Only in the Movies

by William Bell

  He paused. His lids lowered and returned to their places. “You say, sir,” he said, his raptor eyes on Panofsky, his words rumbling out of him like empty barrels rolling off a wagon, “that love has nothing to do with it. If you examine our literature program, if you investigate every novel, play, short story, poem, you will find that a very large number—perhaps most—are about love. Love, like life, informs all the arts. Why do we teach these works if we believe they have no relevance? Why put love, as it were, on the curriculum, with all its passionate, tragic, comical, exhilarating and, yes, messy manifestations—and then deny it, pretend it doesn’t matter when it appears in the lives of our students? Romeo and Juliet were teenagers, as was Ophelia. And Alba and Chad were enacting a scene that is famous for its brilliant presentation of a conflict of wills that is part of a courtship. At the same time they were struggling to cope with the admittedly untidy presence of love in their own lives. And they managed by some deep sense of dedication to their art to make it through the scene without damaging each other and without—I said it at our first evaluation meeting, and I’ll say it again now—without ruining Shakespeare’s play. They brought it to life. The audience, who ought to be the real judges of the performance, were thrilled.”

  Locheed paused and seemed to reach inside himself for something. “And is this panel going to repeat its judgment that Jake and his colleagues failed?”

  He stopped again and calmed himself. “Let us not treat literature as if it were a dead thing at the bottom of a museum showcase. I see no reason to continue this hearing. I call for a vote. I move that Alba, Chad and Jake be given an A+.”

  Pelletier was taken by surprise. “Mr. Locheed, you can’t—”

  “I already have. I have called for a vote.”

  “I second the motion,” I said.

  “Jake, be quiet,” Pelletier snapped. “You can’t second it. It’s not a legal motion, and you have no standing.”

  “Okay, then, I vote for Mr. Locheed.”

  “Shut up!” Panofsky shouted.

  “Let’s remain calm, please,” Pelletier urged. “Jake, if you have nothing to add, perhaps you’d excuse us.”

  I looked at Locheed. How he nodded to me without nodding, I don’t know, but he did. I got to my feet.

  Before I closed the door behind me, the voices rose like sparrows bursting from a hedge.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LONG BEFORE I LEARNED TO HAMMER a nail into a board without bending it or to saw a straight line, my father taught me never to get personal with a client. He meant that even when a customer is unhappy with you, or you’re working for someone you don’t like very much, you don’t let those feelings get in the way of your craft. You put the same effort into the job. Your pride in your trade is what motivates you, he told me many times, not money or praise.

  So when Pelletier gave me my next assignment a couple of days after the hearing, I put my resentment aside and accepted the job with as much grace as I could scrape together. She and Call-Me-Saul had sketched a rough set design for the school’s finale show, The Pirates of Penzance. It was meant to suggest the deck of a sailing ship without being too realistic. Panofsky wanted to place the musical in a more modern context, he explained. I wasn’t familiar with Pirates, so I didn’t really know what he was getting at, but I nodded wisely. It took a day or two to work up a proper layout and then get Pelletier’s and Panofsky’s approval before I got down to the construction.

  The call for auditions had gone out by then. Because of the Shrew disaster, Alba and Chad were allowed to try for only minor roles. Alba had accepted the ruling. Chad had cursed, then swanned off, saying he had better things to do anyway.

  I toiled away alone in the school’s workshop, wearing my yellow safety hat and my steel-toed boots, measuring, cutting, nailing, immersed in the hollow whine of the exhaust fan and the odour of fresh sawdust. On my third day, as I was crosscutting a length of spruce with a handsaw, a voice broke through the fan’s noise.

  “Hey, stranger! Time for a break.”

  I looked up to see Vanni at the shop door, a couple of takeout cups in her hands, her carryall slung over one shoulder.

  “I’ll meet you onstage.” Without waiting for a reply, she ducked back out the door.

  I finished cutting the board, took off my apron and tossed it onto the bench, then shook the sawdust out of my pant cuffs. I locked the shop and walked down the hall to the theatre door. Crossing the backstage area, I found Vanni on the main stage of the darkened auditorium. Dressed in a loose-fitting dress and open cardigan, she was sitting on the proscenium, feet dangling over the edge. She looked back over her shoulder when she heard me approach.

  “Double-shot cappuccino for the hired help, chai for the writer,” she announced, handing me a cup. “From the Blue Note.”

  I sat down beside her and pried off the lid. The coffee was still hot. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re an angel.”

  “True enough,” she replied.

  There was an energy coming off her, although she couldn’t have looked more relaxed. Her shoes dangled off the ends of her feet and she was leaning back on one arm, sipping her drink. I waited. Finally, she put down her cup, pulled her tote bag closer and removed a small oblong package wrapped in brown paper.

  Holding it out to me, her eyes bright with excitement, she said, “For you. As promised.”

  “What is it?” I asked, breaking the taped seal and removing the paper. It was a small, thin hard-bound book covered in green cloth. “Water Beads” was printed in gold on the front, and under it, “Pentameter Press.”

  “Your book,” I said, turning it over in my hands.

  “Partly my book. I contributed five of the fifty poems—and the title.”

