Someday Jennifer

by Risto Pakarinen

  This was what happened in the episode of Columbo, but I thought it best not to mention that.

  “Of course, I never made a mistake. I could have made a projector change in my sleep, my eyes closed, one hand tied behind my back.”

  I nodded politely. I wasn’t following Rexi’s train of thought, but the last thing I wanted to do was say something he’d interpret as an insult, causing him to storm out and leave me in the booth. I was, however, starting to wonder if he’d ever get around to showing me which was the Play button.

  “But then came these platters—those things, the non-rewind systems,” he said, and again nodded toward the large table. “That way, the projectionist could put the movie together in advance. Then you only needed to do it once. You just splice the reels together and play it, and since the film runs all the way around, there’s no rewinding, no changing of reels.”

  “Oh. That sounds easy enough.”

  Rexi looked at me. He looked tired and his face was lined, but there was a fiery intensity burning in the centre of his pupils. He smiled a crooked smile, shrugged his shoulders, and took a step toward the door.

  “I guess you won’t be needing me, then,” he said.

  “No!” I shouted. “I mean, please don’t go. I didn’t mean it that way, just that it must have been easy for somebody like yourself.” I pulled out my little diary and a pen. “I don’t expect I’ll remember it all. I mean, how could I? Don’t worry, I’ll take notes.”

  He pursed his lips, and when he thought I’d squirmed sufficiently he nodded and resumed his lecture.

  “Well, kid, even with the spliced reels, there’s still a craft to it, still no margin for error. It’s not just about the assemblage. You do all that in advance. But you’ve got focus, aperture, light levels. And God forbid you ever dropped one of those things,” he said, pointing to the reels. “I know other theatres had two men do the assembling, but I always did it by myself,” he said.

  “Why two men?”

  “Because they weigh so much,” Rexi said coolly.

  He looked at his wrist as if to check the time, but he wasn’t wearing a watch.

  “You know what time is?” he asked. “It’s time to get to work.” He grabbed one of the film reel canisters and read the title of the movie that was written on it. “Back to the Future? Good choice.”

  “Hey, Mr. Rexi, sir, what can I do?”

  “You can get me a cup of coffee. Large. Black.”

  Then he opened the first canister and got to work. I put my diary back in my pocket and scurried away.

  ONE CUP OF COFFEE wasn’t quite enough for Rexi who, three times, sent me out for more. When I wasn’t on a coffee run, I sat next to Rexi in the projection booth, listening to his war stories, careful not to touch anything, move anything, or do anything unless specifically told to do it.

  When he took off his olive-green army jacket, I could see large sweat stains under the arms of his brown-khaki T-shirt.

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do?” I asked him.

  “I’ve got this,” he said, like a bomb disposal expert hovering over the task at hand, eyes fixed, hands steady. “It’s just that each one of these reels has to be spliced and transferred onto the platter, so it takes some time,” he added, and bobbed his head toward the pile of film canisters. “I could do it quicker, but I want to do it right.”

  “What if the film breaks?” I asked him.

  Rexi laughed. “It won’t. I’ve tried to break it by pulling it apart as hard as I can; even I couldn’t do it.” I got the feeling I could trust him on that one. “And then, once I’ve done this, you’re set. I’ll add the auditorium light cues as well,” he went on.

  “Okay, great. Thanks,” I said, writing light cues down in my notes. “Is there anything you’d like me to do?”

  “Why don’t you get me a cup of coffee?”

  I put on my jacket, again, and walked to the gas station, again. Downtown Kumpunotko had gotten quieter with each of my coffee runs, and now the streets were completely deserted, not a person in sight. The sun had about an hour earlier, and when I looked at the clock on top of the bank building, its big red digital numbers shone in the darkness: 6:05.

