Blockbuster

by Richard H. Smith

  “Yeah,” I said, remembering it clearly. “He sees the black bathing cap of that old man—but another false alarm. Then that scream. Only the girl—scared by her boyfriend.”

  Kenny asked, “Did you notice what the camera did when Brodie realizes that the shark is out there and that kid is being attacked?”

  “What the camera did?” I said. “No, I wasn’t thinking about the camera.”

  “The vertigo effect. You know, from Hitchcock,” Kenny said. “The background moved up, but Brodie’s face stayed the same size.”

  “Yeah, yeah, now I remember. How did you notice that?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but I did,” Kenny said. “Made Brodie’s reactions more intense.”

  “And it made me feel weird,” I said.

  “Dizzy,” Kenny said. “Spielberg had the camera move out, probably on a dolly or something, while zooming in with the lens—so it kept Brodie’s face the same size. Dolly out, zoom in. That’s what does it.”

  “I need to see it again too,” I said.

  “And, another thing, Nate. Do you realize that we never saw the shark until they were on the boat?”

  “But it feels like we did.”

  “Never saw it until that last half,” Kenny said.

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “Do you know Hitchcock’s definition of surprise?” Kenny asked. He didn’t wait for me to respond. “When the bomb under the table doesn’t explode.”

  Spence came out of the restroom.

  “What did you think?” I asked.

  “I jumped twice, yelled once. Laughed too. We’ve got a monster on our hands, sure enough.”

  “Yeah, it was funny,” Kenny said. “Like when Hooper crumpled the Styrofoam cup.” Hooper had done this in a fake show of strength in response to Quint’s crushing of a beer can.

  I said, “And, when those two guys on the pier think they’ll catch the shark with the hunk of meat. I was scared for them, but I kind of laughed too.” The men had naively underestimated the power of the shark. It snatched the meat, which they had attached to the pier with a hook and chain, and ripped away the end of the pier, dragging it into the sea along with one of the men. The man swam back to the dock, but the shark turned around and headed toward him. As his partner urged him to swim faster and faster—and as the shark theme music crescendoed—he just managed to make it out of the water in time. Both men rested on their knees to catch their breath. One said, “Can we go home now?” That’s when I laughed.

  Kenny said, “Notice, we never see the shark here either. And, how about when Hooper and Quint compare scars—that was funny too—a perfect setup for Quint’s description of his surviving the sinking of the Indianapolis. What a contrast.”

  “That was intense,” I said. “You could imagine what it must have been like to be fighting off the sharks while waiting to be rescued. That’s something I didn’t know anything about.”

  “Few people do,” Spence said. He changed the subject and continued, “I’m thinking about the cleaning.”

  “Kenny and I will pitch in, Spence. With Ricardo too, it’ll be a four-man job.” Spence was smart to start thinking about how we would be dealing with this movie.

  Spence scratched his scalp for a moment, looked up at the ceiling, and headed to the supply closet.

  “Did you recognize who played the mayor?” Kenny asked, still absorbed in the movie.

  “No, he was good, though. I mean I hated him.”

  “The father in The Graduate. Murray Hamilton.”

  “Oh.” I had yet to see The Graduate. I wanted to be a graduate.

  Hogan appeared from the entrance to the projectionist booth, a dark patch on one of his thighs from where the Dr Pepper had spilled. He said,

  “Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen—we’re going to need a bigger theater.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Thursday night we had light attendance. But there was a charge in the air. It reminded me of one summer when I was a kid before my mom took sick. We had taken a vacation on the South Carolina coast. An approaching hurricane cut it short. The day we left, hours ahead of the storm, I remember looking out over the ocean. The swells were gray, full, and capped with white. The air had a different feel to it, almost explosive. A developing wall of clouds stretched across the skyline like a huge, bulging strip of gray canvas. “Let’s get the heck out of Dodge,” my dad had said.

