by Athanasios
TIME: FEBRUARY 7TH, 1963. DELPHI THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A
Claude Major sat in the dark movie theatre, watching the last few minutes of a film. Natalie Wood cried at Richard Beymer’s feet and asked George Chakris how to use a gun on herself. Claude, here by himself, preferred to enjoy the story without distraction. On other occasions, he watched films with his various dates, but always ended up returning to get the full impact of the story without having to explain the plot or to repeat bits that his date hadn’t heard.
In terms of movie watching, it was a landmark year for Claude, this month in particular. He’d been captivated by what would eventually become classic films. He saw Splendor in the Grass two weeks earlier and followed it with Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Both nearly moved him to tears, the latter with unrelenting optimism — something he craved.
Just this past week, he had left the theatre full of confidence and hope after seeing Fast Eddie’s rise and fall in the Hustler. Eddie’s perseverance despite his problems appealed to Claude.
Now the credits began to scroll up the screen and Claude knew the break from his unbearable life was over. He remained in his seat until the musical score faded and the house lights cast the velvet seats into the starkness of reality. In the dark, those seats were smooth to the touch and folded you with their high backs like a blanket. In the harsh glow of the lights, Claude struggled to ignore the tears, worn patches and stains, all over the comforting velvet. He did not want to face the reality that this refuge was anything less than perfect, so he kept his head down and avoided everyone’s gaze.
He regularly saw films a second time, because he did not want to share his belief and connection to the story with anyone. He was very selfish in this, believing the inclusion of anyone else would interfere with his appreciation and understanding of characters and their experiences. For this reason, he spoke to no one about films. He preferred to keep his viewing experience pure.
He thought about the story and the different elements he had just seen. At the top of the steps, however, he could not avoid a boy who, sitting up quickly, jostled him. Annoyed, Claude lashed out at him for bringing him back to reality.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, good for nothing little shit!” Claude continued on his way and barely noticed the joy on the boy’s face.
“That was such a great re-interpretation.” He spoke to no one in particular, but to himself. “Like Romeo and Juliet in our time.” The boy sat back down and smiled, happy in the moment. Claude continued past the front door, ticket window and out into the street.
The boy had not said anything to Claude, hadn’t even noticed his rude reaction, and that made Claude envy him all the more. He was completely transported by the film, which was something Claude strove for, to the exclusion of all else. Many times he tried and came close but minutes later it quickly faded.
If the boy had not bumped into Claude, he would not have even noticed his existence. He had brown hair, wore jeans and a regular shirt. He was beneath notice, but Claude would remember him for years to come, even though he couldn’t recall how tall he was or any specific features. All he remembered was his acceptance and complete enjoyment of the film.
Claude stopped thinking about his own failed transport, returning to the reality of what lay ahead. It was unbearable, because it paled to what was represented in movies. He wanted to watch life unfold, to be onscreen. He did not like returning to a life with a mediocre wife, mediocre kids and a mediocre house.
Some could say he was a fortunate man. His wife did not mind his frequent escapes to the movie houses. She wished he would simply enjoy it, instead of turning it into another reason to be stressed. Claude did not say much of anything. He only did what most other Majors — his father, his grandfather and ancestors well back to the old country — had done. He went to work, paid the bills and did exactly as was told.
Inside the theatre, the boy still marveled at West Side Story, at times, talking out loud. Kosta caught sight of the smile that creased Adam’s face. Only he cared that he was smiling.
TIME: FEBRUARY 7TH, 1963. PHIL’S BAR, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A
Marshall Steinman had few vices. He worked hard and managed to keep his bookstore, during a time when many others were going under. He kept food on the table, a wife who did the store’s books and a daughter that was keeping him with her mother. Marshall got together with Beth because he wanted a family. He believed his urges would go away when he did the right thing. They didn’t. That’s why he now drank.
That was the most obvious vice. He drank and kept drinking as soon as the key turned in his front door. When he got home, he started with his Chivas and paid little attention to his wife, but did whatever his little girl wanted. The other he counted as a vice, but depending to whom he spoke, it wasn’t considered as such in San Francisco.
Marshall craved mangina. Not outwardly, anyway. He craved some men in his store, preferring the sensitive, literary types who looked malnourished and in need of paternal nurturing. He never acted upon those urges, he merely let his mind wander and never settle.
Most nights, he would drink at home since bars were too expensive. He was a repressed faggot and alcoholic, not an idiot. A bottle, bought at a corner store, cost a hell of a lot less than one purchased at a local watering hole. Tonight was different. Beth had finally given up on trying to bed him and decided to find happiness elsewhere. At other times, at moments of exasperation, she did the same thing, but always returned when Marshall gave her a hard tumble. During those romps he conjured up Oscar Wilde or Peter O’Toole languishing beneath him.
This time, it was different. She hadn’t given him a chance to persuade her to stay, but took his precious daughter and left. So, Marshall took his wallet and went to the closest bar. He didn’t go far, planted his rump on the stool farthest from the door and demanded his own bottle of whiskey with a very loud fifty-dollar bill.