  “I’ll think of it as yours anyway.”

  “It’s yours now. Open it.”

  On the title page Vanni had written, “ To Jake,” and under that, “Like gold to aery thinness beat,” and under that, “Love, Vanni,” with the date.

  “Thanks, Vanni. And congratulations. It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re welcome, and thank you,” she replied.

  “What does this mean?” I asked, pointing to the quotation.

  “That’s for you to find out. It’s from a poem.”

  I opened the book, flipped a few pages. “One of yours?”

  Vanni smiled. “No, someone else wrote that line. John Donne.”

  “I’m proud of you,” I said, and she smiled again, wider this time.

  We sat quietly for a while, sipping our drinks and looking out over the ranks of empty seats ascending into the gloom of the auditorium.

  “You’ve seemed kind of low these days,” Vanni remarked.

  “I guess I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “Still waiting to hear from Pelletier?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Some things to work out?”

  “Sort of.”

  We were silent for a moment.

  “Aren’t we a pair,” Vanni sighed.

  I didn’t reply. Vanni’s tone of voice was unusual for her. The indirect irony, the edge were gone.

  “We have something in common,” she said.

  “We have lots—”

  “We’re each of us in love with someone we can’t be with.”

  Even though I was accustomed to Vanni’s mental leaps, this one took me by surprise. She hardly ever talked about my feelings for Alba, and had never admitted she loved her too. My passion for Alba had disappeared, but Vanni didn’t know that.

  I thought about how lonely it must be for Vanni. Lots of people accepted gays and lesbians—maybe most people, at least those our age. Even so, it must be hard to find someone to be with. And there was always the possibility you’d end up in a quandary like Vanni’s, in love with a girl who was straight, who must have seemed as if she was on the far shore of a river, impossible to reach.

  “In the movies,” I mused, “love solves everything. The sun goes down, the mus
ic fades and everybody’s happy.”

  “But in life, love complicates things.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Will you always love her?” Vanni asked softly, still looking into the darkened theatre.

  I thought long and hard before I replied.

  “I don’t love her. I only thought I did.”

  Vanni’s head snapped around, her eyes searching mine. “What do you mean?”

  I cleared my throat. I hadn’t planned this. I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  “There’s a story there,” I said, trying a smile.

  Her eyes, deadly serious, fixed me like arrows. “Tell it. The long version.”

  “I didn’t intend to say anything.”

  “Spit it out, Jake.”

  “Remember the day I got the phone call telling me my dad was sick?”

  She nodded.

  “Mom told me it was his heart. On the way to the hospital, in the taxi, I thought, He could die. He might even be dead by the time I get there. I was terrified. I’d never felt so alone in my life. I wished I had someone with me, just to be there. But it wasn’t Alba I thought of.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “It was you.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath. Vanni turned her head toward the empty theatre again. I rushed ahead, anxious to get it all out before I lost my nerve.

  “And while Mom and I waited in the Emergency room, after we’d heard he was going to be okay, well, the happiness and relief were like a small explosion inside me. I ached to talk to someone, to share the good news. I took out my cellphone and without even thinking about it started to key in a number, but then I remembered you can’t use cells in the hospital. The thing is, Vanni, the number I entered was yours.”

  Vanni had begun to cry. She sat quietly on the edge of the proscenium, hands tucked under her legs, and tears trickled slowly down her cheeks.

  “I’m aware that it’s impossible,” I continued, “and I’m sorry to upset you this way. I realize we can only be friends, but you know what? You’re my best friend, and I’m okay with that.”

  Suddenly, Vanni launched herself over the edge of the stage, landing on her feet with a jolt. She spun around and grabbed her carryall, knocking over her chai. She was crying full out now, her shoulders heaving, her face red and hot and wet with tears.

  “I’ve got to go,” she blurted between sobs.

  “Don’t. I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have—”

  She turned and fled up the aisle, like someone running from a fire.

  I berated and criticized myself all the way home. I had been selfish, thinking of myself rather than Vanni. I had given in to an overwhelming desire to tell her my feelings, had wanted to confess them ever since I realized the mistake I had made in believing I loved Alba. But this was Vanni’s big day, the publication of her book of poems, and what I had done? Ruined it, like a spoiled infant breaking some other kid’s favourite toy. No wonder she had run off in tears.

  When I got home I went straight to my room, disgusted with myself. I tried to take my mind off things by listening to music, watching videos on my computer. Later, Mom called me down for dinner, but I told her I wasn’t hungry. “We’re having your favourite,” she yelled from the bottom of the stairs. Dad called up to me an hour later, asking if I wanted to watch a hockey game with him. “No thanks,” I hollered back.

  Much later, Mom tried again. This time she tapped on my door. “There’s a good movie on,” she said. “What’s-his-name is in it. That actor.”

  When I didn’t respond, she added, “You know, the one you like.”

  “No thanks, Mom.”

  After she left I mumbled, “I’ll just stay here and make a mess of the rest of my life.”

