This Book Is Not Yet Rated

by Peter Bognanni

  My mom didn’t say anything for a minute. She reached over and grabbed a Kleenex and handed it to me. Then she grabbed another one for herself.

  “You haven’t ruined anything. Your dad and that theater aren’t the same thing. One is a person. One is a place. Places change. They don’t stay the same no matter what you do. He knew that better than anyone.”

  “I don’t want it to change. I don’t want anything to change anymore.”

  I didn’t finish. She slung an arm around me.

  “That’s not possible,” she said.

  She looked out the window where Raina’s stalkers used to be.

  “Everything isn’t over yet,” she said. “The building is still standing.”

  “For now,” I said.

  “Still,” she said, “there are different kinds of victories.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well,” she said, turning the book around so we looked down at the cover. “Take your dad’s favorite movie.”

  She pointed down at De Niro on the cover, his gloves at his sides.

  “In boxing it’s not always a knockout, right? Knockouts are actually kind of rare. Most of the time, it’s a Technical Knockout, or a Split Decision. There’s even some respect in completing all the fight’s rounds. It’s called “going the distance.”

  “How do you know so much about boxing?”

  “Your dad made me watch that movie a hundred times when he was writing the book. I picked up a few things.”

  “Going the distance,” I said.

  “If they never knock you out,” she said, “they don’t really win.”

  I looked around the room. The Godzilla T-shirt that Raina wore was at the foot of the bed.

  “I didn’t hear her leave,” my mom said.

  “Who?” I said.

  My mom gave me a look.

  “I talked to her mom, though. Sounds like she’s getting another shot at the film.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Who else is going to stop the time-traveling cats?”

  “When I woke up, she was out in the street,” Mom said. “I was at the window, and I saw her go right up to the paparazzi. She didn’t even try to hide. She just approached them and let them take some pictures. Then she talked to them for almost ten minutes before a cab showed up and drove her away. Now, what do you think that was all about?”

  34

  I was online in minutes, looking up Raina’s Twitter feed. She hadn’t posted much since her meltdown in Culver City, but of course, other people had been tweeting at her, mentioning her name, here and there. So, she stayed alive on social media, whether she was there or not. There were the concerned fans—Raina, we love you, feel better!—and the usual army of trolls—Another child actor gone crazy. Who would have guessed?—but at the top was a tweet that was only an hour old: A once in a lifetime opportunity at the Green Street Cinema in Minneapolis tomorrow. Stay tuned for instructions!

  I stared at the words for a moment. We hadn’t planned anything yet. And as far as I knew, Raina was already on a plane back to Hollywood. But my heart was pounding. What was she talking about? I called Raina’s phone, but it went right to voice mail. I paced my room, only stopping to pick up the folded T-shirt, which smelled like her shampoo. I was about to get in bed and pull the covers over my head when I got a text from Anjo telling me to meet her at the theater.

  “Come through the Alley,” she said. “The password is Terrence.”

  “Password? What’s going on?” I wrote back, but again, got no answer.

  * * *

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later, I parked down the street from the cinema. I walked past the taped-off front doors and the ghost lobby inside. I continued on toward the alley, where the Dumpsters sat in their usual spots near the building. It was quiet, and no one was around. I guess if they were going to tear the place down, there was no real reason to bring the exterminators in. The rats would be wiped out along with my memories. I stood around for a moment or two, looking for Anjo, but I saw no trace of her. So I stood in the middle of the alleyway, closed my eyes, and said:

  “Terrence?”

  I don’t know what I was expecting. A magical spell? A genie? But I heard a single window fly open above me. I opened my eyes and saw a shadow move past it. Then a rope ladder flopped over the side of the window. It was the kind you might use to get into a kid’s tree house in an idyllic small town. It hung down, perfectly straight, coming to rest just inches from the ground.

  I looked around to see if anyone else had seen what I’d seen. But I was alone. So, without anything else I could think to do, I grabbed onto the first rung and pulled myself up. It was a little wobbly, and I wondered as I took more than one step, if this was the way it would all end for me, falling two stories and breaking my back near the site of my biggest disappointment.

  When I got to the final rung, I looked inside and found an outstretched hand waiting for me. It was Lucas. He grabbed me by the wrist and helped to pull me into the projection booth. We both collapsed onto the dusty floor, and when I looked up, there were Griffin and Anjo, peering down on me.

  “Wendy!” said Griffin from above me. “So glad you could make it.”

  I stood up and brushed the dust bunnies out of my hair.

  “How did you guys get in here?” I asked. “The place is still locked, right?”

  Anjo seemed disappointed by the question.

  “You think a locked door can keep me out?” she asked. “I lived here for ten years. I was climbing those Dumpsters when you had your baby teeth.”

  “I came in the back door,” added Griffin. “I have a thing about high places.”

  “That’s ironic,” said Lucas.