  I walked back with a large paper mug in my hand. When I got within a couple of blocks of the Atlas, I stopped to admire it from afar. The streetlights shed some light on the facade, and the light from the lobby came beaming out through the glass door, creating dramatic shadows. The cinema was alive again; it was the place to be, where people could come to forget their worries, escape from reality, go on an adventure with their friends and dream themselves away with a loved one. It was a bittersweet feeling, knowing that all of this was only temporary.

  I looked at the big clock again, and that’s when it struck me.

  It was 6:11, but that wasn’t it. It was the way the clock glowed over the market square that stirred something inside my brain.

  It was time. It was time to tell the good people of Kumpunotko that the Atlas was back. I ran in through the side door, straight through the little corridor, and into the lobby, where I found the switch for the neon sign.

  It was only a little switch, an old-fashioned turn-switch, but somehow it felt like it represented the culmination of everything I’d set out to do—well, not everything, obviously, but since I’d first looked through the grime-streaked lobby windows and seen my old movie theatre in a state of ruin, it had all been building toward this. I’d set out to accomplish something, and it had worked.

  I turned it on.

  Nothing.

  But that’s because I was inside the building.

  I jogged back through the theatre, out the side door, along the alley, and onto the street.

  And there it was, glowing bright across the town.

  Atlas.

  “He was back,” I narrated. I ran a few steps back and forth and even let out a scream, like Doc Brown after he’s sent Marty back to the future, and in the process, spilled Rexi’s coffee on my hand. I hurried back to give it to him before it got cold.

  He was still hunched over the side table, assembling the movie. I put the cup down on the table in front of him.

  “Thanks,” he said without lifting his eyes from the film.

  He spent another few minutes focusing on a very precise piece of celluloid.

  “Hey, listen, there’s somebody here to see you. Got in just after you left. Downstairs,” he said.

  “Oh, okay. That’s weird,” I said, and left the booth. Partly weird that someone—probably Sara—was back to see me. Partly weird that Rexi had let me stand there for five minutes before he told me.

  I walked back downstairs and checked the lobby—still empty—then headed for the auditorium. I couldn’t see anyone, at first.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, friend,” said a voice in the dark.

  My heart skipped a beat and then went into overdrive. My legs were like cooked spaghetti, my mouth was dry, and all I could hear was a whooshing sound in my ears as all the blood in my body went rushing through my head in every direction at once.

  “I’m sorry. I mean, it’s me, Jennifer,” she said, clearing her throat. “From high school?”

  She was leaning against the column, her hands behind her back, her long overcoat open. Her hair was shoulder-length, and it cast a shadow on her face. “Jennifer?” I managed a whisper. I stood in one place, my arms by side, not moving, a silly grin on my face. “Jennifer Berg?”

  She smiled and stepped into the half-light.

  “I got this invitation in the mail,” she began. “I just wanted to stop by to make sure it was really you. Peter Eksell.”

  She held her arms out, and I stepped forward into them. She pulled me into a polite hug. She smelled of a soft perfume; I couldn’t quite place it. As if speaking would have destroyed the magic, I just nodded, vigorously, and then out came a whisper, “Yep. It’s me.”

  She let go of me and stepped back.

  “How w
as Paris?” I blurted, and she burst out laughing.

  Her skin looked smooth, her hair cut to create a dark frame around her beautiful face. Around her neck, under a silk scarf, was a simple golden chain. She was wearing black dress pants, in a very Diane Keaton kind of way, and like the true lady I knew her to be, a pair of black leather gloves.

  “It was very sweet of you to think of me. Thank you,” she went on. Her voice was deeper now. It still had the same sweetness, but underlined with maturity. There was a huskiness to it, like peppered honey. “I hope it’s okay that I came by; I know the invitation said Wednesday. I’ll come, of course. It was just such a surprise!”

  “You look . . . fantabulous.” I finally managed to get some words out of my mouth.

  Jennifer blushed and looked at her feet.

  “Thank you. You look good too, Peter. It’s been a while.”

  “Thirty years,” I said, almost in my movie-trailer voice.

  “And now you run the movie theatre. That’s great. You always did love movies. It’s like it was meant to be.”

