In which we find the third installment of an ending for something that has not been written.
When the movie ended, I sat in my seat for awhile longer and watched the credits fade in and out of view. The old couple that had been sitting a few rows in closer to the middle of the theater helped each other stand in a way that made me think they'd once been dancers. There was a certain grace between them. The man in the wheelchair wheeled smiled and nodded at me as he passed.
I knew that the weather outside was cold; snow had been falling all day, and the wind was forecast to pick up throughout the night. When the credits were over, I sat alone in the middle seat in the middle row. The lights came on and a young man entered the theater with a broom and dustpan. He seemed surprised to see me. "I've got to clean up," he said. I smiled and nodded in the same way the man in the wheelchair had done to me. When I didn't move, he shrugged and started sweeping up the empty popcorn boxes and soda cups.
"Have you seen this movie?" I asked.
He didn't stop working. "Nope. I just clean."
"You should watch it," I say.
"No time."
I didn't push it. I knew how time worked. "Can I just sit here through the next showing?" I asked. I knew it was a rude question, that I was putting him in a tough spot. He might have been sixteen. Scrawny and a little awkward in the way most kids are at that age.
He kept working. "I don't think so, Mister. Besides, it doesn't start again for another hour. You don't want to sit here for that long, do you?"
I did, actually. I didn't feel like going out into the cold, and I didn't want to drive home to where Ines was. We'd had a rough year, and now everything was at a point where balance was important. The scales could tip either way based on what we heard from the doctor in the next few days.
"What's your name?" I asked the kid.
"Alan."
"I'm going to leave in a couple of minutes, okay, Alan? I won't get in your way, and I'll be out of here before you know it."
"Okay. That's fine. I'll clean the other rows first, and I'll get to yours last. When I get there, though, you have to leave. We have rules about people being in here."
"That's fine, Alan. That's fine. I won't get you into trouble. My wife and I usually come here together, but tonight she stayed home."
"Yeah," Alan said.
He was getting closer. The theater was small and I knew I didn't have much time left. When he got to the row in front of me, he stopped. "There's nothing to clean in this row, Mister."
"You need to clean my row, right?"
"Yeah. I'm sorry."
I stood. "That's okay, Alan. I'm leaving. Have a good night, okay? Thanks for letting me stay."
As I walked through the lobby, I avoided looking at anyone. I just wanted to get it over with, to be outside in the snow and wind. As I drove out of the parking lot, I told myself to drive slowly so that I'd get home in one piece. Ines and I had some things to discuss as we waited.
Friday, February 6, 2015
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Ending #2
In which we find the second installment of an ending for something that has not been written.
They walked down the middle of the dirt road and occasionally looked over their shoulders to see if smoke was still rising where the trees ended at the small clearing. Billy, nine years old, wore one shoe. His sister Beth didn't wear any. "Dad, how long will it burn?" Billy asked. The boy ended his question, as usual, with no upward inflection.
Andy loved his son but sometimes wished he wouldn't ask the same question more than once. "Till the wood's gone, I guess." Beth was different: She would ask a question, parse the answer, then move on.
"And you called Mom, right?" Billy asked.
"I did," Andy said. "She'll be waiting for us. Keep walking, okay? We don't want to keep her waiting." He looked at his children's feet and wished he'd been able to grab enough shoes for them. But when he'd realized things had gotten out of control, he simply shoved them out of the front door. They'd stood on the front lawn and watched everything burn, each of them sobbing at one point or another. It was a sick feeling, watching the cabin burn.
"Mom's gonna be mad," Beth said.
"Yeah, she is," Andy said. "But not at you two. At me. At the whole idea of the cabin, really." As soon as the three of them had gotten outside, Andy knew he'd have to make the phone call. Irene had not believed him at first. "The cabin what?" she'd said. But he heard a bit of fear in her voice after she got things straight in her mind.
Billy had skipped far ahead until he seemed small and carefree in the dust he was kicking up. Andy wondered if his son's bare foot was sore. Irene might be as mad about the lack of shoes as anything else. Beth seemed to walk as though nothing at all was missing from her feet.
