by Ray Garton
Fred and Ginger.
Bela Lugosi in his cape.
W.C. Fields and Mae West.
Gene Tierney looking every bit as beautiful as she did in Laura.
Jimmy Stewart and Katharine Hepburn and Charlie Chaplin and the Three Stooges and Carol Lombard and Merle Oberon and Cary Grant — two and three at a time, they came off the screen until there was a crowd of them on the floor in front of the seats. Each of them shimmered with a pale, vaguely flickering glow, and the more of them that gathered, the lighter the theater became.
The light revealed the old movie house as it had looked when John was a boy — pristine and colorful, a magical palace of dreams. Each time it happened, he expected to see his father sitting in the seat next to him.
Their voices and laughter blended until the theater was alive with the sounds of people comfortably enjoying themselves, the sounds of a party. The only thing missing was music — but that came soon enough.
The big organ to the right of the screen, its pipes now restored to their former shine, was played by Lon Chaney in his Phantom of the Opera mask.
Rosalind Russell chatted with Clifton Webb in the same fast-talking, hardboiled way she'd talked in His Girl Friday.
William Powell handed out martinis and eventually made his way to John.
"You look like you could use a drink, my friend," Powell said.
John smiled as he stood and took the glass and said, "Thank you." He sipped the martini. It was very dry.
"That's better," Powell said. "Stand up and mingle, enjoy yourself, my boy. The night is young. Have you seen my better half?" He turned and looked through the crowd. "Oh, Mommy. Where did you go?" He wandered off to look for her.
John sipped his drink as he wandered slowly through the crowd. He walked past little Jackie Coogan, to whom a young, smiling Judy Garland was singing a song. W.C. Fields stood nearby with his drink and dubiously eyed the little boy.
"Who let that child in here?" Fields said out of the side of his mouth. "This is no place for children. Not as long as I'm here."
James Dean in a black leather jacket lit Natalie Woods' cigarette.
Off to one side, away from the crowd, Clark Gable and Carol Lombard kissed passionately.
Joe E. Lewis took a sip of his martini. After swallowing, he opened his large mouth wide and released his trademark holler, then said, "Who mixed these martoonis?"
"Why you, I oughtta — " Moe Howard poked his brother Curly in the eyes with two fingers and it made a poink sound.
Larry Fine tapped Moe on the shoulder from behind and said, "Hey, leave him alone."
Moe turned and poked him in the eyes, too, with another poink. "A wiseguy, huh? Spread out."
"Hey," Curly said. "How come we're the only ones without drinks?"
Moe said, "Because you can't hold your liquor, ignoramus." He pounded his fist down on Curly's shaved head with a loud clok!
"How can I hold it if nobody gives it to me?" Curly said.
"I'll give it to you," Moe said as he punched Curly in the belly with a boom.
Marilyn Monroe stepped in front of John and he stopped walking. He had seen her in the theater before, but they’d never stood so close. Her milky skin glowed and her hair was like spun gold, pillowy lips a deep red.
"Are you here all alone?" she said in her breathy voice.
"Uh, yes," John said, "I'm afraid so."
She smiled as she stepped to his side and hooked her arm through his. "Not anymore." They walked through the crowd together.
Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, both in black-and-white from The Fortune Cookie, argued good-naturedly with each other near Alan Ladd, who stood laughing with John Garfield.
Boris Karloff touched his martini glass to Cary Grant's in a toast as Fred and Ginger danced around them.
Technicolor munchkins from The Wizard of Oz were all over the place.
"Would you like to dance?" Marilyn asked.
"I'm not a very good dancer."
"Neither am I, if you want to know the truth," she said.
Humphrey Bogart, drink in hand and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, stood nearby and overheard them. He said, "The way I see it, sweetheart, you don't have to be a good dancer."
They passed Bela Lugosi, who smiled as Martha Raye said to him, "You scared me so bad, I had to sleep with a light on for a week."
Marilyn leaned so close, her lips almost touched John's ear, and whispered, "I have to go talk to Mr. Holden. You mingle and have fun, okay?"
"Sure," John said. He smiled as he watched her walk away. She joined William Holden, who stood alone smoking a cigarette, wearing pants but no shirt, as he had in Picnic.
Behind him, Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor talked to each other, both holding drinks, both in color.
“Cat’s jump off roofs and land uninjured,” Newman said. “Do it. Jump.”
Taylor tilted her head back and laughed. “Jump where? Into what?”
A grey Edward G. Robinson — Johnny Rocco in his white suite from Key Largo — stepped up to John. "Where are they keeping the liquor?" he asked.
"Talk to Mr. Powell," John said.
"Thanks." He touched the brim of his hat and went off to find William Powell.
John smelled cigar smoke and turned to find Groucho Marx behind him. Groucho looked him up and down and said, "Nice of you to dress up for the occasion. Are you wearing those clothes on a bet, or is the Depression on again?"
If only Carol had stayed a little longer. It disturbed John to know that she thought he was crazy.