  “Supergirl,” I said, and then chided myself. Why was I only capable of grunting single words? In the old days, Jennifer was the only one who’d made me feel at ease, the only girl in school I could speak to without mumbling. I cleared my throat. “Remember when we came here and watched Supergirl?”

  “That’s right! We sat over there,” Jennifer said, and pointed at the row behind her. She let out a nervous giggle and played with her hair. The giggle made me relax. It was the same old infectious Jennifer giggle that had always made me laugh.

  “And you wondered why her hair changed colour whenever she put on her superhero suit.”

  “Oh yes! Isn’t it funny the things we remember.”

  “I can’t believe you’re standing there. Jennifer Berg! I mean, I hoped you could come to the premiere, but . . . I think I’m in a state of shock.”

  She giggled again. “Anyway, I just wanted to stop by and thank you for the invitation,” she said, and pressed her hands against her chest, one on top of the other. “I won’t keep you longer. I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.”

  “Oh, it’s fine.”

  “I should be going, though.” She buttoned her overcoat and picked up her purse from the floor.

  “Of course,” I said. “Thanks for coming. I’ll walk you out. You’ve been here before, I know, but still.”

  “Ever the gentleman,” she said with a grin.

  We walked up the corridor, Jennifer in front, me two steps behind. She pushed the door open and the cool autumn air blew her hair onto her face.

  She brushed it aside and turned around.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Good luck, Peter.”

  I stood by the door and watched her as she walked to the sidewalk and turned back to look at me. Then she waved, wiggling her fingers, and disappeared around the corner.

  I stood at the door for a long time, hoping that the cool air would clear my head and settle my heartbeat.

  It didn’t.

  I walked back inside and stopped at the exact spot where Jennifer had stood, replaying my painstakingly embarrassing lines in my head over and over again.

  “They say no battle plan survives contact with the enemy,” I narrated. “His plan didn’t even survive contact with a friend.”

  I climbed the stairs to the projection booth to see how Rexi was getting on with his assembly of the reels.

  “That went well,” he said, “I guess.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I think she likes you. Anyway, I’m done. Do me a favour. Go sit downstairs in the centre seat.”

  I didn’t need to be asked twice.

  I skipped down the stairs two at a time, ignoring that annoying sweaty smell that still lingered in the little corridor, and pushed through into the auditorium.

  As I sat down in the best seat in the house, the curtains began to glide open.

  The screen, usually a dull grey, jumped to life: first a luminous silver-white, then a rich, deep black.

  There was a crackling woof from all around as the speakers hummed into action.

  A scratchy scribble of letters appeared on the screen, totally out of focus, and I think I heard Rexi swearing. Then the letters came into focus.

  Universal Pictures, Inc.

  Universal Pictures, Europe, GmbH.

  Universal European Distribution, SARL.

  Next, a large diamond shape appeared with a square inside it, and a circle inside that. The circle was like a sniper’s scope, with alignment lines top to bottom and side to side. And inside that circle was a number 5, which became a 4, then a 3, 2—

  Then it all cut, and the curtains began to close.

  I heard Rexi shuffling around upstairs.

  “We’re good, kid. She’s loaded and ready to go. Time for a beer.”

  I LOCKED UP and rode home, my head spinning and my heart beating faster than ever before. Just before I got to our street, I took a sharp right toward the football pitch. I threw my bike onto the ground and started to run toward the stands, and then up into them, hopping from one row to the next. Once I got to the top, I ran on the spot for a few steps, and then—in a glorious Rocky moment—raised my arms toward the sky.

  Chapter 40

  Under Pressure

  WHEN I WOKE UP on the day of the big event, my mind was at ease. I was so calm that it scared me; it occurred to me that I might be in a coma. I lingered in bed for a while, trying to come up with the thing I had forgotten to take care of, but I couldn’t think of anything.

  I played back my meeting with Jennifer. While I’d basically wanted the ground to open up and swallow me, I thought that my general muteness had at least prevented me from saying anything I might regret.

