by Rob Rufus
“Thanks,” I said, and headed up to the projection room.
Milo was sitting on the floor, splicing a torn reel of film together. He was too focused on his work to notice me enter.
“You re-editing Blackbeard’s Ghost until it’s watchable?”
He looked up, beaming with surprise. “Argh! Happy birthday, ye asshole!”
He adjusted his glasses and stood. I sat the backpack down and unzipped it.
“What’d ya bring?”
“Liquid courage for before,” I said, removing the six-pack, “and some pain relievers for after.” I removed the whiskey and vodka.
“Alcohol,” he marveled, “the world’s remedy for the world.”
I unscrewed the bottle of Old Crow and took a pull. The booze blew through my throat like a spoonful of napalm. I shivered, grimaced, and passed it to him.
“You bring a record?” he asked.
I nodded. He took a drink and cringed.
“Jesus!” he coughed. “I dunno how people like this stuff.”
“Me either,” I said. I took the bottle back and suffered another drink.
“You talk to Lewis at school?” he asked.
“I ditched,” I told him, “but I’m sure he’ll be here.”
“I hope,” he said. “I couldn’t get ahold of Hana. Her mom wouldn’t let her use the phone. But as long as you brought the music, we’ll be able to make it work. Just gotta wait ʼtil the late show clears out.”
“What should we do until then?”
“Just act normal,” he said, as if we knew what that meant anymore.
―
The theater was slow for a Friday. Only one showing sold out—the 7:10 of the Mel Brooks flick—but even The Producers’ crowd dwindled by the time the late shows began seating.
I stayed at the ticket podium, though Mr. Dori was gone and there were no more tickets to tear. I didn’t go hang out with Milo or flirt with Susanne or do any of the things I normally did but knew I shouldn’t do—I was determined to play by the tiny rules until it was time to break the big ones.
So I hung at my post for the long haul until my fancy new watch told me what I wanted to see—it was 10:55 p.m.. All the movies were just about to let out.
So I finally left the ticket stand and began the post-show routine. I pushed through the heavy wooden entrance doors and propped them open with plastic doorstoppers. As I was about to go back inside, Hana called out to me. “The birthday boy under the bright lights.”
I was grinning before I even turned around. She stood beneath the awning next door, just like she had the first night we met. She took a drag off a cigarette and exhaled as I walked over.
“Hey!” I said. “You’re early.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Wanted to give you time to apologize.”
I stopped walking. She regarded me coolly.
“Apologize for what?” I asked. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re right. You didn’t do shit.”
She exhaled. She inhaled.
She sighed. Smoke drifted away.
“I’m always the outsider, man,” she said. “I don’t just mean here. It was like that in Chicago, too. Even in the movement, ya know? I’ve never found a group that’s mine, that has a fuckin’ clue how it feels to be me. But you don’t have to know any of that to be my friend. You don’t have to say what I say, or do what I do. There’s only one requirement, and that’s to watch each other’s backs.”
“The pep rally?” I asked, beginning to understand.
She nodded, and took another drag.
“You didn’t have to get up and chant,” she said. “You didn’t have to get in trouble. But you could’ve at least tried to stop those guys. You coulda done anything but sit there like a fuckin’ houseplant. You stuck your neck out for me the night we met, so I’m sticking mine out for you now. But if we’re gonna be real friends, I need to know it wasn’t a fluke.”
Behind us, the crowd began exiting the theater. Many were still laughing from the Mel Brooks flick. A group of women was singing “Springtime for Hitler.” I walked closer to Hana so she could hear me. Close enough for our arms to touch.
“It wasn’t a fluke,” I said, as loud as I could, “I swear. I just didn’t know what to do. My dad was there, and it happened so fast, and I just, I just . . . I’m sorry. We’re friends for real, and I ain’t ever gonna give ya a reason to doubt it again. I’ve got your back. Whatever it takes, I gotcha.”
