it later).
“Check this out.” Josh indicated the screen. “Ticket sales by day of the week, right, Cam?”
I nodded.
“Oh my god. This is hot.” Keith leaned in close and started navigating around, occasionally giving soft grunts of approval.
I raised my eyebrows at Josh, who surrendered the chair.
“He’s so good at this stuff. I wish I could look at a spreadsheet and understand half the stuff Keith does.”
“Is this your projections, Cam? Oh, no, I see. This is showing me last year. Do you have projections?”
“Projections? No. Do you think I should?”
He swiveled in the chair and gave me a look. (Josh whistled low.) “How will you know if you’re meeting your goals if you don’t have any goals?”
“Well. I guess I . . . assumed that as long as I could pay the bills, I was meeting my goals?”
“But how much is the Cary Grant Film Festival costing you? You have to know that in order to know if you’re breaking even.”
“You mean how much am I paying per film?”
“The overhead on the film, the food, the drinks. Did you add staff hours to cover the receptions after each movie?”
“I have an extra person on. Or no, I have the ushers stay later.”
His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t even cost it out, did you? You did it on a whim.”
“It wasn’t a whim—”
He swiveled back to the computer, and I shut my mouth.
Josh whistled again. “Give him a minute. Wait for it.”
“The film series runs until when?” Keith asked.
I had the distinct impression I was being interrogated. “December seventeenth.”
“Right before Christmas.”
“I thought if I could get people in the habit of seeing movies on Saturday nights, you know, then maybe they’d be in the habit of seeing movies more—”
“My point is that you’re building a habit right up until the holidays, which will interrupt the habit you just spent you-have-no-clue-how-much-money building. What’s your plan for January?”
I cast a helpless glance at Josh. “I’m not sure. Should I have a plan?”
Keith sighed loudly. “Please at least tell me you keep your receipts from all the food.”
“Of course I keep my receipts.”
“Can I have them? Only for the film series supplies. I want to see exactly how much you’re paying for those receptions.”
“Well, I—I mean, I buy all the food at the same time. Rather, it all comes in the delivery. I don’t have it separated out—”
Josh began massaging Keith’s shoulders. “It’s okay, babe. It’s okay. Cam doesn’t know. He’s not trying to hurt you with his indifference toward business basics. He just doesn’t know.” He shot me a covert smile.
Even Josh smiling didn’t ease the sensation that I’d been extremely dense about the whole thing. “I can see what you’re saying. I guess I didn’t think about it that way. I wanted to do something new, and this seemed like fun, and it seemed like maybe the kind of thing I could make into an opportunity. I don’t remember my parents talking about how they made those kinds of decisions.”
Keith waved at the screen. “It’s all here. I can show you. This goes back to 1994, though they clearly migrated everything in the late nineties, because I can’t manipulate the numbers before that. But I’m looking at how whoever made this database thought, Cam. And they used projections.”
“My mom.” I moved in closer. “It was never good enough, but she worked on it for years.”
“I can see that. This is amazing. I don’t have any idea how she’s making some of these reports do what they’re doing. Man, I wish she could explain it to me. I bet that’d be fucking sweet.”
“Hey,” Josh murmured, squeezing his shoulders.
“Huh? Oh shit. Oh my god—” Keith turned to look at me with a stricken expression on his face. “Sorry. Cam, I’m so sorry, I’m such a thoughtless jerk.”
“It’s okay.” I watched the screen, where Keith’s cursor bounced between sheets and reports and graphs. “What are we looking at?”
“In 2001, your folks had some kind of event in March, and again in May, and again in July. Each time they did it, they made more money because your mom kept tweaking little things. Look, she made notes. They started movies at different times, they tried two-for-one ticket sales, they had a promotional week pass it looks like, though I’m not sure she tested it completely. There’s a note here, ‘OBWT big repeat,’ whatever that means.”
“O Brother, Where Art Thou,” I said. “People would come five times to see it, they’d sing along and call out the lines. We were going to run a two-week pass next, for that and Gladiator. Except we were supposed to start it in the second week in September.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because that’s when the World Trade Center came down.” I brushed my thumb across my mother’s notes, as if I could almost see them in her handwriting, my mind superimposing her scrawl on the screen. “The week pass was ten dollars with unlimited viewings, so people liked it. We usually show at least two movies per week, so even if you only went once to each movie, it was worth buying a pass. And we make most of our money off the concessions anyway.”
“I think you should try that again. The passes. Maybe in January.”
“Or pair it with another film series,” Josh said. “Fifteen dollars for unlimited movies, hook people by inviting them every Saturday so they feel like they’re getting one movie free.”
“Fifteen dollars promotional pricing, though. You’re not going to make money off that in the long run, but if you start with it, if you get people talking about how much fun they’re having at the Rhein, that’s when you up the price.”
Josh nodded. “And maybe more stuff for kids and families. How many people grew up coming here, you know? When they have kids, they’re gonna want to bring them to the Rhein, to keep up the tradition.”
