Crying at Movies

by John Manderino

  And when his glove wasn’t in the closet I swore we didn’t know where it was, which was true enough. So then we pretended to help him look for it—in the other closets, down in the basement, out in the garage, where he finally turned to us: “What’d you guys do, take it somewhere and leave it?”

  Mike looked down. I gave a bewildered look, like Dad was speaking Italian.

  He waited.

  Then I looked down, too.

  He sighed. “Nice going,” he said quietly, and went back in the house.

  Dad never hit us, either one of us, ever, but there were times when I almost wished he would.

  I told Mike, “We’re gonna find that glove.”

  “Think so?”

  We grew up, went off to college, got jobs, all that, but whenever I saw a table at a yard sale or a flea market with an old chubby-fingered ball glove among the dirty vases and cracked dolls, my heart would give a foolish little leap and I’d go over and see if it was a Spalding, Dazzy Vance model. It never was.

  Then one day Mike phoned and told me Dad had dropped dead that morning in the bathroom.

  Kevin Costner’s dead father comes back and they play catch together in a soft golden light, the music tugging and yanking away. But I sat there dry-eyed, arms folded, refusing to cry at a movie that can’t even get it right about which side of the goddam plate Joe Jackson batted from.

  “What bullshit,” I told Nan in the lobby afterwards, loud, letting everyone hear. “What a bunch of total, absolute bullshit!”

  She got me out of there.

  A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE

  —Hello?

  —Just me.

  —Ma. Hey. What’s up?

  —I won’t keep you. You’re probably busy, I know.

  —Nah.

  —Saw something you might be interested in, that’s all.

  —Yeah?

  —You’re sure you’re not busy?

  —Just grading papers. Go ahead.

  —You sure?

  —Ma, what is it you wanted.

  —Hey.

  —What.

  —Don’t take that tone with me.

  —Sorry. Can you tell me, though?

  —Tell you what?

  —Why you called.

  —Never mind. Nothing important.

  —Ma …

  —I’ll try some other time when you’re in a better—

  —Wait. Ma? Y’there? Hey.

  —Still here.

  —Why did you call?

  —I need a reason?

  —No. But you said you had one.

  —I do. What time is it?

  —That’s why you called?

  —I’ve got something in the oven—something you might be interested in, by the way.

  —Oh?

  —What time is it?

  —It’s … two-forty.

  —All right. The reason I called. I don’t usually watch television in the afternoon. I don’t like the feeling. I usually read or find something to do. But today I just felt like what’s the use, what the hell’s the use, why even try.

  —Bad day?

  —It’ll be two years next month. Two years. And yes, I know what you’re going to say, “Time heals all wounds.”

  —I wasn’t going to say that.

  —“We all have to go some—”

  —Or that either.

  —“You had fifty-five years with the man.”

  —Or that.

  —And you’re right, but you know what? I hate to say it but it doesn’t help, not a bit. I’m sorry. I know you mean well.

  —Did you want some company?

  —No, no. I’m fine. Really. You’ve got work to do. Papers to grade, right?

  —I can bring them over.

  —That’s not why I called.

  —I know. But I’m saying—

  —I happened to be looking through the TV Guide and saw something on this afternoon I thought you’d probably want to watch, that’s all.

  —Oh?

  —A Streetcar Named Desire. Says here … let me find it … here it is: “Grim, powerful Tennessee Williams drama about a faded Southern belle. Vivien Leigh and Marlon Brando.” Four stars they give it. Not that that means anything, I’ve seen some four-star crapola, believe me. But I know how much you like all that Tennessee Williamstype stuff, so I thought I’d let you know. It’s on at, let me see, four o’clock.

  —Well, thanks. I’ve seen it but thanks.

  —I figured you’d seen it but I just thought maybe you’d want to see it again. I know with certain movies I like, things like Shop Around the Corner, or Meet Me in St. Louis, upbeat things like that, things that make you feel good instead of miserable, I can watch them over and over, so I just thought maybe you’d want to—

  —See it again, right. Well, thanks. I might. I’ve got a lot of work to do first—

  —Papers to grade.

