Vinyl Cafe Turns the Page

by Stuart McLean

  Sam, who didn’t get the reference, put the ticket stub in his pocket and said, “That was amazing. An usher came out and everything.”

  Five minutes later they were in the lobby, in the arcade, at the back, on the left, behind the candy counter—the side with all the pinball machines, not the driving games. Standing beside the claw machine. The crane. They were leaning against the glass case, staring at the pile of prizes—at the mountain of plush toys.

  “See,” said Murphy. “See it?”

  Murphy was pointing to the very back. Sam was shaking his head.

  “Under the little panda,” said Murphy.

  There. Barely sticking out of the pile of stuffed animals was the corner of a Niriko 16.

  “It has the touch screen,” said Sam, “and Optix Two.”

  Murphy nodded.

  “My precious,” said Murphy. “My precious.”

  Murphy had begun to circle the game.

  “We have to move the panda,” said Murphy. “And probably the basketball.”

  One of those miniature souvenir basketballs. Murphy, who’d returned to the front of the machine and had his hands on the joystick, pushing it left and right, said, “We move the panda and the ball—we have a clear shot.”

  Sam said, “No one ever wins these games. They’re rigged.”

  Murphy said, “Yup. They’re rigged. The difference between you and me, and everyone else, is—I know how they’re rigged.”

  Murphy had been coming to the theatre every day for a week. Instead of watching movies, Murphy had been studying the game.

  “It’s like a slot machine,” said Murphy. “It’s programmed. It pays off every hundred games. Every hundred games the claw holds on. The rest of the time it’s programmed to drop the prize on the way to the chute. I’m waiting for the hundredth game.”

  Sam said, “So why do you need me?”

  Murphy said, “You’re going to guide me in. I still have to get the claw on target. See the mirror on the back wall? I keep overshooting.”

  And so they sat there, behind the candy counter and the pinball games, where they could watch the game and no one could watch them.

  Murphy had a paper. Every time someone played the game he made a mark on his paper.

  At 1:35 a man came up and stared at the prizes just the way they had. He didn’t look like a wealthy man. He looked like the kind of man you might see driving a taxi. Or in a movie theatre in the middle of the day.

  He walked around the machine and then over to the candy counter. He came back with a handful of quarters. He lined them up on the machine.

  Sam leaned toward Murphy and said, “You worked out the morality of this?”

  Murphy stared at him.

  “Letting him play,” said Sam, “when we know the outcome.”

  Murphy took off his glasses, pulled out his shirt-tail, and started to polish the lenses.

  Murphy said, “You mean, have I considered the ethics.”

  Sam could feel his heart sink. “Whatever.”

  Murphy put his glasses back on and reached for his paper.

  Murphy said, “I didn’t program the game.”

  It was three o’clock.

  They were like a pair of detectives on a stakeout.

  And like detectives everywhere, they were starting to get on each other’s nerves.

  “How much have you spent so far?” asked Sam.

  “That’s hardly the point,” said Murphy.

  “What’s the point?” said Sam.

  “The point,” said Murphy, “is getting a Niriko 16 for a quarter.”

  “But you’ve spent way more than a quarter already,” said Sam.

  Murphy looked at his paper.

  “Sixty-three down,” he said. “Thirty-seven to go.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said Sam.

  “It’s called delayed pleasure,” said Murphy. “And you just picked up the marshmallow. And, as I have explained, more than once, the ability not to pick up the marshmallow is an indicator of future success. In just about everything. You should restrain yourself.”

  “I’m trying,” said Sam.

  “Try harder,” said Murphy.

  Five minutes later Sam said, “I didn’t pick up the marshmallow, by the way. I just pointed out that this is ridiculous. You told me we were going to the movies.”

  “What we have here is a failure to communicate,” said Murphy. “We are at the movies.”

  Murphy was waving his hand around his head.

  “Except,” said Murphy, “this is better. This is for real. Plus, for some of us here, it has the added benefit of delayed pleasure. You want more popcorn, perhaps?”

  Sam nodded.

  Murphy worked a popcorn bag out of his pocket and carefully unfolded it. He handed the bag to Sam.

  On his first day Murphy had discovered that if you buy the family-sized popcorn you got free refills. He had rescued the bag from one of the cinemas.

  “From where, exactly?” said Sam.

  “From the floor,” said Murphy. “It’s one of the benefits of a movie theatre. A movie theatre is the last place in the world where littering is socially acceptable.”

  Sam took the bag and wandered over to the candy counter. He had already been twice.

  He waited, as Murphy had instructed him, timing himself so that he’d be served by a clerk who hadn’t seen him already.

  It was only when he was standing at the counter that he realized he’d chosen the guy from the alley.

  He smiled at him and handed him the bag. The guy didn’t blink.

  Sam waited until the clerk had turned and begun to shovel the bag full of popcorn and then quietly, under his breath so that no one could hear, he said, “Hasta la vista, baby.”

  Five minutes later he was back again, sitting beside Murphy, eating his popcorn—using his tongue to pick up the kernels and pull them into his mouth, like a horse with a feed bag.

  “What number are we at?” he asked once too often.