  Griffin tossed a wad of paper at him.

  “So,” I said. “It’s really great to see you guys. But what exactly are we doing here? This place is set for demolition.”

  “Not tonight, it’s not,” said Griffin. “And not tomorrow.”

  Anjo stepped forward. She was carrying a gray film canister, coated in dust.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  She had a serious look on her face.

  “Maybe it’s better if I show you,” she said.

  * * *

  • • •

  I dropped myself into one of the broken theater seats and let out a long breath. Perfect discomfort. I could feel a rogue spring against the small of my back, and the fabric was nearly gone from the armrests. Hours ago, I wasn’t sure I would ever be in one of these seats again, and now here I was. I sat three rows back, looking at the old screen. Griffin and Lucas were on either side of me. And when the curtains parted, a door in the back of the theater cracked open and Sweet Lou appeared, shrouded in the lobby’s sunlight, like she was dropping in from the afterlife.

  “Will somebody hold this goddamn thing open for me?” she asked. “I have one functioning arm.”

  Lucas jumped up to get the door. Then Lou walked slowly down the aisle like a bride going to meet her soul mate, except this bride had a cigarette burning between her lips and her soul mate was an organ. When she got to the bench, she rubbed her smoke out against her boot heel, and cracked her knuckles one at a time. She fired up the Wurlitzer, and a smile came to her face.

  She gently removed her arm from its sling and let her hands rest on the keys. A great booming whir from the lower keys echoed through the space. She turned down the volume and settled into a simple melody. Above me, I heard Anjo’s voice calling down.

  “When we first got shut down,” she said, “I sent word to Randy.”

  I put a hand to my brow and stared up into the lights of the booth, but I couldn’t see her.

  “How?” I said. “How did you find him?”

  “The Oracle knows all,” she said.

  Then when nobody questione
d her:

  “Jesus, guys. He left me an emergency number.”

  “Huh,” said Griffin.

  “I figured that was the time to use it,” she said. “I told him what happened and he wasn’t surprised. He knew we were done for, I guess. He just didn’t want to tell us any sooner than he had to. But when I told him we wanted to have one last showing, he said he had something for you, Ethan.”

  “For me?”

  “He specifically mentioned you. And he sent me this.”

  “What is it?” I said.

  “I’m just . . .” she said. “It’s better if you see it.”

  And with that, she flicked the switch and Vicky, the house projector, popped to life like she’d never taken a break. The leader whipped through, and the film stock was so scratchy, I could barely see anything. But there was nothing to see yet. Just light dancing on the screen. Then gradually, something came into focus.

  It was a man walking down a street. At first we just see his shoes, some old tarnished wingtips. Nothing special. The shot is from above, shoes stomping across wet pavement after a rain. The puddles reflect the clouds and it looks like there’s a sky in each square of sidewalk.

  And then just when things are starting to get into a rhythm, the person steps in a mud puddle. It soaks his shoe all the way through and he tries to shake it off, but it’s so waterlogged it doesn’t make a difference. But he keeps walking.

  Then he tries to cross the street, and just when he puts a foot down on the road, a bicycle runs over his shoe. He takes a step back, and you see his hands go down to hug his foot. He’s hopping on one foot. Then he gives it another try, and the shoes cross the street to the other side. The camera lifts up a little so we can see the street.

  “Hey,” said Lucas, “isn’t that Washington Avenue?”

  And it was. Only a different version, like Washington Avenue from another dimension. Instead of all the chain stores, there were just some dusty storefronts that looked like local businesses and old apartments. And there was no sign of the light rail, which was so prominent in the current version. But even from a tight bird’s-eye view, the street was recognizable.

  “He’s walking toward Green Street,” said Lucas now.

  It was true. The wingtips were headed our way. And just when the shoes got to the corner of our street, they stepped in gum. The shoes stumbled a bit, then the hand came in and plucked the gum off. The shoes scuffed the sidewalk a bit and then kept going. They picked up their pace now, clipping across the sidewalk until they finally reached the glass doors.

  The glass doors of our theater.

  The facade looked a lot better. What we could see of it, anyway. The glass was shiny, and when the shoes stepped inside, the carpet didn’t look so worn. A ticket dropped into the frame and the hand reached down to pick it up. Then the shoes picked up the pace and ran through the lobby and into the very theater we were sitting in. The curtains billowed at the side of the screen. The empty seats looked like new red sweaters. And then the camera finally tilted up and met the face of a woman.

  My mother.

  She was much younger, but I recognized her immediately. The little gap between her teeth. I had never thought so before, but she did look like Monica Vitti. She swept a hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re late,” she mouthed, and then in a classic reverse shot, I saw a man with terrible glasses. A man with a head of manic curls and dark eyebrows. He smiled for just a second. I only had a moment to see his face with the light of a film shining on it. And it looked like my face. He must have been younger than in his author photo. College-aged.