He watched the front door, fantasizing about a few of the men who walked through it. He got up, and to the thoughts of grizzled lips, rubbed a few out in the men’s room. He did this no more than three times that night, and if he had actually mentioned it to any of his fantasy men he would’ve bedded at least one of them.
Three-quarters of the way down the bottle, the door opened and Marshall was unable to take his eyes off of the man who walked through it. He walked with the military precision and trim grace that Marshall admired in O’Toole’s Lawrence of Arabia. He wasn’t the blond, sun-blessed brilliance of O’Toole, but had his own darker tan that absorbed light.
Emboldened by the drink, and calmed by the repeated depletion of his libido, Marshall reeled over and sat down next to him. Marshall’s glance wavered from side to side, though he held onto the vision before him as he introduced himself.
“Hey, I’m Marshall, who’re you?” It came out more coherently than Marshall could’ve hoped.
“Hello. It’s Kosta. My name’s Kosta.” He smirked at Marshall’s obvious infatuation and continued, “So, what are we drinking, Marshall?”
“You’ll drink with me?” Marshall couldn’t believe this. “Uh, we’re drinking whiskey. Chivas, ‘cause only the best touches my lips. Heh, heh, heh…” Marshall began giggling like a little girl at the unintentional innuendo.
“Chivas Regal. Ah, that’s the stuff then. Hey, bartender, give us another glass here,” Kosta said as he caught a thrown whiskey glass. “Thanks. Marshall, you’ve been drinking. What seems to be the trouble, or are you celebrating?” Kosta poured out a portion of the bottle to which Marshall was clinging and he nearly fell off his stool.
“I’m celebrating that my wife finally left me.” Once again, Marshall made himself laugh.
“Ha, ha, to the peace that comes from silence,” Kosta proffered and both threw back their glasses.
“What brings you to San Francisco, Kosta?” Marshall asked.
“How do you know I don’t live here?” The question surprised Kosta.
�
�I would’ve remembered you,” Marshall replied with unmasked adoration.
“Oh, so you know everybody in San Francisco then?” Kosta smiled at the poor fellow’s attempt to woo.
“Yes, in point of fact, I do. I know everybody in this city. You can believe that.” At this point, Marshall would say anything to keep this man’s attention.
“Everybody?” Kosta decided that it was worth trying something. “Do you know a McGrath, first name starts with a B and sounds weird and old?”
“McGrath. Who’s he, your boyfriend? That bald fuck?” Marshall was instantly jealous that this man might be unavailable. Not that he would do anything about it, but he could not bear to think of him with anyone else.
“You don’t really know him, do you?” Kosta could not believe this; it was too much like a desperate plotline in a story.
“Balzeer McGrath, yes. He’s a bald guy, wears black all the time, tattoos on his wrists. Likes to think he’s some warlock or something. Comes into my bookstore and I’ve sold him rare books on occasion, but he loves Batman comics.”
“Yeah, that’s him, I guess. Where is this bookstore?” Kosta could not believe his luck.
“I’m not telling you. You look like some cop. What do you want that freak for? What’s he done?”
“No, you’ve got me all wrong, Marshall. I’m no cop, I’m just an old friend, and no, he’s not my boyfriend.” He poured two more drinks and hoped that this moonstruck drunk would continue telling what he knew.
“Hey, I’m onto you, ya faggot! You think you can drink my whiskey and get in my pants? Ya lousy queer!” Marshall took a swing at Kosta who sidestepped away, letting him fall to the floor.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, friend. I’ll leave now. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” Kosta quickly threw a ten-dollar bill on the counter and left before Marshall could pick himself up off of the floor.
TIME: FEBRUARY 8TH, 1963. HAIGHT & ASHBURY STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A
Brian Pepper was walking home, a cigarette in his hand and a song in his heart. All was just fine in the world. He passed a magazine stand and decided to pick up yet another copy of his magazine. He thought of it as “his,” because a lead story in that week’s Time Magazine, with East Germany’s Ulbricht on the cover, was his.
For years, he’d been submitting articles and made a tidy living doing it. He’d also been rejected by Time for as long as he could remember. To be honest, for the life of him, he did not know why they finally chose this particular article.
It was Brian, firing off the wayward thought — showing movies in airplanes would divert the passengers’ attention from the flying process. Less than a week later, a plane was taken over and hijacked, a term Brian had used in that article.
He leaned against the wall of a building and re-read the entire story. His words, printed on magazine stock, took on a relevance they hadn’t conveyed on typewritten sheets. At home, they were merely ramblings he put on paper and sent to a number of addresses. He was overjoyed to be able to work at a craft he was also a big fan of.
Walking away from the newsstand, with an armful of magazines, he saw a dusty Chevy cab round the corner. For no conscious reason, he crossed the street to sit on a bench, opened one of the magazines and stared across the street. The Chevy was an older model, from sometime around the middle of the last decade, probably ‘58, but other than that, was not notable.
A man stepped out of the car, went to its trunk and removed a heavy sack. It looked like it weighed more than he did, but he hefted it over his shoulder and walked around a corner and into a dark alley. He came back a few seconds later, without the sack. He wore tan clothes, which looked like they belonged in a desert or a safari, and he walked with an authoritarian gait that Brian associated with some visiting British officers he met during his time in the Canadian army. He didn’t posses the arrogance Brian remembered his movement was just precise and fluid.