  I welcomed the slow night. By the second show, I saw Detective Dupree parked in an unmarked car, at least fifty yards away but in a direct line of sight of the theater entrance. What was he up to? I wondered whether he and Riggs were even more concerned about Samantha and Jesse Hooker than they’d let on. Maybe it was about drugs because they now knew Hooker was a dealer. Also, high school kids were rumored to be selling pot across the street, and Dupree would be looking out for this too. For all I knew, Owen was involved. Would he get caught? Did I wish this on him? I wasn’t sure.

  After the first show, Samantha approached me to get some fives for the cash drawer. She still wore a long-sleeved blouse covering her forearms, but there were a few rashes visible through applications of Calamine lotion. She gave me twenties to exchange. When I returned from the office with the fives, I counted them out in front of her, considering what questions I might ask her. I wanted to understand her better. What was she thinking? Why was she so unfriendly around us? I began with small talk.

  “It’ll be wild tomorrow,” I said. She ignored the comment.

  I added, “I’ll go by the bank early morning for extra change.” Again, nothing. I tried a direct question.

  “Samantha, I’m curious. Did you have to deal with sellout crowds where you worked before? Where was it, down in Georgia?”

  “Sometimes,” she replied after a long moment. I waited for elaboration. None came.

  “How many screens did you have?” She gave me a look suggesting I’d asked her a big favor. She said nothing.

  I tried another angle.

  “About what happened with Owen. He was rude. Sorry about that.”

  “I don’t care a rat’s ass what he thinks.”

  She slid off her chair, causing it to crack and carom off the bottom of the cashier counter. She snatched her Coke and headed past me, forcing me to stand aside. I’d poked the hornet’s nest, and from what I heard, they didn’t need a good reason to sting.

  “I’ll watch the window,” I said, as she marched toward the restroom. She had me feeling that she was boss and I was the employee. I stayed clear of her for the rest of the evening.

  Outside, I spotted the slumped-down silhouette of Detective Dupree in the front seat of his car. It felt good to know he was out there.

  Owen’s van eased its way past the lobby entrance. Him again. Was he trying to patch things up with Carrie? I wanted him to take a permanent vacation. It occurred to me that he might be intending to sell some pot. Dupree might see him. Should I warn him? I made a quick exit and went over to where he had parked. As I came to the open driver’s side window, he was removing something from the glove compartment. I noticed a stash of small plastic bags, filled with what I took to be marijuana. He really was dealing the stuff. How could he be so reckless? So plain stupid. He held a joint, which looked freshly rolled.

  “Shit! Don’t do that, man!” he said, flinching.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Listen, listen, just wanted to warn you,” I said, almost deciding to let him hang. “Be careful with that pot. We have a cop around here tonight.”

  “Worry about how many popcorn boxes you need, and I’ll worry about me. Stop dipping into my Kool-aid,” Owen said. His eyes were wide and scared, and he fumbled the glove compartment shut.

  “Have it your way,” I said. “Remind me not to attend your funeral.”

  I returned to the theater but kept an eye on outside. Owen left the van and went over to the far side of the parking area and across
the street. Was he going to meet someone for a deal? As much as I could tell, he was empty-handed. He was probably calling it off.

  Dupree got out of his car and followed Owen from a distance. This was trouble. As much as I disliked Owen, now that I realized that he might get arrested, I didn’t want it to happen. Dupree would probably search the van. And Carrie might get linked with drug dealing too. What could I do? I couldn’t warn him. Could I remove his stash and hide it? If I moved quickly. I grabbed two empty popcorn boxes and ran outside to his van.

  I tried the side doors. All locked. I tried the rear hatch door. It swung upward. I paused, my chest heaving with anxiety as if this moment in time would decide the direction my life would take. But what if Carrie was questioned and somehow became connected with what he was doing? Did I hold her fate in my hands too? I checked whether Dupree and Owen were returning. They were still heading away. Do it.