  I could hear noises from downstairs, the sound of people talking, but the voices didn’t sound like Mom’s and Dad’s. The sun was shining into my room, casting a long shadow of the TV onto the poster in which the monkeys were playing poker with big grins on their faces.

  I looked at my clock radio. It was 11:02 a.m. I had slept for more than twelve hours, probably for the first time since my teens. I dragged myself out of bed, picked up my jeans from the floor, and climbed into them. I felt a familiar lump in one of the pockets.

  Since being pulled over by the cops, I had carried the Time Machine with me. I knew it by heart by now, and I reread it again, muttering the words, almost as if it were holy scripture. Then I folded both letters and put them back in my pocket.

  I considered loading up The Hobbit. I’d gotten to 82.5 percent of the adventure before I’d passed out last night. It would have been nice to get it all done today, would have felt significant somehow, but I decided not to. Today there were more important things than computer games.

  When I walked downstairs to get some breakfast, Mom was at the kitchen table working on a newspaper crossword puzzle. Dad was sitting in his TV chair, watching a movie. A musical refrain caught my attention, and I whipped my head around to see Marty driving the DeLorean to the start line Doc had painted across the street.

  “Are you watching Back to the Future?” I asked. “Spoiling it for tonight!”

  “I wanted to see who the Doc person was,” Dad replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this movie.”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “It’s fantastic so far—don’t tell me how it ends,” he said, and raised the volume. I glanced at the TV and saw Doc hanging from the clock tower.

  “Won’t say a word. What do you think of Doc?”

  “He’s the best. I’m just not sure about that Biff character.”

  “Biff!” I said, and slapped myself on the forehead.

  I ran upstairs, dialled a number, and, like Michael Jackson on a dance floor, spun into my room to talk to Tina. I had told her about my idea that Tim could dress up as Biff, and she’d said she would discuss it with him, but she hadn’t got back to me. She also still hadn’t told me for sure if they were ev
en coming. I knew she wouldn’t want to let me down; I also knew she and Mom were still trying to out-stubborn one another. I realized that in my rush to paint walls and get forms stamped, I’d left it too late to fix my own family before the big night.

  Why hadn’t that been on my list? Jennifer—yes; Atlas—yes; mother and sister can barely talk to one another—deal with it later.

  The phone rang eleven, twelve times. No answer. I waited another ten seconds, and then hung up and dialled the same number again, standing next to the phone. Still no answer.

  I put the phone down and shouted down the stairs.

  “Mooooom! Have you talked to Tina lately?”

  “No!” she shouted back.

  “We’re just going out,” called Dad. “Do you need anything?”

  “No thanks,” I shouted back down.

  I went back into my room. Suddenly, I had a splitting headache and felt slightly sick to my stomach. In the bathroom I ran my wrists under the tap and did some deep breathing. That seemed to calm me down.

  It was just nerves, surely. Last-minute nerves. Tina was sure to come . . . right?

  I decided to distract myself with some final admin work.

  On my desk was the set of mustard-yellow perforated tickets I had bought at the bookstore. Next to it was Dad’s list of people he’d promised tickets to. I sat down to finally count them.

  There were forty-two names on the list. I had seen about a dozen of them at the Atlas, doing different things, delivering machines or other things, talking to Dad outside the storage room. With two tickets each, and five to Rexi, that was eighty-nine.

  Then there were Mom and Dad, Sara plus one, Kim plus one, and of course the owner of the coffee shop, to whom I’d promised a couple of tickets when he’d let me put up the poster. Plus the library lady’s two. And Tina and Sofie. And Tim. And Jennifer’s two.

  There weren’t going to be many left to sell to the good folks of Kumpunotko.

  I dialled Tina’s number again. Still no answer.

  I resumed my counting. Eighty-nine plus . . . I tapped each name on my own list with a pencil and counted them one by one. One-oh-four. And me.