  “At the same place we were five minutes ago,” said Murphy peevishly. “Why don’t you go watch a film. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

  So Sam stood up.

  As he walked away, Murphy said, “Enjoy your marshmallow.”

  There were twelve cinemas to choose from. He went back to the refreshment stand and decided to follow the next person who bought popcorn to whichever one they were watching.

  So now he was sitting near the back of a smallish room, with his feet up on the seat in front of him, waiting for a film to begin, with no idea what it was going to be, when out of the blue Lyla Douglas and Willow Cassidy waltzed in and sat down right in front of him.

  He brought his feet down and looked at the back of Willow’s long dark hair, thinking, Of all the theatres in all the complexes in all the towns, she walks into mine.

  He was pretty sure the girls hadn’t spotted him. But as the lights dimmed Lyla turned and smiled.

  “Hey Sam,” said Lyla. “What are you doing here?”

  And then the most unbelievable thing in the world happened. Lyla Douglas and Willow Cassidy stood up, walked back, and sat beside him.

  He was at the movies. And there was a girl beside him. And it was Willow Cassidy.

  Out in the lobby Murphy had finally made it into the eighties. He checked his watch. It had never taken half this long. A couple of the theatres would be turning soon. He yawned. He stood up and stretched. With any luck he’d hit a hundred plays within the half hour.

  Meanwhile in the theatre, Sam had stopped watching the movie.

  He and Willow were holding hands.

  Well, not technically holding hands. Their hands were touching. He is not sure when it began. He missed the transition from not touching to touching, but ever since he noticed, he’d stopped following the movie.

  Sam had never held a girl’s hand before. Never. Ever.

  Oddly, just before he noticed it, he’d been wondering how one might go about that. Did you ask? Did
you say, “Do you want to hold hands?”

  Or did you just do it? And if so, how did you do it? And why didn’t he know this? Surely everyone else knew this. He felt like an explorer making his way through a murky forest without a compass.

  How come he didn’t have a compass?

  And that’s when he noticed their hands were touching. Ever so lightly, but touching—no doubt about it.

  Had he done this? He didn’t mean to. Was it possible that his hand was acting as an independent agent?

  Or had Willow done it? Could that be possible? And more importantly, now that he was aware of it, what should he do about it?

  What he wanted to do was move his hand closer. Ever so slightly closer. Would that be … harassment?

  He sensed that Willow was looking at him.

  Whatever you do, don’t look, he told himself. Don’t move a muscle. Just breathe. Keep your eyes on the screen and breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. Lean forward. Concentrate.

  Maybe he should move his hand. Not far. But which way? Maybe away. So they weren’t touching. But just a couple of centimetres away, so they were still in range. See if she followed.

  His whole body was tense. He’d stopped breathing.

  He sucked in a lungful of air. Okay, wait. What was that? Something had just happened. What just happened? Willow had just said something. Willow Cassidy, who was sitting beside him in the theatre, was talking to him.

  “Lyla wants a drink,” she said. “We’ll be back in a moment.”

  The girls stood up. Sam felt as if everyone in the theatre was looking at him. And so he leaned forward. His chin in his hands. If he stared at the screen they would lose interest.

  It seemed like an eternity before Willow returned.

  He didn’t actually see her come back, just sensed her settle beside him. He didn’t look. He kept his eyes on the screen. But he had a plan.

  He was going to go for it. He was going to reach out and hold her hand. He was going to count to five, and on five he would do it.

  One. He began to move. Moving his hand, intending to rest it on the arm of the chair. Why was he scratching his cheek. How did that happen? Two. Come on. Move. Three. He dropped his hand down on the armrest.

  He felt Willow’s hand move back.

  Hurry. Hurry. He had to hurry. Don’t let her get away. Four. Five. Come on. Do it. Six.

  He reached out.

  He grabbed Willow’s hand.

  Omigod. He did it.

  Oh no.

  She was trying to pull away.

  He tightened his grip. He had to let her know that he meant it. He was squeezing her hand as tight as he could.

  It worked. He could feel her relaxing.

  He was holding her hand. He was holding her hand. He was in a theatre with Willow Cassidy, and they were holding hands. He was. She was. They were.

  Okay. Calm down.

  Something was happening. Willow was patting his arm with her free hand. What was he supposed to do now?

  He reached out and did the same to her.

  Now she was tapping on his shoulder.

  Oh my gosh they were making out! He was making out with Willow Cassidy. He was about to get kissed.

  Sam had never been kissed before.

  He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. All he could think was, Why isn’t Murphy here to see this?

  Here we go, thought Sam. And he shut his eyes, turning toward Willow.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  Probably he didn’t say it out loud. Probably he thought I love you, Willow. But he thought it with all his heart.

  And then he leaned closer.

  He felt a hand on his face, pushing him away, and he opened his eyes.

  He was staring at Murphy.

  It was Murphy’s hand he was holding. It was Murphy he was about to kiss.

  Sam yanked his hand free and jumped up.

  “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” he said.

  Now everyone in the theatre was looking at him. He sat down.

  Murphy reached out and put his arm around Sam’s shoulder. He pulled Sam close to him and whispered in his ear.

