A long time ago, back when films were actually projected
onto the screen by shining a light through film, and the illusion of motion
created by actually moving the picture in front of that light at a blistering
rate of twenty-four frames per second, Stark Tumbstread worked in a movie theater. The film
projector, with all its synchronicity and specially designed parts was, to say
the least, a marvel of the mechanical age. That being said, the job of actually
presenting the films was an easy one, though full of dead ends and subtle tests of
one’s ability to eat shit. Stark was always dissatisfied with the present.
When the theater chain that he worked for was bought out by a larger
chain, absorbed into the umbrella of the ever consolidating Royal Entertainment
Group, the new management thought that they’d test the theater's loyalty by putting the employees under the management of a guy who was as incompetent in his personal
life (which I won’t get into here) as he turned out to be at running a theater.
The new boss and Stark were not friends, but sometimes Stark pretended that they were in order to stay on the boss' good side and keep his job. The upside to the new boss’ uselessness was that he needed his employees. He
was willing to look the other way on a lot of bad behavior in order to keep the staff around and working.
The theater would not run under his direction. This new boss didn’t
understand the little jobs that the ticket takers and ushers and box office attendants
did because he had never done these jobs himself. He was simply a manager. He was a Royal
Entertainment man, put in place to facilitate the change to new policies that
were all about the ushering in of the faster, impersonal digital age of the
movie house. It was to be cheaper for the theater and more expensive for the
consumer of entertainment. Digital projection would also soon and forever spell the end of Stark's job. The once mighty, important, certified, unionized projectionists
would be an unnecessary expense, a thing of the past. Threading film through a
trap and gate was Stark's only skill, and it would soon be obsolete.
This eventuality had led Stark to a 'branching out' of sorts. Stark had picked up the trade of acting, another worthless endeavor, and also the bottle.
This eventuality had led Stark to a 'branching out' of sorts. Stark had picked up the trade of acting, another worthless endeavor, and also the bottle.
The new manager’s name was John. That was his real name. I’m
not going to sugar coat this and change the names of the innocent in order to
protect them, because even if they were innocent, they aren’t safe, so who
needs protecting here? He had a last name, but for the life of me I can’t
remember what it was. The employees just called him John to his face and ‘The Dough’
behind his back. I wish this was a term of endearment. I wish it was a gentle
jibe of a nickname playfully making fun of his only real use in the theater (collecting
‘the dough’), but it wasn’t. It came about more because of his weight, which
was substantial, and because of his ego over being the ‘big guy’ at the
theater.
For all of the bitching about how stupid The Dough was when
it came to anything but collecting the money in a little blue bag and putting
it in the safe upstairs, the employees didn’t seem to mind his blindness when it came to
other activities. The ushers snuck out to their cars to smoke pot through bongs
made of poster rollers. The high school kids behind the popcorn counter lost
their virginities in the break room. The box office attendants under-rung tickets
to line their own pockets. And Stark built and screened prints in an almost constant
state of blackout drunk on nights when he didn’t have an audition in the
morning.
It all came to a head one night when Stark had to sneak out of
work for a while to go to a pick-up rehearsal for a sketch comedy show that he wasn’t getting paid for. He showed up for work, said hi to the boss, went
upstairs and threaded the first round of shows for the evening.
Stark's plan was to enlist the help of an usher who owed him a
favor. Stark would have the usher start the shows while he snuck out and went to rehearsal. Starting the movies wasn’t difficult; one just had to push a button
and then make sure that the cue on the film opened the douser to let the
picture onto the screen. Then check the sound and framing and you’re done. Stark reckoned that he would be back in time to start the late shows and he didn’t bother telling ‘The
Dough’. Stark knew that he was the only employee in the building who was trained to actually thread a projector. There was no way that The Dough
could have blundered his way through it, so he would have just gotten worried,
or mad, at the prospect of Stark leaving, even on a break.
Stark ducked down one of the smaller exit hallways that lead to the front of the theater. This hallway was adjacent to the main lobby, but walled off until just before the exit doors, where there was still a small four foot wall to keep customers from ducking down the exit hall and sneaking into a show.
On his way out, looking over this little wall, Stark spotted Steven O'Brian, the film editor of a local weekly and a man who had an odd power about him. Steven was something of a local celebrity, promoting low budget horror films all over town and even making a few quality flicks of his own. So, for Stark, Steven was a pretty good person to keep on amicable terms with, which for the most part Stark had. There was one instance where Stark had failed to show up to shoot a small scene in one of Steven's films, but although he had never attempted to use Stark again, Stark thought that Steven had seemed to have let it go.
On his way out, looking over this little wall, Stark spotted Steven O'Brian, the film editor of a local weekly and a man who had an odd power about him. Steven was something of a local celebrity, promoting low budget horror films all over town and even making a few quality flicks of his own. So, for Stark, Steven was a pretty good person to keep on amicable terms with, which for the most part Stark had. There was one instance where Stark had failed to show up to shoot a small scene in one of Steven's films, but although he had never attempted to use Stark again, Stark thought that Steven had seemed to have let it go.