He got back into the car and was about to drive away when an old woman stood in his way. She hadn’t been there seconds before and her presence startled Brian, but the man’s reaction was even more startling. The lumbering Chevy screeched forward, slammed into and threw the old woman over the top of its hood until she rolled off the other end of the trunk. Brian sat there, mouth agape, trying to decide if he should report the accident before, or after, he wrote about it.
He watched the car screech to a halt at the end of the block and screech into reverse to repeat the same process backwards. The old woman was gone and Brian’s head snapped from left to right trying to find her. He was sure she fell in a heap where she’d been struck. All pretense of reading the magazines was gone. They lay at his feet as he watched the scene with rapt attention. He saw her again, but this time she ran to the passenger side of the Chevy with a speed that made Brian question his vision. He couldn’t follow her blurred movements, but caught glimpses of her reaching past the door to the man inside.
The man scrambled with the steering wheel and tried to find something inside while fending her off. He jerked the cab into a rear turn and stopped suddenly, slamming the old woman into a brick wall. She landed with enough force to dislodge chunks of brick and leave an impression in the wall. She did not fall to the ground, but bounded back, rushing the car with a fevered speed.
Brian grew weak, watching something he simply could not believe — it defied his entire perception of reality. Little old ladies did not appear out of thin air. They didn’t move faster than Bobby Hull, going to the net; nobody moved that fast. Little old ladies did not get hit head-on by a two-ton cab, fly ass over teakettle past its back end and slam against a brick wall, only to rebound, claw and rend. Nobody could do this, let alone little old ladies.
The car settled for an instant, facing Brian, the headlights blinding him and keeping him from seeing inside. The lights retreated as the man slid into reverse, attempting to get away from the advancing geriatric. He spun the wheel and accelerated, but not quickly enough. He cleared enough distance between them, stopped and quickly put the car into drive, slamming into her again.
The cab hit her with enough momentum that the bumper bent her knees forward, making Brian wince as he watched. It drug and pinned her against the brick wall, still caved-in from the earlier collision. She tried to push the Chevy away from her, but was unsuccessful. The cab still spun its wheels and Brian thought the man was intent on forcing her through the wall. He stopped only when she ceased to struggle. When he stepped out of the cab, he was not as immaculate as he had been. The right side of his shirt was in tatters. Apparently, the old woman had been able to shred it. He had an axe in one hand, a bottle of clear liquid in the other. He uncorked the liquid and approached the limp old woman, emptying the bottle on her as she came screeching back to life. Brian could barely hear her, but the anguished contortions of her face, indicating a silent agony, made it more incredible.
This did not slow the man. He emptied the first bottle, threw it at the wounded old woman and uncorked another in the same manner. He poured this bottle over the axe, and then went for the old woman’s blurred, clawing arms. He watched her warily for a few seconds before he sprung forward, swung and lopped off her left hand, which then continued to claw on the ground. He poured more liquid on her and followed with a second blow, severing her remaining hand.
He did not stop as the old woman’s stumps flew around, but swung again, aiming the axe at her grimacing face. He didn’t try to bury it in the bone, where it could have gotten stuck, but he struck with enough force to cut, tearing her face open. He aimed again, and in a crossing blow, lopped off the bleeding, torn head. For a few minutes longer, the rest of the body continued to writhe.
The man doused the quartered parts and they lay still. Brian did not stick around to see what happened next. He did not know why, or how, any of it had happened, but he had just watched someone be killed. Killed might not be the most apt description — perhaps done in or destroyed — but Brian was not going to be around to g
ive his opinion. He did not want to be recognized as a witness; witnesses had a habit of not witnessing much.
So, Brian left the magazines where they fell and watched the proceedings from behind the front steps of a brownstone, further up the street. No one else saw the incredible duel that just took place. There were no flashing lights, with revving motors, slamming of brakes and squealing of tires. It all happened while everyone slept. Even if someone had heard, they would’ve told themselves to continue sleeping. Nobody needed to see this. Brian wished he had slept, instead of going out to get another copy of his Time article. Now, he watched and hoped the man who just dispatched this unnatural thing, did not try to find him.
The man returned to the front of the cab and put the severed pieces into a sack. He got back in the car and backed up, enough to let the remaining pieces of old woman which the Chevy had kept pinned to the wall drop beside the sack. Brian saw the man get back out of the car, and as he bagged the remaining body parts glanced at where Brian had been sitting. He carried the sack around a corner and into the dark alley. As he had the first time, he emerged a few seconds later, without the sack.
He crossed the street to where Brian left his pile of magazines. Brian held his breath and watched as he looked around. He was calm, despite his tattered shirt. To Brian’s surprise, the man spoke, and did so to Brian.
“I don’t know what you think you saw here. I’m not trying to convince you to come out, but I’m trying to keep you from being hurt. Whatever you do, do not tell anyone about this. At best, they will lock you up; at worst, they will get rid of you.”