The theater shimmered with their soft glow. Lon Chaney continued to play the organ and Fred and Ginger danced to the music, looking as if their feet were barely touching the floor. Lon Chaney, Jr. in his makeup from The Wolf Man, smiled as he watched them move gracefully over the floor.
"Hey, pilgrim," John Wayne said to John. "You look a little lost. Do you know what you're looking for?"
"Nothing in particular," John said. "Just wandering around."
Wayne cocked his head and winked before walking away.
Lana Turner rushed by and Groucho followed, walking in a crouch, cigar in hand. He stopped in front of John and called to her: "All right, then, go ahead and leave in a huff. And if that's too fast, leave in a minute and a huff." He turned to John and said, "She's crazy about me." He bobbed his eyebrows, then hurried after her.
"Top o’ the world, Ma!" James Cagney shouted from one of the holes that used to be an opera box. Everyone laughed and a few people applauded.
John was surrounded by them, and they made him feel giddy. They reminded him of Saturdays with his father, watching old movies and eating popcorn and Milk Duds. But they were life-sized now, not blown out of proportion on the big screen. They were real, tangible. He could smell their perfumes, their colognes, their cigarettes and cigars. He could smell the flowers in the lei that Elvis Presley wore around his neck from Blue Hawaii. They were all so beautiful that John felt tears burn in the back of his throat. They were the reason he had practically moved into the old theater. He could not get enough of them.
If only Carol had stayed for a few minutes longer.
Carol paced on the sidewalk as she waited for the police. A patrol car finally pulled up to the curb and two uniformed officers got out, a man with graying hair and a short, solidly-built woman. Carol went to them and said, "I'm the one who called you."
"I'm Officer Randall," the male cop said. He nodded to the woman, "This is Officer Connor. What's the problem?"
"It's a friend of mine. He's inside the theater. I … I think he's been living there."
"He's homeless?" Connor asked.
"I'm not sure," Carol said. "We used to work together at SilverScreen magazine a few years ago and we became good friends. We stayed in touch for a while after he left the magazine, but then, things went bad for him."
"What do you mean?" Randall said.
"It started when his sister committed suicide," she said. "She was mentally
ill and Johnny was always coming to her rescue. Her death hit him hard." She bowed her head a moment and sniffled, trying to hold back her tears. "Then his little boy … he got sick. Leukemia. He died. Then his wife left him. A few months later, they were trying to get back together, to reconcile, but — " She shook her head and sighed. " — she died in a car accident. His whole life just seemed to fall apart. But I had no idea he was … this bad."
"Is he violent?" Randall said.
"Oh, no, he's harmless, so please, don't hurt him. He needs help. He's … he's wounded inside. Badly wounded."
"Is he armed?" Connor said.
"No, nothing like that," Carol said. "He just needs help."
"We'll see that he gets it, don't worry," Connor said. "How did he get in there?"
"This way," Carol said. She led them down the alley to the door. "In here."
"You stay out here," Officer Randall said as he took his flashlight from his belt.
Crying now, Carol said, "Please be gentle with him. Don’t hurt him."
"What's his name?" Randall said.
"Johnny. Um, John. John Bellows."
"Are you all right, old man?" the black-and-white Cary Grant said. "You look like you've lost your last friend."
"Well," John said, "things have been a little … rough."
"Chin up."
As Grant walked away, Ingrid Bergman approached him. She was a silvery gray and wore one of the dresses she'd worn in Notorious, a striped number. She held her martini in her right hand and a cigarette between the first two fingers of her left.
"You have very interesting eyes," she said softly. "Has anyone ever told you that before? That you have nice eyes?"
He said nothing for a moment, just stared at her, drank her in. Half his mouth curled up into a smile as a tear ran down his cheek. "My wife … she always told me I had nice eyes."
"She's a very lucky woman," Bergman said before walking away.
Katharine Hepburn stood nearby talking to Audrey Hepburn. They laughed together about something.
Jimmy Durante smiled at John, tilted his head, and said, "Ha-cha-cha-cha!"
Betty Grable hurried by, and Harpo Marx honked the horn attached to his belt as he ran after her with his mouth open in a joyous grin.
Someone behind him said, "Johnny?"
John turned and saw a figure with a flashlight coming up the side aisle. "Who's there?" John said.
"How would you like to come with me, Johnny?" the figure said. It came closer, until it was close enough for John to see the police uniform.
His eyes opened to their limit and his jaw became slack. "Duh-Dad? Daddy?"
The police officer slowly came closer, held out a hand. "Come on, it's not safe in here. It's time to go."
"Dad?" John breathed.
"Come with me," the police officer said.
Suddenly, the stars were all gone and the theater was dark, silent except for the gritty footsteps of the policeman. It did not matter, though. As much as he loved them all, loved being around them and talking to them and just looking at them, they were insignificant compared to his father.
"Daddy?" John said again, his mouth dry, voice hoarse. He stepped toward the figure in the dark.
"Come with me, now. It's time to go."
"Okay, Daddy," John said as he took his father's hand. "Okay."