Steven had ended up playing the role in his film himself, and that was
just the way he rolled. He was a reliable, calm, lover of all things film and
occult. His hairdo harkened back to the golden age of television and his dress
jackets exuded an odd sophistication, even if he wore them over horror-film-themed
t-shirts.
Steven was in the theater promoting some midnight movie or other
that was screening later in the evening and he was standing at the doorman’s stand talking shop with regulars of the theater. Stark thought about interrupting to say
hello, but he was on a pretty tight schedule and didn’t want to draw too much
attention to his exit.
After that, Stark didn’t remember very much. He made it to his car
and fished out the bottle that he had stowed under the front seat. He took a long
pull, grimaced at the taste, and started the engine.
By the time he made it to the rehearsal, Stark had gifted himself
several more swigs on the bottle. This wasn't an issue because several of the
other performers in the show were already drunker than he was and the director had not shown
up at all. The rehearsal had turned into something of a party by
the time the troupe of would-be-comedians had run thorough the sketches one sloppy time. Then they resorted to more
booze in order to convince themselves that the show was in proper shape for
exhibition… then Stark woke up in his apartment with the afternoon sun slapping him in the face.
He had not made it back to the theater. He had no idea what
had happened to the last set of shows, including Steven’s late night
creature-feature; and the worst part was that Stark had no time to lay low. He was
due back for another shift at 5pm, just as the sun was setting.
Stark collected himself as well as could be expected. There was
no time to rinse the booze from his breath or wash the uniform that he had slept
in, so he decided to try and just slouch into work under the radar and hope that
the boss wasn’t insane with anger.
As he entered the theater, Stark saw Steven again. He was standing
with his hands in his pockets, cornered to a couple of teenagers who were
vehemently explaining something to him. They looked angry, but Steven seemed to
be keeping his cool.
Stark did not fail to notice that there was also an attractive
woman behind Steven. She was dressed in an almost comic book fashion, with
fishnet stockings connecting muscular legs to a pair of tattered combat boots
and (on the other end) eventually disappearing into a trench coat. Underneath
the coat Stark could only imagine what was happening. The way the woman's purple hair
swooped elegantly around her serious, angular face suggested that he would have to go on wondering. She was too much for Stark, but she seemed to be
keeping an eye on Steven as he let the kids tell him whatever it was they were
telling him.
When he saw Stark, Steven broke free of the conversation with
the film geeks and sauntered over.
“Hey, man,” he began, “what happened to you last night?”
“Had a rehearsal that went long,” Stark tried to save face.
“I ended up threading your shows last night, but only after
your boss had a meltdown and made an announcement to the lobby that he needed
the help of anyone who had any projectionist experience. He seemed pretty
pissed.”
“Wow,” Stark said, unsurprised, “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
Stark patted Steven on the back as he looked over Steven's shoulder. The Dough was lumbering towards them, one of his little blue moneybags under his arm.
He did, indeed, look pissed.
“Tumbstread!” The Dough bellowed across the lobby, “Come
with me, please!”
Stark raised his eyebrows in goodbye to Steven and followed The
Dough towards the stairwell, but at the last minute The Dough veered to the right of
the doorway and made his way a little farther down the hall to a storage room.
He opened the door to the storage room with his set of
jingling keys. The door opened to a small room that was filled with cups and
trays and popcorn tubs. The Dough motioned Stark inside.
“Wait a minute,” Stark tried, “I don’t even get to go upstairs?”
“I don’t want you in my booth,” The Dough proclaimed, his
voice full of vindication.
‘Your booth?’ Stark thought. ‘What would you even do if you were
left in charge of it, I wonder? Hire Steven?’ Stark stepped into the storage room.
The Dough followed, leaving the door to the storage room
wide open behind him. The lights in the space were dim, one of the fluorescents
was burned out and one of the others flickered badly. The Dough put his hands
on his hips and looked sternly at Stark. After a moment he unzipped his blue bag
and pulled out a piece of paper that, from experience, Stark knew to be a
‘Termination Write Up’. The Dough tossed the bag of money onto a box next to the door.
Before The Dough began, Stark looked down to see a stack of projector
bulbs that had been improperly placed in this room. This was a dry storage meant
for concession supplies, and Stark felt a twinge of annoyance, even faced with his current situation (that would surely involve discipline and humiliation by the
very person who had probably mistakenly put these bulbs here), that these bulbs
had not made it to the booth. Stark looked back to The Dough.
“Stark Tumbstread, I have been authorized to officially
notify you of your termination of employment here at the Crest Ridge 8
Theater,” he sounded like he was enjoying this, “And in addition, I’d like to
add that I have long believed you to be the ring leader of a group of
insubordinate layabouts who are employed at this theater. Employees that, without your bad example, will straighten up and fly right.”
‘Fat chance of that,’ Stark thought, but kept his mouth shut. His mind was on the bulbs laying quietly on the floor at his feet. Stark was beginning to feel a bit uneasy about them being in this little storage room that was accessible to most of the employees at the theater.