  —Right. But yeah, I’ll probably take a look. Anyway, thanks.

  —She’s a Southern belle, is she? Vivien Leigh? A faded Southern belle?

  —Right.

  —Like in Gone with the Wind, only she wasn’t faded, she was still quite young in that. I probably told you, probably more than once, I was the very first person in line at its very first showing in Chicago. It was at the—

  —Chicago Theater, right.

  —Nineteen thirty-nine. Dear God …

  —Long time ago?

  —No. That’s just it. Not at all. Until you actually count out the years. Is this the Civil War?

  —Is … what, Ma.

  —This Tennessee Williams thing. It says she’s a faded Southern belle.

  —Actually, no, it’s more like the nineteen forties, early fifties.

  —Oh Jesus, of course, with streetcars, what’m I thinking, they didn’t have streetcars in the—oh God, I’m stupid. I’m very, very stupid and I’m very, very depressed and I know I shouldn’t say this, especially to one of my children, but sometimes I honestly truly wish to God I was—

  —Ma, hey, c’mon, don’t, will ya?

  —Don’t go there?

  —Right.

  —That’s what your brother says. “Ma, don’t go there.”

  —Well, don’t. First of all, you’re not stupid. You are depressed, I’ll give you that.

  —Thanks. All right, well, I’ll let you get back to your—

  —Listen, what time did you say the movie was? Four?

  —Four o’clock. So that’s, let’s see, an hour and …

  —Why don’t I try and finish up and I’ll come over and watch it there.

  —If you’d like. It’s up to you.

  —All right. Well. I’ll see you in a—

  —Might have a little surprise for you.

  —Oh?

  —Little something.

  —What.

  —I’m not going to tell you. It’s still in the oven. Mince pie.

  —Sounds good.

  —With vanilla ice cream.

  —Even better.

  —Pick some up, on your way. I was thinking we could watch Jeopardy, maybe afterwards play some cards, little two-handed rummy.

  —What about Streetcar?

  —Streetcar …

  —The movie. A Streetcar Named—

  —I thought you’d already seen it. Anyway, I don’t understand why you’d want to watch something like that in the first place. Life is gloomy enough, isn’t it?

  —I suppose.

  —I’ve read about this Tennessee Williams. Homosexual. Drug addict. Alcoholic. He killed himself, didn’t he?

  —I don’t think so.

  —Well, maybe he should have.

  —Ma.

  —I’m sorry. That wasn’t very nice. I just don’t have any patience with people who go around feeling sorry for themselves all the time—and I know what you’re thinking, kettle calling the pot, but at least I try to snap out of it. I don’t often succeed but at least I make an effort. People like that don’t even tr
y.

  —Ma, how do you know—

  —They wallow in it, they glory in it, write novels and plays all about how horrible life is, and we’re supposed to be what, grateful? “Oh, thank you for reminding me how shitty life is, I almost forgot. I was almost going to be happy there for a minute.” Don’t laugh. I’m not trying to be funny. I’m very angry. I get very, very angry lately. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.

  —Little bit.

  —If Tennessee Williams wants to be a miserable alcoholic homosexual drug addict, that’s his business, it’s a free country, but why should we have to suffer for it? She was so good in Gone with the Wind.

  —Vivien Leigh?

  —Why would she want to be in something like this, something so morbid and dismal.

  —Have you seen it?

  —I don’t have to see it. Faded Southern belle. Probably drinks. Gets all dressed up, nowhere to go. Listens to music. Lonely, lonely, lonely. Oh God, John, I’m so—

  —Ma, listen, I’m gonna come over now, okay? I’ll bring my work over.

  —Hurry up.

  —I’m on my way.

  —I’m short of breath.

  —Drink a glass of water.

  —I’m starting to panic, oh Jesus I’m starting to panic.

  —Ma, listen.