I swallowed and backed away, suddenly overwhelmed. “Yes. Yes, I can— That all makes sense—”
“Hold up,” Josh said. He stepped toward me. Eight and a half feet and three adult men.
I froze.
“Cam, hold up.” His hands, warm from Keith’s skin, descended on my shoulders. Beyond Josh was the glass of the booth, and beyond the glass was the nighttime traffic on Mooney, headlights flaring as they passed. “Let’s head to Club Fred’s, okay? We’ll buy you a drink.”
Keith turned back to the computer. “I’ll send you a marketing plan next week.”
“He will, too.”
I stared into Josh’s eyes, trying to figure out how to express that I couldn’t talk about this anymore, that I couldn’t look at Mom’s notes, or think about the summer I was eighteen, immediately stained sepia by the morning in September when we woke up to reports of planes crashing into buildings. Had I loved the movies we’d had then so much? Or had it only seemed like it later, when everything was up in the air and simple pleasures had to be earned back?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is all really helpful.”
“It’s too much. And we blindsided you. Keith will write something up and then you can come down to the center and we’ll hash it out, okay?”
“You don’t have to do that—”
He squeezed my shoulders. I’d seen him do it to Keith, who sometimes didn’t seem to notice. I noticed. I tensed and immediately tried to relax because
I didn’t want him to think I didn’t like the feel of his weight, the comfort of his touch.
“We know we don’t have to,” Keith said over his shoulder. “We want to. We love the Rhein, too.”
“And you aren’t so bad, either. Let us help, Cam. Please. But tonight let us buy you a drink.” Josh released me. “Come on. Shut down the computer, okay?”
Keith regretfully offered me the chair. “I wish I had Access so I could look at this all the time. I’d just put it up and like stare at it. This database is art.”
“You’re a huge nerd, babe.”
“Don’t be jealous.”
I shut everything down, hit the lights, locked the door, and waved to Iliana and the rest of the crew. All mechanical things my body did while my mind attempted to process the heavy feeling of Josh’s hands on my shoulders.
And whether it would be possible to feel it again.
The Philadelphia Story was the highest-attended film of the series since An Affair to Remember. Mr. and Mrs. Walker came again, and bought the family dinner package, which meant they got to sit in the first few rows, outfitted with little tables between sets of seats. I could see them from where I stood at the entry to the long hall back to the lobby, and I didn’t linger there for the entire movie staring, or anything, but for the first time I felt a sense of . . . propriety over Josh and Keith. Almost as if Josh’s surely casual shoulder-squeeze had translated into a deeper feeling of belonging.
I cautioned myself against it, of course. They had each other. Clearly they enjoyed my company, but that was nothing to what they’d already established, the relationship that pre-existed our friendship.
Still, I liked having them in the theater. I liked that they kissed my cheek, even as they were escorting Josh’s parents out after a few minutes’ socializing at the reception. They were now known to be friends of mine, and that was a pleasantly homey sensation.
Mildred and Emerson had come to this showing. I said hello to them, intrigued by the configuration but not quite sure I was at liberty to ask about it. Obie was the extrovert in that household; the most I managed was, “And where’s Obie tonight?”
“Babysitting,” Mildred said.
Emerson grunted. “I was supposed to be watching James with him, but he told me I was in a rotten mood and we’d all be better off if I went to the movies. I’m not in a rotten mood, Mildred, am I?”
“No more rotten than you usually are.”
He made a face at her. She smirked.
“God, I love that movie,” she said. “And that pool. I really want that pool.”
“You should build it for us,” he replied. “I’d like an extra-large changing room, please. Wheelchair accessible.”
She hit him. “The movie was great, Cameron. I’m really glad you started doing this. And I’ll be back for Arsenic and Old Lace. I love that one.”
“I look forward to seeing you,” I said, and it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t deeply meaningful. It was small talk, or chitchat. It was the kind of thing people said to other people, and I meant it exactly the way people usually meant it.
And really . . . it was liberating. To not be limited to saying only things that I felt intensely. Was this how other people lived all the time? They offered these surface phrases like tissues to be used and discarded?
“Thanks for coming,” I told them, implicitly excusing myself to continue making the rounds. Did I have any trivia about The Philadelphia Story? Sure. That scene where drunken Jimmy Stewart hiccups wasn’t scripted that way; if you watched closely, you could see Cary Grant trying desperately not to laugh.
I felt slightly more buoyant the rest of the night, as if by freeing myself from the shackles of emotional depth, I’d floated to the top of social interactions, and now I could rest there, treading water, neither meaning anything too much, nor too little.
Sometime later, when people were still milling about, I slipped into the ticket booth for a moment and texted Keith.
Cameron: I’ve had an epiphany. I think I know how to make small talk now.
Cameron: :-)
I promised myself I wouldn’t stand there staring at my phone when Keith could be busy, or with Josh’s folks, or any number of other things, none of which was waiting for me to text him.
But this was Keith. He’d probably grown up with cell phones. He was much more suited to their constant demands than I was.
Keith: Happy dance!
Keith: That’s great, Cam.