When they reached the 7-Eleven where Irene was already waiting, the children ran to her and hugged her waist. Andy could see her wipe tears from her cheekbones. He kissed her mouth when he got to her, and he thought it was the most passionate kiss they'd shared in a long time. Maybe fear makes that happen, he thought.
Irene looked around the parking lot. "We can't stay here."
"I know," Andy said. "We'll have to drive to the house."
"No. It's not safe there."
Andy shrugged. The kids had gone into the 7-Eleven to get a snack. "We have to. We'll have to risk it. We'll wait for awhile, for nighttime. Then we'll drive the long way. We'll be okay, Irene. I promise."
"You've promised lots of things, Andy. Now look at us. What about the kids?"
"The kids will be fine. We'll all be fine. Things are different now. I can feel it."
"You can feel it, Andy?"
"Yeah. They probably aren't even looking for us now."
Irene told Billy and Beth to get into the car when they came out with pretzels and Sprite. "We'll wait until dark, then. I'll drop you off at the park near the house, and you'll walk home to make sure nobody is there."
Andy pressed his chest into her back. He wrapped his arms around her belly and nuzzled her neck. He was still remembering the kiss. "We'll be okay."
Then they got into the car and waited for night to fall.
They walked down the middle of the dirt road and occasionally looked over their shoulders to see if smoke was still rising where the trees ended at the small clearing. Billy, nine years old, wore one shoe. His sister Beth didn't wear any. "Dad, how long will it burn?" Billy asked. The boy ended his question, as usual, with no upward inflection.
Andy loved his son but sometimes wished he wouldn't ask the same question more than once. "Till the wood's gone, I guess." Beth was different: She would ask a question, parse the answer, then move on.
"And you called Mom, right?" Billy asked.
"I did," Andy said. "She'll be waiting for us. Keep walking, okay? We don't want to keep her waiting." He looked at his children's feet and wished he'd been able to grab enough shoes for them. But when he'd realized things had gotten out of control, he simply shoved them out of the front door. They'd stood on the front lawn and watched everything burn, each of them sobbing at one point or another. It was a sick feeling, watching the cabin burn.
"Mom's gonna be mad," Beth said.
"Yeah, she is," Andy said. "But not at you two. At me. At the whole idea of the cabin, really." As soon as the three of them had gotten outside, Andy knew he'd have to make the phone call. Irene had not believed him at first. "The cabin what?" she'd said. But he heard a bit of fear in her voice after she got things straight in her mind.
Billy had skipped far ahead until he seemed small and carefree in the dust he was kicking up. Andy wondered if his son's bare foot was sore. Irene might be as mad about the lack of shoes as anything else. Beth seemed to walk as though nothing at all was missing from her feet.
When they reached the 7-Eleven where Irene was already waiting, the children ran to her and hugged her waist. Andy could see her wipe tears from her cheekbones. He kissed her mouth when he got to her, and he thought it was the most passionate kiss they'd shared in a long time. Maybe fear makes that happen, he thought.
Irene looked around the parking lot. "We can't stay here."
"I know," Andy said. "We'll have to drive to the house."
"No. It's not safe there."
Andy shrugged. The kids had gone into the 7-Eleven to get a snack. "We have to. We'll have to risk it. We'll wait for awhile, for nighttime. Then we'll drive the long way. We'll be okay, Irene. I promise."
"You've promised lots of things, Andy. Now look at us. What about the kids?"
"The kids will be fine. We'll all be fine. Things are different now. I can feel it."
"You can feel it, Andy?"
"Yeah. They probably aren't even looking for us now."
Irene told Billy and Beth to get into the car when they came out with pretzels and Sprite. "We'll wait until dark, then. I'll drop you off at the park near the house, and you'll walk home to make sure nobody is there."
Andy pressed his chest into her back. He wrapped his arms around her belly and nuzzled her neck. He was still remembering the kiss. "We'll be okay."
Then they got into the car and waited for night to fall.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Ending #1
In which we find the first installment of an ending for something that has not been written.