  I climbed in and over the rear section of the van, the glow of the marquee revealing most of the interior. Owen had removed all the backseats. Several crates hugged the left side. I moved over to the front seat and reached over to the glove compartment, opening it after fumbling for the latch. With a few quick grabs, I filled the popcorn boxes with the packages, about twenty in all. I slid open the ashtray. It contained wrapping papers and a half-smoked joint. I pressed the ashtray down and yanked it out, pinching my thumb.

  “Damn it,” I said, under my breath. A trickle of blood formed, but I ignored it. I emptied all the contents into one of the boxes and then tossed the ashtray into one of the crates. I looked around for any other evidence and exited through the side sliding door, closing it quietly, but leaving a smear of blood on the handle. Would this matter? My heart, already beating fast, now thumped against my chest. Holding both boxes in one arm, I snatched my tie with the other and used it to wipe the blood. Come on. Move. Move. I checked for Dupree and Owen. They were heading back. I raced to the rear of the van and brought the hatch down, the resulting thud seeming to announce my presence.

  “Damn it,” I hissed again.

  I needed to get rid of the pot. Crossing the parking lot back to the theater was risky. Dupree might see me. I didn’t want to explain why I was carrying the boxes. I had an idea. Kenny’s Fairlane was several cars down, further away from the marquee light. Kenny kept it unlocked, mainly because no one would ever steal it. He used the back of the car as a personal dumpster. The legroom space was taken up with layer upon layer of candy and hamburger wrappers, newspapers, magazines and who knows what else. Hunching down, I made my way to his car and half-opened one of the side doors. I wedged the popcorn boxes under at least a foot of trash, evening out the top to disguise any disturbance. I eased the door with my shoulder until I heard it click shut.

  I looked over to the other side of the main road where Dupree and Owen stood next to each other, pausing for an opening in the traffic. I ran further down the parking lot, away from the theater lights. I crossed over to the side of the theater, making it easy to return inside unnoticed. The cut on my hand no longer bled. I removed my tie and stuffed it in my pocket.

  Dupree led Owen across the parking lot toward the van. Soon he was exploring the van’s front and back, as Owen waited, his head bowed. Dupree appeared to give up his search and spent a few minutes in a one-way conversation directed at Owen and then disappeared into the parking lot and back to his car. That was close. I thought about how I might easily have just let him suffer.

  Owen came into the lobby. His cheeks were flushed, and a sheen of sweat layered his upper lip and forehead. As he caught me looking at him, he took his forearm and wiped away the sweat with two quick swipes. He looked like he was trying to figure out what had happened. He moved to where Carrie stood behind the concession counter, but she shifted to the other side of the counter, ignoring him. Maybe he suspected she’d seen who had taken his stash. I quickly intervened.

  I said, “Owen, we need to talk. Let’s go to my office.”

  Owen froze and looked at me as if he were a high school student caught without a hall pass.

  “Owen, just do it,” Carrie said.

  “Ah, sure,” Owen said, with an unfamiliar display of surrender.

  He followed me. “I need to thank you for warning me. I was going to tell the guy some other time. That cop, the one you were talking about I guess, was following me all the way. I almost shit in my pants.”

  “I’m sure he knows horse manure when he smells it.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You lucked out, big time.”

  “Yes, well. Ah, did you take—”

  I cut him off as we entered the office.

  “Listen. Sit down and shut up. What you do is your business. And I have nothing against pot. But not around the theater.”

  “For sure, man.”

  “I wonder. Next time, I will turn you in. I promise you,” I said, meaning every word. And before he could say anymore, I added, “And I’d appreciate it if you’d leave Carrie alone during working hours.”

  He studied me with a suspicious expression, trying to figure me out. I continued,

  “Anyway, Owen. Why would you throw your life down the drain over some pot? I’d kill to have the chance to be starting college.”

  He said, “I didn’t think—”

  “Start thinking,” I almost shouted. “Don’t you get how dumb this is?”

