Rough Cut
Page 25
She chose the center of the center row, eyes still roaming the wall murals and garland-draped columns. “What are we going to see?”
“Super Pickle,” said Harry.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve never heard of it. Who’s in it?”
“Someone you know.”
“Who?”
Harry didn’t answer.
The organist finished playing, stood up and took a bow. Harry and Rachel applauded. He departed offstage.
The theater lights dimmed. The purple curtains parted.
A jittery silent film came to life on the big screen. The colors were faded. The picture was blemished with scratches and dirt. But the images lit up the auditorium with joyous, youthful energy.
Two teenage boys ran around a suburban backyard, acting out a goofy adventure, occasionally interrupted by hand-drawn dialogue titles that exclaimed worn clichés like “We’ll track him to his lair!” One of the boys wore green tights, green 1970s go-go boots, and a green cape created out of a beach towel. The other boy dressed in brown.
“That’s Super Pickle,” said Harry. “He fights crime. And that’s his sidekick, Pretzel Boy.”
The scene shifted to a patio deck. Super Pickle and Pretzel Boy battled a third teenager, a chubby kid in a white T-shirt with a red lightning bolt drawn on it in magic marker. He wore a football helmet decorated with glitter and silver streamers.
“That’s Super Pickle’s arch enemy, Shock Master. Electricity shoots out of his fingertips, see?”
Shock Master pointed his arms at Pretzel Boy and wiggled his hands. Pretzel Boy clutched his chest and jumped off the patio into a bush.
Rachel started laughing. “Harry...is that you?”
“Yes,” admitted Harry. “I am Super Pickle. Those other guys, they were my best friends from high school, Kevin and Tim. We had such a blast making those movies.”
As the silent reel of film continued, he told her about his earliest moviemaking adventures. He described his cherished Super 8 camera, a gift from his father. He recalled the weekends devoted to plotting, creating costumes, inventing special effects, choreographing battle scenes.
“We’d hold the world premieres in my basement and show the films on a bed sheet,” said Harry. “All the kids in the neighborhood would come. We charged twenty-five cents admission. Ten cents for a matinee.”
Super Pickle took a jolt from Shock Master and fell backwards into a screen door. Rachel broke up laughing.
Harry’s eyes remained glued on the images of his youth. “These films bring it all back,” he said. “For so many years, I forgot why I wanted to make movies in the first place. I got lost, caught up in the business. I did it for all the wrong reasons. I forgot to have fun. Back then, do you think I cared what people thought about Super Pickle? Was I looking for respect and admiration in those green tights? Great press clippings? Lots of quarters? No, I just wanted to triumph over evil and have a happy ending.”
Super Pickle and Pretzel Boy defeated Shock Master by turning his own hands against him so that he zapped himself. Shock Master rolled on the ground, convulsing for about 30 seconds, before a title card announced “The End!” The screen flickered and turned white, then dark.
Rachel applauded. “Bravo!” She turned to Harry and said, “That was great. Is there more?”
“Are you kidding?” responded Harry. “We’re having a double feature tonight, just like the good old days.”
“I can’t wait,” said Rachel.
The next movie began, but it wasn’t a Super 8 short from Harry’s childhood archives. The screen filled with a crisp, full frame of Harry, recently shot, looking into the camera.
“Hello, Rachel,” he said.
Rachel glanced at the real Harry, and he motioned for her to look back at the screen.
On the screen, Harry said, “Rachel, I want to start off by apologizing for doing this on film. But you know how we artists are —we want everything to be perfect. I think this is Take 42. So I’m going to try real hard not to stutter or garble my sentences, but I’m nervous; so I hope you’ll cut me some slack. If it gets real bad, I can always fix it in post, right? OK, lame joke. Rachel...I hope it’s no mystery how I feel about you. You are the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. Even more exciting than almost getting killed. You are the reason I wake up in the morning and I don’t have to meditate anymore, or read good reviews about myself to feel happy. The fact that you still love me, even after I lied to you, even after you found out I’m not the great filmmaker you thought I was...that’s the best review I ever got. You’re my Emmy, my Oscar, my Lifetime Achievement Award. I wanted to bring you to this theater today because it’s the most beautiful theater in the world. I wanted to use this setting because it’s special, so filled with history; and I thought maybe I would...OK, I’ll cut to the chase. Enough babbling, Harry. Save it for the director’s cut. Here’s the big moment, the payoff, the music swells...Rachel, will you marry me?”
Stunned, Rachel turned from the screen and faced the Harry beside her. He held a small, opened jewelry box. A diamond ring glittered inside.
The movie clip ended; the screen dimmed.
“Rachel,” said Harry, echoing his filmed counterpart. “Will you marry me?” “Yes,” she said. “Through sickness and health?” “Yes.” “Through blockbusters and bombs?” “Yes.” She threw her arms around Harry and hugged him.
The organist returned to the Wurlitzer. He played the triumphant theme to the movie Rocky.
Harry held Rachel close. He felt like he was emerging from a long and difficult fog —no, an L.A. smog —and had discovered gold on the other side. He had finally achieved what mattered, and that was a wrap.
About the Author
Brian Pinkerton is the author of Killer’s Diary, Abducted, Vengeance and other literary disturbances. He lives in the suburbs of Chicago with his wife and two children. His cyber-home is www.brianpinkerton.com.