“You fuckin’ better,” she said, punching me in the arm. “I don’t wanna have to smack you around again.”
“I too would like to avoid that,” I said, smiling.
She smiled too, and threw her cigarette into the gutter.
“Cool,” she said. Then she motioned to the theater, and we walked through the crowd side by side. “You shoulda got in on that chant, though. You really missed out.”
“Yeah,” I laughed, “maybe so.”
“It feels good to raise your voice, I’m tellin’ you. Nothing shakes up the party like a strong opinion. Whoever said ‘silence is golden’ was a fuckin’ square.”
―
Susanne and a kid named Byron were the only others working that night, and they were too busy closing up to notice me sneak Hana to the projection room.
“There’s booze in the backpack,” I told her. “Just wait here ʼtil me and Milo get done. Lewis should be here soon.”
She gave me a thumbs-up. I went back downstairs to finish my shift.
I cleaned Viewing Rooms 2 and 3. Byron swept Viewing Room 1. Susanne vacuumed the lobby. With Mr. Dori gone, Milo was our de facto supervisor, and once an inconspicuous amount of time had passed, he told the others to split.
“You really don’t mind if we leave?” Susanne asked. “I haven’t emptied the grease trap, or cleaned the ladies’ room, and I still need to—”
“Forget it,” Milo said, “I’ll handle it.”
It took no more convincing than that for Byron to dip out. Susanne grabbed her things from behind the counter and quickly followed suit. The wind blew the door shut behind them. Milo and I stood in the lobby, alone.
“Wanna flip for who cleans the girls’ bathroom?” I asked.
“Nah,” he laughed, “chances are we’ll be out of a job tomorrow, anyway. Go lock the doors. I told Lewis to meet me outside of the emergency exit.”
I nodded, and locked every door in the lobby. Milo went out to get Lewis and I went up to get Hana. I found her browsing the film canisters, drinking a beer.
“It’s time?” she asked.
“The gang’s all here. The deafening hour’s at hand.”
The Vinyl Underground haunted the lobby. I sat the bottles on the concession stand, popped the tabs on three Black Labels, and passed them to Lewis and Milo. Hana still nursed hers as she looked over all the Coming Soon posters.
“Let The Vinyl Underground ceremony commence,” Milo said.
He raised his beer. We formed a circle and held ours high in the air.
“To the birthday boy,” Milo said, nodding at me.
“Nah, to Milo, the boy genius.”
“And Bruce,” Lewis added, “to Bruce.”
“Bad Bruce lives!” Milo proclaimed.
“Yeah,” Ramrod hollered, “Bad Bruce lives!”
I was too hard for me to echo the toast, though I was touched by the sentiment. All I could do was nod. Then we clinked our beers together and drank cheap in the face of power. I chugged half of my beer in a bloated gulp, but my nerves refused to simmer.
“Now,” Milo said, “let’s get the show on the road.”
We followed him up the stairs, beneath the chandeliers and into the main projection room. It was hard for us all to cram inside, and we had to keep tight against the wall so Milo had room to work.
His portable turntable—a yellow GE Wildcat—was already sitting below the projector. He removed the back casing, and hooked wires up to who-knows-what and into who-knows-where until the turntable was plugged into the speaker system.
“Hey, Milo,” Lewis asked, “why don’t we just use the sound from a movie?”
“Film audio varies from scene to scene, but records are mastered to stay even. So vinyl’s the most accurate way to expose Ronnie to the right dB level.”
“Damn”—he smiled—“thought of everything, huh?”
“Everything but a Plan B,” Milo said, standing up. He wiped his hands on his pants and straightened his glasses. “The turntable’s patched into the speaker system. Three minutes of sound at 155 dB will do the job without puncturing Ronnie’s ears. Now come on, let’s get back downstairs.”
He left before I could respond. Hana shrugged, and we followed him back to the lobby. Milo pulled a gym bag from beneath the concession stand and tossed the bag onto the counter. He unzipped it and removed two rolls of duct tape, one set of earplugs, one set of headphones, and two armfuls of towels.