  But Owen, I guessed, had just one thing on his mind. Did I have the missing pot? I pretended ignorance, letting him twist in the wind, until I figured out what to do. I didn’t feel bad about it either.

  “I need to get back downstairs,” I said.

  Owen headed out to the van, probably desperate to find an explanation from Carrie about his missing pot. It looked like she had already left, wanting to avoid Owen, I assumed.

  I saw Samantha over by the far lobby exit.

  “Waiting on your ride?” I tried to be friendly.

  “That little chickenshit’s late,” she said, as she pushed out the exit door. I saw Dupree, still in his car. Was he waiting to follow her when she left? I found ways to seem busy in the lobby and concession area so I could keep watching her.

  With her Coke in one hand and a cigarette in the other, she alternated a deep inhaling and exhaling of smoke with a long suck on the straw from her drink as she waited. The smoke gained something from its stay in her lungs, something extra nasty. She finished the first cigarette, smoking it right down to the filter, flicking it into the bushes, close to where Bullock’s body had been found. With an efficient sequence of actions with one hand, she shook another cigarette halfway from its packet, pulled it out with her lips, and lit it with her Bic lighter. Her initial inhale about burned the cigarette a third the way down, the smoke settling in her lungs for a good several seconds. She sucked down more Coke and blasted out smoke through her nostrils. Jesse Hooker would suffer, I knew that much.

  Jesse had been up to something. Earlier, I’d seen him talking with a dark-skinned Black man, who, I swear, could have stepped off the set of a Blaxploitation flick. He wore a pinkish outfit with bell-bottom slacks and a wide-labeled jacket, crowning the sartorial effect with a white leather hat, cocked to the side. Long, straightened hair splayed out along his shoulders. A mustache drooped down on both sides of his face, Fu Manchu style. It was hard to tell his age, but he moved slow and smooth, ultracool. Superfly in the flesh.

  They’d driven off in Hooker’s pickup. A Black guy driving off with a redneck displaying a Confederate decal on his back window. It was a crazy thing to see.

  Hooker showed up towards the end of cigarette number three, his pickup bouncing over the entrance curb and braking right in front of Samantha. The Black guy was in the passenger seat. They exchanged a few words and a hand slap. He exited the pickup and shuffled away into the darkness of the parking lot.

  Samantha watched all of this with a furious expression on her face. Hooker glanced her way, and his small frame shrunk even smaller. I thought he might drive of
f without her. I would have. She barreled around to the passenger side and squeezed herself into the front seat. Hooker gunned his engine and sped away.

  Sure enough, Dupree followed them. I was glad to see them go and glad to know Dupree had them tailed, though they seemed to have the jump on him.

  What a strange end to the day. Owen would have been arrested for possession and drug dealing if I hadn’t warned him and then crawled into his van to take the pot. What if Carrie had been implicated?

  Things had happened between Carrie and me—exactly what I didn’t know. My fantasies took shaky flight and then came down to earth. Come on. Did I have a real chance? Nope, not in my circumstances, not with someone like her. And yet her breaking up with Owen made it less than pure fantasy. Didn’t it? Yeah, right. In a few months, she’d be at the University of Chicago. After my brief appearance in her life, her time at the Yorktowne Theater would be a memory filed away, a topic for a college essay on Southern American culture.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  A line of over fifty people had already formed by the ticket window when I arrived at the theater the next day. My heart jackhammered. It was only noon, over four hours before we would start selling tickets.

  I wedged myself through the line to get to the lobby entrance door.

  “When can we buy tickets?” someone yelled.

  “Four-thirty,” I replied as I unlocked the entrance. Would we be able to handle this? I wasn’t sure, and this uncertainty put me in a panic. I entered, re-locked the door, and found myself pacing back and forth.

  “Get a grip on yourself,” I hissed out loud.

  I phoned Kenny.

  “Kenny, Kenny.”

  “Who’s this?”