  “It’s okay,” said Murphy. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

  Then he said, “It’s time.”

  On their way out of the theatre, they passed Willow and Lyla coming in.

  Willow said, “I got you popcorn. Are you leaving?”

  Murphy affected his best Austrian accent and answered for him. Murphy said, “He’ll be baaack.”

  And so Murphy and Sam swanned back around the candy counter. Back to the game that had brought them there. And Sam stood on the side, the way they’d practised.

  “Okay,” said Sam, looking at Murphy.

  “Okay,” said Murphy. And then he smiled and rubbed his hands together and said,

  “Play it, Sam.”

  And then he said, “After I put the quarter in we have thirty seconds. After thirty seconds the claw goes to the chute. It’s automatic.”

  “And this is game one hundred, right?”

  “This is game ninety-seven,” said Murphy. “We have three practices. You ready?”

  Sam nodded.

  Murphy put the first quarter in.

  Murphy said, “The centre of the claw should be right over the panda’s neck.”

  As he was talking he pressed the joystick to the left. The claw began its jerky trip across the mountain of toys.

  “Stop,” said Sam. “Back a bit.”

  “Twenty seconds,” said Murphy.

  Sam had his face pressed to the machine, his breath fogging the glass.

  “Forward,” said Sam. “Back.”

  “Ten seconds,” said Murphy.

  “We’re there,” said Sam. “We’re home.”

  Murphy said, “There’s no place like home.”

  And he took a step back and held his hands in the air. Palms out. Look at me.

  He put his hands back on the stick, and the crane began its tricky descent. The prongs flopped onto the panda. They opened. And closed. They raised into the air. Empty.

  “Ninety-eight,” said Murphy, digging a quarter out of his pocket.

  They have changed positions.

  Sam is on the joystick.

  Murphy is spotting.

  And look! Willow and Lyla are walking toward them.

  “Pay attention,” said Murphy.

  Murphy’s face is pressed against the glass.

  The claw has begun to move.

  “Not yet,” said Murphy. “Left.”

  The girls were beside them now, standing by the machine, watching. Watching Sam’s hands on the levers.

  “Too far,” said Murphy. “Go back.”

  When you get to the heart of any matter, everything is measured with a microscope. For at the heart of any matter, it’s the small things that count. But when the thing you’re measuring is the space between a boy’s heart and a girl’s heart, there is no microscope to measure that.

  “Okay,” said Murphy. “You’re there. You’re there. Round up the usual suspects.”

  Sam shook his head and gave the joystick one last touch. The claw shifted ever so slightly and then shuddered and began its descent.

  It’s always the things we can’t have that we want. The prize behind the panel. The girl in the other room who doesn’t know your name.

  Down the claw went. Down, down, down.

  “I’ll get you, my pretty,” said Murphy. “And your little dog too.”

  The claw flopped on the belly of the bear and rested there for a moment. Then it started up again. This time it had the bear in its grip. This time the bear lifted unsteadily out of the pile of plush prizes and swung jerkily in the air. The four of them, the two boys and the two girls, stared at it in wonder.

  Sam was beaming.

  The girls were clapping.

  Murphy was frowning.

  It wasn’t supposed to work like this. The claw was supposed to drop the bear an
d clear the way for the next try.

  But it didn’t drop it. The panda was swinging in the air; the claw was hovering over the chute.

  Sam looked at Willow, shyly. Willow was beaming at him.

  Stories never end like this. The boy never wins the prize. The girl never gets the bear. But this one does. And Sam will tell it often over the years. The story about the afternoon he and his friend Murphy snuck into the movies, and how they waited until the exact right moment before they put a quarter into the crane game and how they won the panda bear.

  It dropped into the prize slot with a thud.

  Murphy was standing beside the machine with his mouth hanging open.

  Willow said, “You won the bear. He won the bear. It’s so cute.”

  Sam reached down and pulled the bear out.

  And without thinking, he held it out to Willow.

  “Here,” he said.

  Willow took the bear and hugged it, and then the most extraordinary thing happened. She leaned forward and kissed Sam on the cheek.

  It was his first kiss.

  They walked out of the theatre together, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk, all of them squinting in the afternoon sun.

  Sam said, “You guys want to do something?”

  Willow said, “Lyla’s mother is picking us up.”

  And so they said goodbye.

  “Thanks for the bear,” said Willow.

  “See you later,” said Sam.

  “Call me,” said Willow.

  “I don’t understand,” said Murphy as they headed off, the two boys bumping down the sidewalk, Murphy shaking his head, lost in thought. “I must have miscalculated. Or something. Something went horribly wrong.”

  “Nothing went wrong,” said Sam. “It was perfect. It was absolutely perfect.”

  CRUSHED

  The invitation arrived by post.

  Dave, who comes home for lunch most days, was the first to see it. It was addressed in his daughter’s handwriting.

  “And the first thing I thought,” he said, “before I opened it, I mean, was wedding. I thought they were getting married.”

  The envelope certainly stood out from the bills. Flecked and fashioned from handmade paper.

  “Did it not occur to you they might have mentioned something?” said Morley. “I mean, before they sent us an invitation. She is our daughter.”