“Next thing,” Milo said, “let’s soundproof this place.”
He tossed three towels to Lewis and three towels to Hana.
“I thought the theater was soundproofed,” I said.
“It is. But a little extra padding won’t hurt, especially since the sheriff is right up the street. Tape those over the bathroom windows. I’ll use the rest to fill the cracks under the doors.”
Hana and Lewis each grabbed a roll of tape and headed into their respective bathrooms. Milo began shoving towels beneath the doors of the lobby. I just leaned against the counter, and watched in awe. I couldn’t believe a chump like me found friends like this. I took another sip of Black Label and tried not to get all emotional again. Then Lewis came out of the bathroom, nodding confidently. Hana followed soon after.
“Got it covered,” he said.
“Same here,” she said.
“Same here,” Milo nodded.
They turned to me. Milo pointed to Viewing Room 1.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Ready,” he nodded, and motioned for Lewis’s roll of tape.
My heartbeat kicked up a notch. I was more nervous than I’d ever been.
“Any of y’all holding? Please say somebody’s holding—”
“Relax,” Hana said. She lifted the left leg of her jeans and pulled a joint out of her shoe.
“Wait until we’re inside to light up,” Milo said. “If the seats reek tomorrow, Mr. Dori will assume it was just some shithead kids.”
“He won’t be too far off,” Lewis said.
Milo laughed and marched into the viewing room. Lewis and Hana followed. I downed the rest of my beer, then stumbled after them.
The walls inside were lined with copper bulbs burning behind gaudy covers. Matted red carpet ran all the way down the center aisle, and I followed it toward the lifeless screen, straight to the front row where my friends were sitting.
Hana sat between Lewis and Milo. I sat down in the aisle seat, and stared up at the blank, white horizon. We toked and passed and toked and passed with the efficiency of an assembly line.
“I walked the room during the five o’clock show,” Milo said, “and I’m pretty sure the best seat is gonna be the middle one in the eighth row.”
Hana passed him the joint. Milo had a long toke.
I didn’t respond.
“You should’ve told us to bring earplugs, too,” Hana said.
“You won’t need ʼem,” Milo said. “Y’all will be outside keeping lookout.”
“Lookout,” she grumbled. “Come on, man!”
“Yeah,” Lewis said, “lookouts are always the saddest of the bunch.”
“Not tonight, Ramrod. This requires the baddest of the bad on lookout, since the sheriff station’s right up on Rosemont. No one should hear us, but in case anyone does, I’ll need y’all to distract ʼem until Ronnie and I are finished.”
“This is bullshit,” Hana groaned.
“Hey,” Milo snapped, “you wanna run all this sound equipment?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Exactly. We’ve gotta work together.”
“You’re right,” Lewis said, “nothing I can do to help in here except stand around, anyway. But Ronnie, tell me—what song are you gonna spin?”
“We Gotta Get Out of This Place.”
“One of Bruce’s favorites.” He nodded. “Cool. That’s real cool.”
Hana stared at the ceiling and inhaled the last of the joint. She pursed her lips, and blew a long puff of smoke all the way up to the rafters. Then she tossed the butt of the joint at the screen.
“OK, rock-n-rollers ,” Milo said, “let’s rock-n-roll.”
He stood and walked up to the eighth row. As he did, he yanked off a strip of duct tape about two feet long. The three of us followed behind him.
“What do we need that for?” I asked.
“For you,” he said, like it was obvious. He climbed over the middle seat and into the row behind it. He patted the seatback, and summoned me to it. I walked toward him but I didn’t sit down. Not yet.
“I still don’t understand,” I said.
“Ronnie, what we’re—what you’re doing—is gonna hurt. I don’t know how much, but I know that if you run outta here before three minutes, you’ll still hear well enough to qualify for the draft. So I’m gonna tape you to the chair to be safe.”
