The Projectionist

by Jerry Hatchett

  Walker refolded the letter and slipped it back into an inside pocket of his suit coat. Then he pulled out a little digital timer and handed it to Porter. "It's already set for ten minutes," Walker said. "Just push the button on the top to start the countdown." With a little shrug, Walker turned and headed down the narrow stairway.

  Porter looked at the timer for a few seconds, briefly wondered if he had gone insane and was really locked up in some padded room dreaming, then said "Okay, Alice," and walked into his booth.

  * * *

  When the first reel expired, Porter immediately pushed the button. He went ahead and readied the next reel, then sat down on his stool with the timer. When the readout hit 7:00, he noticed that his heart was beating pretty fast. He shifted his gaze from the timer to the door, timer to door, back and forth, waiting to see what would happen. 5:00. Nothing. 2:00, the same nothing. The timer beeped as it hit all zeroes. Porter sat there a few seconds, shook his head, and started the projector rolling again.

  As time went on and Peter O'Toole forged epic relationships on the screen, Porter felt more and more like a fool. What had he expected to happen? Alice was gone. Dead. And whatever goofy nonsense she had conjured up before she died wasn't going to change that. He couldn't imagine why she would plan this elaborate ruse, and his soul was too spent to care.

  About an hour into the second reel, he walked downstairs, raised the walk-through on the countertop, and went behind the concession stand. Fixed himself a Coke while Jenny restocked the candy displays. He left the concession area with his drink and headed back toward the stairs. That's when he met Teddy coming out of the office. His hair—what he had left, anyway—was frazzled, his eyes wide. Porter headed that way; he wanted to ask what Teddy's message from Larry Walker had been. But when Teddy saw Porter? His eyes got wider. He spun around, walked back into the office, glanced back for the briefest moment at Porter, then closed the door. Porter could've sworn he heard him lock it. Could the night get any stranger?

  * * *

  When the movie was finished and Porter had shut down the projector and rewound and stowed the reels, he made his final trip down the stairs for the evening. Most of the moviegoers were gone, but a few still trickled out of the auditorium. These would be the real film lovers, the ones who sat through all the end credits and then dissected what they had just seen. Porter knew pretty much all of them and fielded a couple hey-we're-still-so-sorry-for-your-loss sad smiles when they saw him.

  He entered the auditorium and went to the electrical box on the rear wall to kill the lights. The box had a little lock on it to keep out pranky teenagers. Porter reached into his pocket for his key ring but came up empty. Crap. He had probably left them in the booth. Which was itself locked. On his way to the office to grab the spare set of keys, someone behind him said, "Mr. Hamlin?"

  He turned and saw a man of about fifty coming out of the auditorium. Hadn't the room been empty when he was in there? Oh well, he hadn't exactly scoured the room, had he? "Yes?" he said.

  The man approached with his hand out to shake. "I'm Bill Griffin."

  Porter shook his hand. "Porter Hamlin."

  Griffin reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. A ReelMark business card. "This is a pretty special old theater you guys have here."

  "We think so. What can I do for you, Mr. Griffin?"

  "Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to say hello. Loved the showing tonight. Looks like a lot of other people did, as well."

  "Not meaning to be rude, but how is it you know my name?"

  "Teddy told me about you and your wife—sorry for your loss, by the way—how long you've all been here running the Magic. Almost forty years, right?"

  Porter nodded. He was tired and wanted to go home, not chat it up with this vulture. "Been a long day," he said. "I better be getting home."

  "Oh sure, sure, don't want to hold you up," Griffin said. He stuck his hand out again. "Glad I got to meet you, and great job with the showing tonight. I have to tell you I'm very encouraged to see this kind of turnout on a weeknight for a classic. Maybe we can talk again soon?"

  Porter shook his hand, gave him a tight little smile, walked away. Griffin headed for the office.

  * * *

  In bed, Porter stared at the ceiling. He had followed Alice's instructions from the Twilight Zone, and nothing had happened. Actually worse than nothing; by doing as she asked, he had made Griffin even more interested in the Magic. Great job, Alice.

  12

  Porter sat in his booth at the Diebold Diner, nursing a cup of coffee while he waited for his breakfast. He loved the smell of this place in the morning, the air so rich with bacon and eggs and freshly baked biscuits that his mouth watered. Carolyn topped off his coffee and said, "Food's almost ready." He nodded and she moved on to the next booth. Porter added a spoon of sugar and when he looked up, he gave a little start. A woman was standing right beside his booth. A stranger, which was itself strange in the Diebold Diner where everybody knew everybody. She looked to be in her fifties, maybe middle, maybe closer to sixty. The dress she wore was white, crisp looking, somehow elegant and therefore as out of place here as she was.

  "Do you mind?" she said, gesturing at the empty seat across from him.

  "I suppose not." What the crap?

  She smiled and slid into the old booth, then stuck her hand out. "I'm Debra."

  Her hand was soft as a powder puff, warm. "Porter," he said.

  "I understand I have you to thank for showing that wonderful classic last night." Her voice was old Southern, the drawl pronounced and precise.

  More like his dead wife to thank, but he said, "Yeah, I guess so. Glad you enjoyed it."

  Carolyn showed up with his breakfast and while Porter was surely curious about this woman, he was also hungry and preferred his food hot. So he dug in. If she had something to say, no reason he couldn't listen with his mouth full. But she didn't say a word. She sat looking at him while he ate, her debutante smile locked in place.

  About a third of the way through his meal, he couldn't stand it any more. "Debra, why are you here?"

  "In Diebold, you mean?"

  "In my booth. While I'm trying to eat breakfast."

  "To meet you, of course."