  SCREENPLAY: “SO LONG, BOGEY”

  by

  JAKE BLANCHARD

  FADE IN:

  EXT. A STREET IN CASABLANCA, OUTSIDE RICK’S CAFE—NIGHT

  CLOSE UP:

  The neon SIGN above the nightclub’s door:

  RICK’S CAFE AMERICAIN

  ZOOM OUT:

  BOGEY, in evening dress, stands on the sidewalk by the door, smoking casually. Customers arrive and leave. BOGEY flicks his cigarette butt into the gutter. A man strolls down the sidewalk, a woman on each arm. They are chatting and laughing. They go in.

  From inside we hear MUSIC and LAUGHTER. The song is “It Had to Be You.”

  JAKE rushes up to Bogey.

  JAKE

  I gotta talk to you.

  BOGEY

  Calm down, kid. Don’t get your shirt in a knot.

  JAKE

  (looks down)

  My … ?

  BOGEY

  (removes his cigarette case from the pocket of his dinner jacket, flips it open with a flourish) Smoke?

  JAKE

  (waving it off)

  Not now.

  BOGEY

  (takes one himself, returns the case to his pocket, lights up with a wooden match, indicates door to RICK’S)

  Drink?

  JAKE

  (shakes his head)

  Look, I need your advice. It’s about a girl—or, girls.

  BOGEY

  You came to the right place, pal.

  JAKE

  I’m … This is a little difficult to explain.

  BOGEY

  Go ahead, spit it out.

  JAKE

  The thing is, I was in love with this girl. Now I’m certain I’m in love with a different girl.

  BOGEY

  (laughs)

  You ain’t the first mug in history with two fish on a line at the same time. As long as they don’t find out—

  JAKE

  No, you don’t understand. I don’t love the first one anymore.

  BOGEY

  (shrugs)

  Ah, what’s the difference? A dame’s a dame.

  JAKE

  But I need to understand what’s changed. It’s driving me nuts. First Alba, then Vanni. I—

  BOGEY

  What kind of a name is Vanni?

  JAKE

  Keep your eye on the ball here, will you, Bogey?

  BOGEY

  Okay, lay it out for me. Take it slow.

  JAKE

  I was in love with Alba. Because of her looks, I know that now. She has beautiful hair. A dynamite dresser. And a body made in heaven.

  BOGEY

  You don’t say.

  JAKE

  And I thought she was kind of sweet. In a way. But I didn’t really know her. Maybe I sort of, I don’t know, idealized her. Like the boy in Joyce’s story. Maybe it wasn’t real love at all, although it certainly felt—

  BOGEY

  Who’s Joyce? I thought you said the other girl’s name is Vanni.

  JAKE

  Joyce the writer. “Araby”? Mangan’s sister?

  BOGEY

  (beat)

  Well, if this Alba girl is Arab, she’ll fit right in around here. This is Casablanca.

  JAKE

  She isn’t Arab. Araby’s a story.

  BOGEY

  So she’s Mangan’s sister. Or is that Vanni?

  JAKE

  (exasperated)

  I think I came to the wrong place.

  BOGEY

  (beat)

  This is Rick’s place.

  JAKE

  I know!

  BOGEY

  Of all the gin joints—

  JAKE

  Aarrgh!

  Look, let me start over.

  BOGEY

  Good idea. Shoot.

  JAKE

  (slowly, as BOGEY nods after each sentence)

  I was in love with Alba.

  I’m not anymore.

  Definitely.

  Now I’m in love with Vanni.

  I came to you so you could help me figure out what happened to me.

  BOGEY

  (lights another cigarette, tosses the match into the street as a LIMO pulls up)

  Oh, I
get it. But who—?

  JAKE

  Never mind! Forget the other names!

  BOGEY

  Whatever you say.

  JAKE

  Are there different kinds of love, do you think? Is that it?

  BOGEY

  (lost)

  You might be on to something.

  JAKE

  (musing)

  The question is, When did I start to love Vanni? Vanni and I became friends, then best friends. We go together like—

  BOGEY

  (eyes on the limo)

  Whiskey and soda? Champagne and caviar?

  JAKE

  I was going to say peanut butter and jam, but never mind. I think I’m beginning to understand. I told her things I’d never shared with anyone else. Whenever I laughed, I’d want to share the laugh with her. It wasn’t like that with Alba. When my dad was sick, it was Vanni I wanted by my side. She makes me want to be a … a better person.

  BOGEY

  Say, you’ve got it bad, kid.

  JAKE

  Somewhere along the line, my affection for her as a friend grew into love. It was a metamorphosis.

  BOGEY

  (not following)

  Er, sure. Whatever you say.

  A half-dozen party-goers climb out of the limo and crowd through the doors of RICK’S CAFE. BOGEY focuses on a statuesque redhead among them. When the doors open we hear MUSIC: “You Must Remember This.”

  The doors close behind the redhead. BOGEY tosses his cigarette to the pavement, grinds it out with his shoe.

  JAKE

  I feel better now. It all makes sense. I didn’t need you after all, but thanks for listen—

  BOGEY

  I gotta shove off. Sam’s playing that damn song again.

  JAKE

  But—

  BOGEY

  Just remember, when you get right down to it, a dame’s a dame.

  JAKE

  Maybe that’s true in the movies, but—