Whatever it is that gives O.G. his prophetic insight has never extended to Zebulund.
I stop short, in front of my destination, frowning at my phone to verify. I had assumed I’d be going to a ritzy restaurant with no reservation list, invite-only style. But it’s a derelict theater straight from the golden years of Hollywood, complete with a giant fluorescent marquee that buzzes loudly. A mash-up of letters, some upside-down and some repurposed numbers, illuminate a Bogart/Bacall double feature. In the ticket booth hangs a handwritten sign declaring “Closed for private screening” with today’s date. The total lack of traffic and red carpet means this is not the sort of event that draws the press.
Inside I’m greeted by the ever-present smell of popcorn and the clang of an ancient air-conditioning unit. There’s a solitary concession stand where two teenage girls stand, arms crossed in mirrored images of blasé. The one on the left has a punk shaved head and piercings incongruous with her cherubic face. The other rocks razor-sharp bangs and copious amounts of eyeliner. Only their stiff, overlarge theater uniforms belie the anarchist vibe. I mean, they must care a little to have this job.
Their gazes scan me as I approach, before focusing back on their discussion in a slightly quieter tone.
“The whole theater and a big-ass tip.” Bangs pauses in her conversation with Piercings long enough to spout out, “Sorry. Closed.”
“Ugh, I know.” My investigative journalist instincts urge me to play it cool. “I’m late. I need a water before we go in.” This much is true. I don’t have to fake the exhaustion and shaking hands either. I dig distractedly through my bag. “Roe should already be here.” I wait a moment before looking up with a sheepish expression in time to catch them sharing a look. As anti-establishment as they think they are, Roe is a huge star. “Dammit. You didn’t hear that from me.” I scan them in turn and then add. “You guys look cool though.” Like their confidence in my secret is a gift.
Bangs insists, “We can’t let anyone in—“
“Yeah, except Paul, I know.” I fake more frustration in my search for an item that doesn’t even exist. Under my breath, I start my rant. “Figures he wouldn’t remember me. I just keep his world running.” Louder, I say, “I’m his PA, Rachel. I guess I’m not included. I’m just a woman. How important can I be?”
Bangs frowns. They share a look.
Piercings says, “Sorry, it’s just that we can’t.”
Their gazes drop to my quivering chin.
“No, I get it. You guys have to do your job. I’m sorry for unloading. It’s just we had this press junket all day. I’m so tired. And then he demands I come down here and for what? He can’t even bother to remember me.” I quickly dash away a tear that doesn’t exist. “It’s just these people. Sometimes they act like they can’t even see me, you know?”
“Totally.”
I sigh. “Can you just run this in?” I hold up the water. “If I don’t get him water, he’ll freak.” I tighten my tone as I speak.
They glance at each other again.
“It’s cool. Just go ahead. He’s in the john anyway.”
Perfect! “Thanks. You’re a real lifesaver.”
Bangs waves away my credit card.
“Thanks again.” I’m almost through the theater door when I call out, “And don’t tell anybody he’s here. The paparazzi would ruin his night.”
It takes a lot of effort not to grin as I walk into the dark room. The theater is blessedly empty. I scurry to the darkest corner to disrobe. Again. The theater looks like every old theater, smaller than the new ones, with several dozen old wooden seats, covered in balding velvet, half of which don’t automatically fold up anymore. Heavy red fabric drapes the walls and a dusty curtain borders a giant white screen.
By the time I chug one of the waters, I'm convinced that what happened in the coat closet was a fluke. It was exhaustion and definitely not a slip in my skills. Nothing more. I can do this. I'm still in the game. I toss the other water in my purse and hide it under a seat. I go Under and not a second too soon. Light spills in from outside as a man walks through the door. Instinctively, my arms cross over my body despite my pep talk only seconds ago.
It isn’t Roe. It’s another guy around his age though. Maybe a little older than him, early thirties. Under a faded blue ball cap he has very thin blond hair that flops over his ears. He looks all around the theater, his eyes traveling right over me without stopping. I let out a quiet breath of relief. Totally a fluke.
I never know if this gift will leave as suddenly as it appeared. It’s my experience that if it feels too good to be true, somehow I’ll end up getting screwed over.
The man, presumably Paul, tugs off his ball cap and messes with his hair. He chooses a seat toward the front center. I crawl along the aisle opposite the entrance and try not to think about what my hands are touching. In a seat a few rows back, I fold myself into a little ball. Light spills in again and I drop myself low. Roe’s gaze searches the theater and snags on the other man. I’m out of his line of sight and his eyes never stop on me.
Phew.
“Paul.” He holds out his arms as he approaches, and the other man stands to meet him.
They embrace with large, genuine smiles. They don’t look like brothers, maybe family friends.
“Hey, man, thanks for meeting me.” Paul thumbs around the empty room. “I take it that it’s not a coincidence we’re alone.”
“I wanted you to be able to speak freely.” Roe pets his eyebrow repeatedly, like he’s trying to pet it into submission.
The curtains pull back to widen the screen as the lights go down. Familiar music signifies the start of the movie. White letters on a gray clouded sky illuminate the faces of the two men in front of me. The sound of the movie is loud enough to drown them out. I make my way back to the aisle and come down another row to hear better.