Keith: Small talk is super helpful, though sometimes it’s also super annoying.
Keith: :-o
This, though, was whole new territory, and even as I carefully typed the angle bracket and the three, I didn’t know if I’d go through with it.
Then I did.
Cameron: <3
Cameron: Thanks.
Keith: Anytime. And <3 right back at you.
I quickly texted Good night and put away my phone.
The lobby crowd drifted away, staying a little bit later than last week. Keith was right: reception creep was going to affect my labor costs if people lingered on past midnight. But I was internally jubilant as I showed people out and told them I’d see them next week. I’d been afraid to talk like that before, as if I was somehow presuming, as if my casual “see you next week” to people I’d seen every Saturday for a month and a half was somehow intrusive.
But not a single person acted like it. They waved, and smiled, and called back, “You too!” or “Hope it’s another good one!” They were glad I presumed. They wanted to belong, and watching Cary Grant on Saturday nights, staying for light snacks and fruit juice after, made them feel exactly that.
Keith was right about everything. Now that I’d made this, I’d be a fool to let it fizzle. But what could I follow with in January? Not another twelve weeks; even if it costed out worthwhile, it was exhausting, and we were still only halfway through.
I considered having speakers come down, but I couldn’t think of anyone interesting, local, and willing. Maybe the young woman who’d written and directed a film and had her opening at the Rhein had something new. Or, barring that, perhaps she’d like to screen her old film again.
A film series of local filmmakers, now that would be interesting. That would be the kind of thing I could sell a “series” ticket for, and include a little Q&A after. It was a great idea. I wondered what Keith and Josh would think of it.
Of course, that would take much more than a few weeks to plan. Maybe for February. Perhaps I could simply order up some other old favorites for the Saturday nights in January. And seriously look at what I was paying for food and labor to see if it made sense to continue having receptions. The theater was hardly in dire straits. I was willing to invest in a sense of community if that was what it would take.
And for the first time, I was beginning to feel like I could do it. I could make the Rhein my parents’ dream again. On that note, I said good night to the staff, finished closing up, and went home.
Gunga Din’s audience didn’t compare to the crowd we’d hosted for The Philadelphia Story, but a disproportionate number of people stayed for refreshments after. My new skills at small talk were challenged by the sheer volume of discussion, and how frequently I found myself apologizing for the controversial nature of the film. I’d chosen to show it because my father had always loved it, and I’d led my introduction by noting the incredibly problematic portrayal of the Indian people. But showing it had been a misstep, and I regretted it even as I sat in the theater watching it. As a child, I hadn’t noticed how offensive it was; as an adult I blushed in the dark and couldn’t believe I’d made a sentimental choice to publicize an incredibly, unavoidably racist film.
I avoided leaving the apartment for most of Sunday, texting back and forth with Keith, enjoying the peace and quiet. But by evening I was unusually restless, and decided to head to Club Fred’s. I nearly didn’t text Ed, but at the last moment, I did. Just to let him know I’d be there in case he and Alisha were out, o
r bored, or interested.
I hadn’t seen him much lately. He’d come to a few movies with Alisha, or I’d seen them at Club Fred’s, but since the two of them got together—or maybe since things with the serial killer started getting more intense—he hadn’t been in close contact.
Ed’s friendship had been a gift in my life right when I needed one. He’d come to interview me about an independent film opening I’d hosted at the theater, and he’d been back soon after for something else, and somehow we’d become friends. I’d told him a little about my parents dying; he’d told me about his parents and their refusal to accept that he was trans. Small, significant confidences, built up over time.
Halfway through my Scotch (I’d finished the mystery at the fashion show and was continuing to read the rest of the author’s books—in order, this time), someone hugged me from behind.
“Cam!” Alisha’s hair draped over my shoulder and brushed the screen of my phone, turning pages. “Oh my god, faux pas! Sorry! I lost your place!”
“It’s okay. Hey, Alisha.”
“Hey, how are you?”
“Good.” I gave Ed a more controlled sort of hug. “I didn’t know if I’d see you guys tonight.”
“It’s the first time you’ve ever texted me, I mean without me texting you first.” He shrugged in that unassuming way he had, which had changed in the last few months as the testosterone took hold in his system.
“Plus, there’s the whole man-crush thing,” Alisha added.
I raised my eyebrows. “Pardon me, the what?”
She laughed. “Wait, you didn’t know— Ed, he doesn’t know—”
Ed elbowed her. “Ixnay on the— Shush. Tom, can I get a beer? Alisha will have a slice of lemon and a shot of reproach.”
Tom, all six feet of him, chuckled as he pulled the pint. “Beer, Alisha?”
“Tom, you get man-crushes, right? I don’t mean about guys you want to have sex with, I mean guys you want to be. You know the type. The way they move, the way they lean, you just want to— Oof!”
“I detest you,” Ed muttered, blushing.
“Sure thing.” Tom pushed their beers across the counter and accepted Alisha’s money. “For me it’s all in how they talk. I always wish I was more, y’know, articulate.”