This Book Is Not Yet Rated

by Peter Bognanni

  “Wow, okay,” she said. “Yeah. I was in that.”

  “We love you!” said someone else.

  “I’m sure I would love you, too, if I got to know you,” she said.

  She was smiling now, and it felt to me like her transformation was complete. She was Raina Allen, young celebrity again. All it took was a few fans to switch the light back on. She pretended she didn’t like the attention, but it had to be thrilling some of the time. Especially, if you’d just decided to be that person again.

  “I’m Raina,” she said. “But this isn’t really my event. It’s my friend Ethan’s. So I’m going to turn things over to him in just a minute. I just want to say that it’s possible I wouldn’t be an actress if I didn’t come here to see movies, and I wish it could live on forever. But, I’m excited to see your movies tonight. I’m sure they’re going to be great. Ethan?”

  She turned toward me, and I couldn’t help flinching. I assumed she was going to speak for longer, maybe even give a rousing speech. But she just pointed at me. I looked at the crowd of people, many of them I had never seen before. Probably most of them had never seen a movie here. Or if they had, it was only once with their weird friend. I didn’t resent them—not much anyway—but I wished I could have found a way to get them here sooner.

  “Okay, everyone,” I said.

  I tried to project my voice the way Mrs. Salazar had taught us at the Playhouse.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  It was so quiet now, and I felt my nerves suddenly. Heat in my armpits. A tickle in my throat. I wasn’t used to talking to this many people. The only thing that helped was that most of the people were still staring at Raina, not me. I looked around for some familiar faces in the crowd, and eventually, I spotted Griffin, the screen reflecting in his giant glasses. Lucas was at the fringes of the crowd, watching too. Up above me, Anjo was looking down as usual, a benevolent god we did not deserve. And Sweet Lou was at the very end of the alley, holding her air horn with her arm in a sling.

  “Home,” I said.

  It felt good to say the word out loud.

  “This place is home. I grew up here. My dad, who isn’t here anymore, used to take me here when I was a kid, and I thought it was the single greatest place on the planet. It just felt good being here with him. The old seats that swallow you when you sit down. The noisy house projector. The crackle of the old speaker system. Movies were my dad’s religion and I guess I was an easy convert. I told myself that his temple was going to be here forever, which is probably also what I thought about him.”

  I took a breath and tried to stand up straight. There were some befuddled looks from the crowd now. This was supposed to be a party.

  “They’re going to knock it down now, and they might or might not make some stylish places for young people to live. I tried to fight it. But in the end there wasn’t much I could really do. You can’t save everything, no matter how much you might care about it. In the end, your love can’t keep it alive.”

  I glanced at Raina, and though she was smiling for the crowd, she gave me a concerned look.

  “But there might have been one thing I was wrong about.”

  I turned around to look at it for a moment. Then I turned back.

  “I thought the building was everything. I don’t think I was right about that. It might not be the space itself. It might be the people who came to the building. My fellow employees, the regulars, anyone else who showed up to be part of it. All the people who kept it going for as long as they could. And so, I guess what I want to say is that if you have a good time tonight, just think about finding more ways to do this. It doesn’t have to be here. Just find ways to be together to do something you really care about. If you can make art together and find your people, maybe that’s enough.”

  No one said anything. The alley was totally quiet.

  “Can we?” I said, motioning to Anjo. “Can we just maybe roll the first film?”

  She nodded and began clicking on the laptop.

  “The rest of the night is for you,” I said. “It’s yours.”

  I walked away then, through the crowd and around the corner. I left the alley, and walked back into the lobby of the apartment complex. I rode the elevator back up to the third floor. Then I walked down to 3F, Ron’s apartment, where I helped myself to a grape soda from the fridge and stood next to Anjo at the projector. The first film had already started playing. Anjo adjusted the focus, and everything that was fuzzy at the edges, suddenly became perfectly clear.

  40

  I can’t lie. The first couple of films were pretty bad. The first one was just a guy following his girlfriend around, filming her in the most flattering light possible, When it was over, people clapped politely, more because the festival had started than because they thought he was a cinematic genius. The second one was about a dog in love with another dog at the park. It was kind of cute, I guess.

  Down below, Raina sat in the front row, taking her judging duties seriously. She smiled and signed the occasional autograph between movies. Anjo seemed to be enjoying her role, loading up each film, one after the next, allowing for a little transition time between each. All the equipment worked surprisingly well. The picture was sharp. The speakers were loud enough, even if the sound echoed a bit in the alley. And the view out of the window was pretty spectacular. You could see about a four-block swathe from where we were, and in the middle of it, we’d turned a dingy ally into an outdoor theater.

  “I’m pretty sure he would have liked this, Ethan,” said Anjo after the dog film ended.

  I knew immediately who she was talking about, but it surprised me. She didn’t mention my dad all that often.

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “Of course he would have,” she said. “The Cinema of Revolt! What’s more punk rock than a DIY movie festival? It’s illegal. We’re celebrating guerrilla filmmaking! The art of the people.”