  Porter looked confused, rightly so, but she said nothing more, just kept smiling. He stared at her a few moments, then forked a big bite of biscuit and gravy into his mouth. While he chewed, he mused on the fact that in times past, this bizarre situation would've made him a self-conscious wreck. Now? He didn't give a happy damn and bit off half a strip of bacon. "Hope you're enjoying the experience," he said around the bacon.

  And that's the way it continued: Porter chowing down. Strange Debra watching him and smiling. When all the biscuits and gravy, bacon, eggs, and grits were gone, Porter placed a ten on the table and stood. He gave the lady a polite nod, turned, walked away. He was almost to the door when he noticed footsteps behind him. Her footsteps, no doubt. She followed him outside but not down the sidewalk. Instead she stopped just outside the door and called out: "Porter, it was very nice to meet you."

  He looked back without breaking stride. "Likewise."

  "Might you be free for dinner this evening?"

  Porter stopped and turned around. "What are you talking about? Why would I want to have dinner with you? So you can stare at me through that meal too?"

  "I'm sorry about that, truly I am. I promise to be more...forthcoming. In fact, you and I have a great many things to talk about."

  "For the life of me, I can't imagine a one of them," Porter said. "But thanks anyway."

  "If you change your mind, I'm staying at the Oak Vista motel. Just call and ask them to ring the room of Debra Pendergast."

  13

  Porter stopped mid-stride and turned to face the woman. "Say again?"

  "My name is Debra Pendergast."

  He walked back toward her, eyes locked onto her face now, looking for some resemblance that he'd missed. He saw none.
"Am I to assume it's coincidence that you have the same last name as my wife?"

  She laughed. "Of course not, silly."

  "So?" Porter held his hands out, palms up, waiting.

  "Well, it's complicated," she said. "It might be better to talk about it tonight over dinner." That big smile was back.

  "Damn it, woman! Who? Are? You?"

  Her smile switched off like a light and she blew a long sigh. "Porter," she said, "I'm sorry. I know I'm acting strange but the fact is, this situation is strange. Quite."

  "That much I've gathered. Now spit it out."

  She scrunched her face up, pointed her eyes left and right a few times, and finally said, "I'm Alice's sister."

  "She didn't have a sister."

  "Well, obviously she does."

  Porter was ready to let loose on the woman and call pure B.S., but he stopped. Not that long ago, he would've sworn on a three-foot stack of Gideon Bibles that Alice didn't have a lawyer, didn't have her own will. "If that's so, why didn't I ever hear of you in forty years?"

  "Like I said, it's complicated."

  "Complicated?"

  "Complicated. Very."

  "Then simplify for this dim old man, how about it?"

  "Are you sure we can't do this over dinner? It's a long story."

  "Give me the short version now, and I'll meet you tonight for the full tale. Otherwise, I'm done with this game."

  She sighed again. "You never heard of me because I didn't exist when you knew Alice."

  He stared at her for a good fifteen seconds, trying to process that. Processing failed. "I knew her for forty years. You're what, fifty-five or so?"

  "Fifty-nine, but thank you." The smile.

  "That would mean you were nineteen when I met Alice. She was sixteen. That makes you her older sister, so how in Hades is it that you didn't exist?"

  "I told you it was complicated. And I gave you what you asked for."

  "Huh?"

  "The short version, Porter. You now have the short version, and if you want the whole thing, meet me at the diner at seven." She gave a curt little nod that said the conversation was over whether he liked it or not, and crisply turned and walked away.

  * * *

  At seven that evening, Porter was nowhere near the Diebold Diner. He had meant to be. He wanted to hear the rest of the crazy woman's story for entertainment if nothing else. But, he thought, shit just happens, don't it? He motioned for Harold to pour him another.

  "Geez, Porter. You sure?"

  "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Well, because I've known you for at least twenty years and ain't never seen you take a drink? And now you're wasted?"

  "I didn't know you were my daddy," Porter said. Then he thought about Harold being his daddy and since Harold was younger than Porter, that would really take some doing, now wouldn't it? He burst out laughing, slapping the bar over and over. He saw the look on Harold's face. "Don't look at me like I'm crazy. I'm not. Believe me, you don't know crazy."

  "You need me to give you a ride home, man? It won't hurt for me to lock up for five minutes."

  "Home? Why hell no!"

  "Sorry, Porter. I can't serve you any more drinks tonight."

  Porter started to get angry, but he wasn't the angry-drunk type and started laughing again instead. After another round of yucking it up and slapping the bar, a brilliant idea occurred to him. "You know what, Harold?"

  "What?"

  "You can give me a ride."

  "Good," Harold said. "Let's get you home."

  "Not home. I have a dinner date, by God."

  Harold looked dubious. "Uh, who with?"

  "Alice's sister."

  "Alice had a sister?"

  "Nope. Let's go."

  * End of Part 1*

  Thanks for joining me on the journey of The Projectionist. Part 2 will be along before you know it, but if you can't wait, remember that you can always access the latest chapter on my blog as soon as it's written, completely free of charge. Just go to http://www.jerryhatchett.com .

  Also take a look at my completed novels that are available right now:

  Seven Unholy Days

  Pawnbroker

  If you like my work, please spread the word! Never before have personal recommendations carried so much weight in authors' careers. Your reviews, telling your friends on Facebook and Twitter and Goodreads and Reddit, as well as in person, are the things that drive success in today's publishing environment.

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  Huge thanks, and remember: I love hearing from readers!

  Copyright 2012-2013 by Jerry Hatchett – All rights reserved, past, present, and future.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6 THEN – 50 YEARS EARLIER

  7

  8

  9 NOW – PRESENT DAY

  10

  11

  12

  13

  * End of Part 1*

  Take a look at my completed novels

  Copyright