  Not much older than me.

  The camera tilted back down to his feet, where for just a second, they entangled with my mother’s, and the light of the film flickered against them. But I was still seeing my dad’s face, my face in front of me. He said he never wanted to be a director.

  But he never threw away his film. He had given it to Randy for his archive. And now Randy had dug it up and sent it here. It couldn’t have been much longer than a minute or two, but there it was. My dad’s filmmaking debut and swan song all in one reel, up on the screen of the Green Street.

  “Anjo!” said Lucas. “Something is wrong with Ethan. He’s moving his mouth without saying anything.”

  I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

  “That’s it?” said Griffin. “That was the whole thing?”

  Sweet Lou was no longer playing the organ. She knew who had been on the screen. And above me Anjo was silent. She had already watched it.

  “I thought it was kind of cool,” said Lucas. “I mean the fashion was ridiculous, but . . .”

  “Has anybody else seen this?” I yelled up to Anjo.

  “Like who?” said Griffin.

  “Anjo!” I said. “Has Raina seen this?”

  Anjo leaned her head out of the booth.

  “No,” she said. “But I told her about it. I was trying to get ahold of you, so I may have said something.”

  I nodded.

  “I think I know what she’s up to,” I said.

  Sweet Lou looked at me.

  “What are you talking about? Are we still having a festival?” she asked.

  “I think we’re doing something better,” I said.

  I got up out of my seat, pulling my phone out as I approached the exit.

  ETHAN’S GLOSSARY OF FILM TERMS

  ENTRY #354

  GUERRILLA FILMMAKING

  Making a movie on the smallest budget imaginable.

  A tiny crew. Real locations. No permits. No name actors. Maybe an iPhone and a microphone.

  Purists will say these aren’t real movies. That there’s a certain standard of quality to adhere to.

  But maybe it’s time to break down the last of those walls.

  35

  “You don’t need the theater and you don’t need prints,” she said.

  I just listened. It had taken three consecutive calls, but she had finally picked up.

  “Where are you?” I asked. “I thought you were leaving.”

  “Still here,” she said. “Midnight tomorrow I turn into a pumpkin. Did you hear what I said?”

  “I did. You want people to make their own films, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”

  “Just a guess.”

  “I’ve seen these festivals in LA,” she said. “We give the public twenty-four hours to make a one-minute film. Then we screen them tomorrow.”

  She sounded excited. I think I was, too, but it was weird to be talking to her again. It seemed like this morning had never happened.

  “Do you think people are actually going to do it?” I asked. “Are they going to enter this festival with such short notice?”

  “They will if there’s a celebrity judge,” she said.

  I couldn’t help but smile a little.

  “Are you sure you can make it?” I asked. “I mean, with your flight.”

  “It’s gonna be tight, but I think so. Maybe this will give you some attention. Change some minds. I’m not going to miss that.”

  I wanted to tell her about what I’d been told at the president’s office, but I didn’t have the heart. Not when she had already put in so much effort.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I hear you. It’s exciting.”

  She was waiting for me to say more. But I couldn’t.

  “So, you’re flying out at midnight?” I asked.

  “Mom booked us on a red-eye.” She sighed. “It was the soonest we could get seats in first class.”

  “How is your mom?” I asked.

  “Not happy with me,” she said. “But happy to be leaving here, I guess.”

  “How about you?” I asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Are you happy
to be leaving?”

  I waited a few seconds, but she didn’t answer. I heard her typing something at her computer.

  “I’m about to send out instructions for the festival.”

  When I didn’t answer, she said:

  “How was your dad’s film?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It was so weird to see it. I think it was good. It was good he did it. I’m happy about that. But it was too much to process right now.”

  Another pause.

  “Listen,” I said, “about this morning . . .”

  “Ethan,” she said, “I know there’s a lot to get done for the festival. But I might not be back in town for a while.”

  I could hear her take a couple of breaths, the light sound coming through the phone.

  “Okay,” I said. “What do you want to do?”

  “I thought maybe we could watch a movie,” she said. “Your pick.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I went to Box Office Video alone, and it was as dark as ever. Despite the sun outside, it took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the light. It was similar to the feeling of going to a matinee on a hot summer day. When the lights went down, you could magically create that nighttime feeling in the middle of the day. An erasure of all that daytime order. It opened up your mind to new possibilities, new realities. Box Office Video was a testament to that feeling. They gave you permission to extinguish the day.

  Either that, or they were too cheap to pay their light bill.

  The same clerk was behind the counter as last time. He sort of nodded at me when I entered, his eyes only unfastening from the screen for less than a second. I wandered through the store, past the familiar racks of cult classics and experimental shorts and down into the basement where I knew they had the entire Criterion Collection on a wall at the back. Lucas claims to have seen four hundred of the total nine hundred volumes. But I think he’s rounding up.

  I searched for the film I wanted, number 549 in the series.