“It’s like in that Burgess book,” Hana said. “A clockwork something.”
“A Clockwork Orange.” Milo nodded. “That’s where I got the idea.”
“I haven’t read it,” I mumbled.
“Looks like you’re about to live it,” Lewis said.
Milo dropped the roll of tape and gripped both of my shoulders.
“Look man, you’ve gotta trust me. This is Best Friend Shit, OK? I’m not gonna let what happened to him happen to you, I promise.”
“I trust you,” I sighed. “I trust you, man.”
We hugged from either side of the mercy seat.
“Well this is sweet enough to set my ovaries on fire,” Hana teased.
“Shut up,” we both said, letting go of each other.
I sat down and placed my forearms across the armrests. Behind me, I heard Milo pull off a second strip of tape.
“Oh shit,” I gasped. “Wait!”
I jumped out of the seat and stumbled back into the lobby. I grabbed my backpack off of the counter and pulled out Bruce’s bomber jacket. The weight of the leather was a heavy comfort as I slid it over my shoulders.
“Ready for takeoff!” Hana laughed, as I returned.
I smiled. The entire thing was getting too crazy not to smile.
I moved across the row and sat back down in the seat.
“OK, Milo, clockwork orange me.”
I shut my eyes so I wouldn’t panic as he taped me to the chair. I imagined Bruce there with us, leaning against the screen and laughing his ass off.
“Cool,” Milo said. “I’m finished.”
I opened my eyes and looked down at my silver restraints.
I tried to move, but couldn’t. I nodded to Lewis and Hana.
They nodded back.
“Go out the side exit,” Milo told them. “Hana, hide under the marquee. Ramrod, you stake out Rosemont. If anyone comes this way, tell ʼem the power grid is on the fritz and that the electric company’s en route.”
“What if they don’t buy it?” Lewis asked.
“Then do whatever you need to do. Just make sure no one gets in here before the music stops. Stay at your posts at least ten minutes afterward, just to be safe.”
“OK,” Lewis nodded. Then he looked down at me and smiled. “You got that special kinda cour
age. Bruce would be proud.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“Crazy times call for crazy shit,” Hana promised.
“I’d argue if I could.”
Hana and Lewis started off in the direction of the side exit.
“Remember,” Milo hollered, “keep a lookout for ten minutes after!”
As they disappeared down the corridor, Lewis gave Milo a thumb’s up. But Hana flashed us a separate gesture—the sign of peace and victory. Milo and I stayed silent until we heard the exit door shut.
“I’m goin’ up now,” he said.
“OK.”
“I’ll yell at you before we start.”
“OK.”
“The record’s in your backpack?”
“Yeah,” I nodded.
“I’ll grab it. Keep your eyes on the screen. I’ve got somethin’ special lined up to distract ya from the pain.”
“OK.”
“This is gonna work.”
“This is gonna work,” I echoed.
I could hear his feet skitter up the aisle and back into the lobby. I could hear the door shut behind him, sealing me inside. Then I heard nothing.
I was alone.
Suddenly, the lights went out.
I was alone in the dark.
But the screen lit up before I had a chance to freak.
“Ronnie,” Milo yelled from the projection window, “can you hear me?”
“Yeah!” I yelled back.
“Ok! Hold on while I load this reel.”
I heard some clinks and clanks overhead.
“Reel’s in,” he yelled, “and your song’s on the turntable. I’ll start with the volume knob at seven, and then crank it fast. It’ll be over before you know it, OK?”
“OK,” I said. “You have your earplugs in?”
“Affirmative,” he yelled, “and I’ll wear headphones over those! Now tell me . . . are you ready, willing, and able to rock-n-roll all night?”
I surprised myself by laughing. I felt like a crazy person. I felt scared, excited, drunk, horrified, stoned, and utterly mad.
Bruce loved Fats, I thought, before I screamed, “ʼTILL THE BROAD DAYLIGHT!”
My words echoed off the walls around me.
Milo didn’t respond.