  “And dog movies,” I said.

  “And dog movies,” she said, and smiled. “You should keep an open mind. The quality might pick up.”

  I looked down.

  “I hope so, for Raina’s sake.”

  There was more polite clapping from below. Anjo located the next file and clicked it. A shot came on of someone running through a yard, carrying a knife. Bad sound effects of sirens were layered over the action. It was a college frat-boy thriller. An early Christopher Nolan rip-off.

  “I was kind of in love with him, you know,” said Anjo.

  I turned away from the movie.

  “My dad?”

  She was still watching the wall below.

  “It’s probably not something you want to hear, but I don’t know how much we’ll see each other after tonight, so I feel like I have to tell you.”

  “Okay . . .” I said.

  Somehow, I wasn’t that shocked. More curious than anything else.

  “But why? He was a middle-aged professor.”

  “You of all people should know why. You loved him, too.”

  “He was my dad.”

  “Well,” she said, “I didn’t really know my dad very well. And I saw him more than either of my parents. So, he was kind of my dad, too. Except that I wanted to be married to him.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t weird or anything.”

  I expected Anjo to laugh. But she didn’t. She just looked at me.

  “He found his exact place in the world,” she said. “How many people get to do that? I mean, sure he wasn’t the pope or the president. He was a professor at a state university and the guardian of a campus movie theater. But this is exactly where he fit. It was like the universe picked him up and set him down here. And that’s an intoxicating thing.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “It makes you feel like it’s possible for anyone. Like, if this guy can find his thin
g, then why can’t you or I find our thing? The only trouble is that it’s pretty easy to mistake his passion for your own. Sometimes, I wonder if I stayed here so long because he made such a convincing argument for all of it. The power of film. That Art House theater. He made it seem like the best place to be. The only place to be. But, I haven’t really traveled much. I barely left the projection booth the last ten years.”

  “Are you trying to tell me all this is a good thing? The fact that we don’t know what’s happening next or what the hell we’re going to do with our lives?”

  She sighed and adjusted her glasses.

  “I don’t know if I completely believe that. I probably could have been happy in that booth for a few more years. Maybe longer. Look at Lou. She’s a lifer and there was probably nothing else she wanted to do. I guess my point is that I don’t know. But, what if I haven’t totally found my thing yet. What if my thing is in Olympia, Washington? Or Helsinki? Or in Saint Paul? Or what if I don’t have a thing. What if I have like ten things instead? Maybe I have five destinies and this is only the first one.”

  The frat-boy thriller came to a predictable blood-spattered end, which was a favorite with the crowd below. They laughed and applauded the blast of watered-down ketchup that exploded onto the screen.

  “Well,” she said. “Actually, I might be too old for five destinies at this point. I could probably fit in three. But you, Ethan! You’re not even eighteen. You probably have time for seven or eight destinies. It’s kind of narrow to count on one, don’t you think?”

  I was looking down at Raina now. I couldn’t help it. All this talk of destiny, and my eyes could only go one place. It was bad enough the Green Street was done, but it was nearly impossible to picture a life where Raina and I weren’t together. In my mind, it had always been a given. I wasn’t sure how long it was going to take, but I had always planned to wait it out. In my mind, it had always been a when not an if. When she finally realizes nobody knows her like me. When she gets tired of living in LA. When I get a little better looking and take over the Green Street.

  The crazy thing is that it had all almost happened. I had come really close. She came back. She missed me. She slept in my bed wearing my T-shirt. But there was no almost-destiny. I could try to frame it any way I wanted, but it just didn’t happen.

  “Will you allow me one last Steve McQueen anecdote while I’m still technically the projectionist?” Anjo said.

  “Is there any reality where you don’t tell me this story?” I asked.

  “Probably not,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Then go ahead.”

  She clicked open the next film. This one was just someone dancing in the city. Doing flips off bus stops. Swinging around signs. Like a modern-day Fred Astaire. It was kind of entrancing.

  “Do you know what Terrence’s first leading role was?” she asked.

  I thought for a moment. I had definitely looked up McQueen’s filmography when I first met Anjo.

  “Wait a minute, it wasn’t . . .”

  “The Blob,” she said.

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “The future King of Cool starred in a movie about a giant space amoeba that eats people in Pennsylvania. It was a questionable career choice. But beyond that, something interesting happened with his contract. When he signed on to star in the film, McQueen had the choice to take a flat fee of six thousand dollars or a smaller salary with a percentage of the profits. He thought the movie was ridiculous, and he was broke, so he took his flat fee and was happy to do it. I imagine it probably seemed like a safe bet at the time. It was a B movie. Take your money and run, Terrence! Only, as we now know, The Blob was a huge hit. It was improbable. Critics hated it, but horror fans loved it. And if only Terrence had taken the other deal, do you know how much he would have made?”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “Around a million dollars. And this is in 1958.”

  I whistled. It seemed the only appropriate response.

  “He never took a flat fee again. He always rolled the dice, even late in his career when he could demand enormous salaries.”