  —Talk to me, just talk to me, tell me about the movie, about the faded Southern belle, what happens, go on, hurry up, tell me.

  —Well she, she visits her sister …

  —Uh-huh. Her sister. And then?

  —Her sister’s name is Stella.

  —Stella, okay.

  —And she’s married—Stella—to Marlon Brando— Stanley Kowalski—and he’s a, he’s a—well, I don’t know, he bowls, okay?

  —Like your father.

  —Except he’s not like Dad, he’s very, I don’t know—

  —Moody? Your father was never moody. The man worked like a dog for you kids but never complained, not once, never thought to complain. Go ahead. He bowls.

  —So Blanche—the Vivien Leigh character, Blanche DuBois, French for—

  —I had a friend named Blanche. In high school. Blanche … God what was her last name …

  —You doing better?

  —Little bit. Go ahead, though.

  —Well, let’s see, she stays with Stella.

  —Her sister.

  —Right. And Stanley doesn’t like her.

  —Blanche?

  —Right. He thinks she’s stuck up.

  —A Southern belle.

  —Exactly. And she is stuck up, but she’s also very, you know …

  —Lonely?

  —Right.

  —Miserable?

  —Well …

  —Wants to die?

  —She’s pretty unhappy, put it that way.

  —Faded.

  —There you go. Anyway, it goes on like that, and Stanley eventually sort of … you know …

  —Kills her?

  —Rapes her.

  —Of course.

  —So she ends up going crazy and they send for the men in the white coats, and … that’s pretty much it, The End.

  —What a lovely story.

  —As they’re taking her away she says, “I have always depended on the kindness of—”

  —Cunningham.

  —Sorry?

  —Blanche Cunningham. That was my friend’s name. Talk about stuck up. Anyway, what do I know, they give it four stars—although, like I said, that doesn’t necessarily—there’s the oven bell, your pie. Pick up some ice cream on your way, if you’d like.

  —Vanilla?

  —Whatever. I won’t eat any. I’m dieting.

  —You’re not dying, Ma.

  —I said I’m dieting.

  —Oh. All right, well … see you in a bit.

  —If you feel like it.

  TESTAMENT OF LOVE

  As far as I know, the only time I’ve ever been captured on film, or tape anyway, was in my friend Jim Capano’s professionally-produced wedding video, titled Testament of Love, which I saw one evening at Jim and Janet’s, the three of us sitting on their brand new couch, me in the middle. It was grueling, almost two hours, but Jim kept replacing my beer and I kept finding appropriate things to say:

  —What a great shot of the two of you, huh?

  —Now that is one cute little flower girl.

  —Boy, Janet, your dad is really tall.

  —Look … at that … cake.

  —Hey, that guy can dance!

  It was finally almost over. The reception-hall band had quit, and at a table full of empty glasses, Janet’s burly brother was speaking earnestly to the camera, an arm around his little wife, wishing Jim and Janet “all the happiness in the whole damn world and boy I really mean that.”

  Then, suddenly, there I was. As her brother talked on, you could see me in the background at the far end of the room, walking across the empty dance floor in my cheap suit, one hand in my pants pocket, the other holding a bottle of beer.

  “Oh, my God,” I said quietly, deeply moved.

  “What’s the matter?” Jim asked.

  “Nothing. Janet’s brother. He’s really muscular.”

  “Yeah, he works out a lot,” she said.

  I was gone. I had crossed the floor and was gone.

  Janet’s brother went on some more about what a wonderful couple Jim and Janet were, even their first names beginning with the same letter, while I waited for me to walk across the other way. But I didn’t come back. I wondered what I was doing. Probably standing somewhere off by myself, out of the way, just me and my beer.

  This was turning out to be one of the saddest movies I had ever seen.

  At last the tired happy couple stood waving goodbye, everyone cheering, wishing them all the happiness in the whole damn world. Then fade-out, and across the screen in slender letters: Not The End But The Beginning.