I sat alone and watched the band end its night on stage. The bar itself was nearly empty now, the smart drinkers and the dedicated hook-up artists long since gone. I'd stopped in tonight with the intent of having a drink for each song the band played, but I'd lost my momentum before early, and then the songs got longer and I stopped caring as much or counting at all. My left ear, the one that had been turned toward the stage, was nearly deaf. In my other ear were sounds of the waitresses cleaning up and the bartenders restocking the glasses and bottles.
The walk home was going to be long and cold, neither of which bothered me. I persuaded the waitress who'd been helping me all night to bring me another Scotch, and I gave her my last five dollars on top of whatever the drink cost. She seemed grateful, but her eyes were tired and I knew she, too, just wanted to go home. I considered asking her to walk with me, but I sober enough to see that she was too blonde and too young--and probably too smart--to give me the time of day.
I watched the band tear down the equipment and pack things away. The bartender flashed the lights to let everyone know he was shutting things down, so I finished the Scotch and struggled to get my arms into the sleeves of my heavy Carhartt jacket. I was a bit off-balance when I stood. Outside, the heavy touch of cold December made my eyes water. A Buick Skylark was stuck in a snowdrift near the road, and a group of people giggled and laughed as they tried to get it free. I was happy that they saw no misery in the inconvenience.
Walking the path that ran along the river between the bar and my mobile home, I wondered what Becky was doing right then. The last time we'd talked she'd said something about Ensenada, that it might be a good, safe place to ride out the next few months. She was probably right about that. Or, at least she was right about finding a place to ride things out until the dust settled. If she were still around I'd quibble with her thought that Ensenada was "safe," however. I'm not sure that anyplace is safe after what had happened between us.
But I wanted to think that Becky was okay no matter where she was. "I'd like to be able to tell people this story someday," she'd said. "My kids, maybe. If I have kids, I'd like them to hear the story." I'd told her that would be nice, but as I walked along that river and listened to the ice crackle, I thought that maybe some stories shouldn't be told.
I sat alone and watched the band end its night on stage. The bar itself was nearly empty now, the smart drinkers and the dedicated hook-up artists long since gone. I'd stopped in tonight with the intent of having a drink for each song the band played, but I'd lost my momentum before early, and then the songs got longer and I stopped caring as much or counting at all. My left ear, the one that had been turned toward the stage, was nearly deaf. In my other ear were sounds of the waitresses cleaning up and the bartenders restocking the glasses and bottles.
The walk home was going to be long and cold, neither of which bothered me. I persuaded the waitress who'd been helping me all night to bring me another Scotch, and I gave her my last five dollars on top of whatever the drink cost. She seemed grateful, but her eyes were tired and I knew she, too, just wanted to go home. I considered asking her to walk with me, but I sober enough to see that she was too blonde and too young--and probably too smart--to give me the time of day.
I watched the band tear down the equipment and pack things away. The bartender flashed the lights to let everyone know he was shutting things down, so I finished the Scotch and struggled to get my arms into the sleeves of my heavy Carhartt jacket. I was a bit off-balance when I stood. Outside, the heavy touch of cold December made my eyes water. A Buick Skylark was stuck in a snowdrift near the road, and a group of people giggled and laughed as they tried to get it free. I was happy that they saw no misery in the inconvenience.
Walking the path that ran along the river between the bar and my mobile home, I wondered what Becky was doing right then. The last time we'd talked she'd said something about Ensenada, that it might be a good, safe place to ride out the next few months. She was probably right about that. Or, at least she was right about finding a place to ride things out until the dust settled. If she were still around I'd quibble with her thought that Ensenada was "safe," however. I'm not sure that anyplace is safe after what had happened between us.
But I wanted to think that Becky was okay no matter where she was. "I'd like to be able to tell people this story someday," she'd said. "My kids, maybe. If I have kids, I'd like them to hear the story." I'd told her that would be nice, but as I walked along that river and listened to the ice crackle, I thought that maybe some stories shouldn't be told.
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