  Below us, the experimental dance film came to a stop with a finale in a fountain. It wasn’t bad, actually. The editing was pretty impressive for something done on a laptop. And the acrobatic dancing was cool.

  “Anjo,” I said, “I know I’m not supposed to ask the Oracle what her advice and prophesies mean. That’s kind of the point. But I’m just too tired to try to figure this one out right now. I assume it doesn’t have to do with money because we don’t have any. And I don’t plan on being an actor anytime soon.”

  Anjo paused for a second to load the next film.

  I looked down when she was done. The film was one I recognized. A pair of shoes walking down the street, ready to find their way to the Green Street. I looked at Anjo.

  “I had it digitally transferred,” she said. “Now it has played in one festival.”

  I felt the urge to be back down with the crowd suddenly, to be crammed in the alley, seeing it like they were. I turned to go, but before I could make my exit, Anjo touched me on the shoulder. When I turned around, she placed something in my hand. It was the flash drive of Dad’s film. I closed my hand around it, and gave her a hug. I felt the urge to run down the stairs, so I wouldn’t miss too much of the movie.

  “Ethan,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Our lives might be The Blob. Or they might not. I just don’t know. But I think we have to gamble.”

  I smiled.

  I was halfway out the door when I heard the air horn.

  ETHAN’S GLOSSARY OF FILM TERMS

  ENTRY #96

  PERSISTENCE OF VISION

  This is a famous theory about how film works with our eyes. The fact that we can watch twenty-four still frames per second and it looks like it’s moving.

  Supposedly, it works because the human eye holds an image for just a little longer than it’s actually there. So, we’re always seeing a little bit of the past even as we’re looking at the present.

  It’s only a fraction of a second, but the idea is comforting to me. Our eyes want to hold on to the past, even when we’re trying to see what happens next.

  41

  By the time I got down to the street, my dad’s movie was almost over. And most of the audience was still watching it even though a small argument had broken out at that mouth of the alley. I moved through the crowd slowly, carving a path through the filmgoers. At first I could barely see what was going on. There was a campus security car parked at the end of the road and a few shadows, but it was tough to tell what was really happening. When I made it out the other side, I found Lucas waiting for me.

  “It’s not the real cops,” he said. “But the security guy’s being a total dong.”

  We both approached the altercation. As I got closer, I noticed it was the same security guard who had been in the president’s office trying to get Griffin expelled. He had a flashlight pointed directly at Lou, and he was trying to move forward, but she was holding on to the sleeve of his uniform. He was a little on the lanky side, and when he flapped his arm, he looked like a tall, flightless bird. But he finally shook her loose.

  “You can’t go in there without a ticket,” she said. “It’s a sold-out event.”

  “Will you please stop talking,” said the guard. “You’re giving me a headache.”

  He had just taken a couple of steps forward when he came face-to-face with Lucas and me. He recognized me instantly, and let out a long, slow breath.

  “Why are you harassing an elderly woman?” I asked.

  “Because he’s on a sad little power trip” said Lou, “And he has nothing better to do.”

  He looked back at Lou only enough to shoot her a scowl. Then he opened his eyes wide and searched the alley.

&n
bsp; “You know you’re not supposed to be doing this,” he said, and looked toward the screen. “Whatever this is.”

  His face looked a little ashen. I turned around and saw the video clerk on the screen in close up. He was slowly filling his mouth with marbles, seeing how many could fit. The more he stuffed in, the more fell out. It was, in all fairness, pretty disturbing.

  “It’s a film festival,” said Lucas. “Some of the work is quite avant-garde. Like this piece here that echoes some of the early conceptual work of William Wegman.”

  The marbles were all bouncing out now as the clerk stared into the camera.

  “Yeah,” said the guard. “I’m shutting this down. You can’t be blocking traffic in the alley. This is a liability for the university.”

  “No one uses this alley,” I said.

  But he swiftly moved around Lucas and me and headed toward the crowd, looking up to see where the films were coming from. He had his flashlight on, and the viewers were starting to look at him instead of the screen.

  “Wait. We can’t be done yet,” Lucas said suddenly.

  Even the guard stopped for a second. Lucas’s plea was so raw and genuine. There was something a little desperate in his voice that I had never heard before. In fact, it had been a really long time since I heard something that wasn’t either ironic or condescending from him.

  “Why not?” I asked, though I had plenty of my own reasons why we shouldn’t be done.

  “They haven’t shown my film yet!” he said.

  “You actually made a film?” I asked.

  Lucas nodded, a sheepish smile on his face. The guard had had enough, but when he tried to enter the crowd, no one made space for him. He clicked on his flashlight and started shining it at people. Some folks averted their eyes, but nobody really moved.

  “Campus security,” he said. “Get out of the way.”

  There were some groans of mild protest.

  He began muscling his way into the group, nudging people aside. It wasn’t very elegant. I could tell he wasn’t really a master of crowd control. In fact, he looked so uncomfortable and flustered, I almost felt bad for him. That is, until he collided with the guest of honor.