  Nodding, nodding, I got up from the couch with tears in my eyes: “‘Not the end but the beginning,’ that’s really … I like that.”

  Jim and Janet were touched by how touched I was. We hugged and said things, and I got the hell out of there.

  FARGO

  I dream I’m in a Chinese restaurant in my pajamas at a table by myself, the actor Steve Buscemi pouring ice water into my glass.

  —Would you care to see a menu? he says.

  —You’re Steve Buscemi! I tell him.

  —Would you care to see a menu?

  —You were great in Fargo. I love that movie.

  —Would you care to—

  —What are you doing waiting tables?

  —Would you care to see—

  —Is this a movie? I whisper. Are we in a movie? Is this a scene we’re doing here?

  —Would you care to see a menu?

  —Yes, waiter, I tell him with a wink, letting him know I know. I would like very much to see a menu—if it’s not too inconvenient, I add sarcastically.

  He walks off.

  I take a sip of water, thinking hard: Chinese restaurant … in my pajamas … Steve Buscemi …

  It all adds up.

  He returns with a menu but I tell him to forget it, I know what’s going on: This isn’t a movie, this is a dream!

  He hands me the menu. I’ll be back to take your order, he says, and walks off again.

  I look at the menu. It’s in Chinese. But I’m somehow reading it: Soon … you will give … a small … laugh.

  I can read Chinese, I realize, and give a little laugh.

  Steve Buscemi returns with a gun, wanting my money.

  —I haven’t even ordered yet, I point out.

  He wants the money now.

  This is silly, I decide, and get up to leave. One of us is dreaming, I tell him, and I think it’s me.

  But he holds the gun against my chest. I can feel the cold metal through my thin pajama top.

  —Where’s the money? he says.

  —You were great in Fargo, I remind him. This is like that
one scene—remember?—you’ve got the gun, you’re all pissed off, and—

  —Where’s the fucking money?

  —Exactly—there’s that face. You’re good, you know that? You’re really, really …

  He begins slowly squeezing the trigger.

  If he shoots me I’ll never wake up, I realize.

  I tell him the money’s in my wallet in my pants on the back of a chair in my apartment but if he’ll write his address on a napkin …

  He continues slowly squeezing the trigger.

  So now I’m begging: Oh Jesus, please? Don’t? I didn’t mean to be here. I never mean to be anywhere. Let me wake up and I promise, I swear to God—

  He shoots me.

  I fall backwards slowly, arms wide, eyes closing like a doll’s.

  I’m dead. Or in a movie. Or dreaming.

  I lie very still, waiting to see.

  BRIEF ENCOUNTER

  I was watching with Marie, on her couch, lights off, my arm around her shoulder. Celia Johnson was getting to me with those big sorrowful eyes and aristocratic accent: “This misery cahn’t lahst.” And whenever the Rachmaninoff theme music started up, tears immediately sprang to my eyes. I had to work hard not to make any sounds. At one point I gave a sort of whimper—when she tells Trevor Howard, “I want to die”—but I covered it with a cough.

  The ending, though, put me over the top. Trevor Howard is gone—they’ve said goodbye, forever—and Celia Johnson (Laura) is sitting at home with her good kind solid husband Fred who, noticing how miserable she looks over there with her needlepoint, lays aside his crossword puzzle and goes to her, getting down on one knee beside her chair:

  “Laura?”

  She answers, still far away: “Yes, dear?”

  “Whatever your dream was, it wasn’t a very happy one, was it.”

  She’s trying not to cry. “No,” she says.

  “You’ve been a long way away.”

  She’s trying very hard not to cry. “Yes,” she says.

  “Thank you for coming back to me,” he tells her.

  She breaks down: “Oh, Fred.”

  They embrace, music up.

  The End.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and headed quickly for the bathroom. I locked the door and stood there holding onto the sink, getting a grip on myself, then tossed some water in my face, toweled off and returned to the couch.

  Marie had meanwhile turned off the television and switched on a lamp. Her face was bone dry. “You okay?” she asked.