Projector bulbs are fairly dangerous. They are highly pressurized and their glass is thin and easily compromised. Inexperienced projectionists usually wear a facemask, gloves and padding when installing a projector bulb, because even the oils in one's hand can eat through the glass of a bulb and cause it to explode.
Projector bulbs are fairly dangerous. They are highly pressurized and their glass is thin and easily compromised. Inexperienced projectionists usually wear a facemask, gloves and padding when installing a projector bulb, because even the oils in one's hand can eat through the glass of a bulb and cause it to explode.
“Do you have anything to add before I have you sign your
termination?”
“John, I…” Stark tried, but he was interrupted by a new presence in the room.
Like a gaggle of phantoms, suddenly there were three skinny,
pale youths in the storage room with Stark and The Dough. Two of them were the kids that had
been arguing with Steven.
They very nearly floated in, and they looked confused and unapologetic.
As Stark surveyed them for a second time, he assumed that they were high
and very lost, just trying to make it to their theater in time to see the
coming attractions, looking to obnoxiously giggle their way through a lazy evening. Not one of them looked older than seventeen, just a few
years shy of Stark's own age.
It happened fast. The Dough broke his train of thought and Stark was cut off in making any explanation for himself. Two of the kids invaded The
Dough’s personal space and began asking him a flurry of slurred questions as he
simultaneously tried to usher them out.
The third floating kid, the one Stark had not seen before,
grabbed the bag of money.
The thudding of the hangover in Stark's head may have had something to do with the clouded thinking behind Stark's next actions, but whatever the reason, Stark did act. Perhaps it was out of some loyalty to his soon-to-be non-existant job, or perhaps he just didn't like injustice. Or maybe there was some controlling wisdom of the universe at work that had yet to make its intentions known. Whatever the reason behind his decision to give chase to the thief and the stolen bag of money, Stark did just that. He gave chase, but first he picked up a projector bulb.
The thief was not trying to hide. He headed straight for the crowded main lobby and not towards one of the labyrinthine hallways that would have eventually provided a subtle exit. He ran as fast as the herd of theatergoers in his way would allow, pushing and yelling as he went, blue bag clutched in his left hand. Stark pursued him as well as he could, fighting back the lethargy brought on by a night of boozing.
They broke out into the more open space of the lobby, and the thief's pace quickened. Stark followed and, for the first time, he took in the full appearance of the thief. He was dressed in black, one of the remaining 'goth kids' that had been in their hay day when Johnny the Homicidal Maniac was something young people were excited about. The world had moved on since then, and even Johnny's creator had softened into Invader Zim and cultural assimilation. This weird thief that Stark was chasing was, at best, a retro relic of a finished attitude. This kid couldn't even have been old enough to have been aware of a time when Tim Burton was making good movies, so why was he dressed like this? He had complicated looking pants, littered with chains and pockets and pins. On top he was wearing some dreary looking band's promotional teeshirt over what looked to Stark like a thin, pale frame. His hair was greasy and black and flowing out behind him as he ran, and Stark had the thought that if this kid could outrun him, Stark might as well call it a day and just live in a MacDonald's looking at porn on his laptop for the rest of his days because, frankly, this kid looked pathetic.
And then the kid jumped. I happened fast enough that even some of the people in the immediate vicinity didn't see it except, perhaps, out of the corner of their eye. In the front end of the lobby, there was the dividing wall that separated the lobby where patrons entered the theater from the small hallway and exit doors where Stark had made his quiet exit the night before. It would not have been a particularly difficult wall to jump for anyone with any athletic ability, but the thief started his jump from a distance of about ten feet from the wall, as if he was taking to the air to save time. He lifted off the ground effortlessly and hung in the air for a long-jump that would have rivaled olympians on the moon. He cleared the small, four foot wall by three feet and did not quite reach the ground before pounding into the wall of the exit hallway.
When Stark saw this, it stopped him dead. He stood in the middle of the lobby and watched the thief recover from his jump and slam through the exit door and out into the parking lot.
Stark looked to his left and saw Steven and his female companion. They had seen the jump and seemed ready for conflict. They did not seem at all surprised at what they had seen.
Steven looked at Stark and called, "I told them not to try it. They're getting desperate."
Stark didn't fully understand this remark, but he had no time to think about it. At that moment, the other two film fans/teens/acomplices that had come into the storage room emerged in the lobby, also running at full speed. The Dough was following them as best he could, lumbering after them with a face ablaze with anger. The Dough was further hindered by the fact that, for some reason that Stark could not fathom, his pants were around his ankles.
This was all getting too weird too fast. Stark was barely keeping up. Why were The Dough's pants down? Had the thieving teens yanked his trousers down? Again, there was no time to contemplate this situation, because, immediately, there were new strange developments.
As the other teens made their way into the lobby, Steven and his companion turned on them and the woman had drawn a full katana sword from underneath her trench coat. Stark almost felt more interested in catching a glimpse of what she was wearing under the coat as she drew the sword, but he saw nothing.
Now the sword was out, and this woman, this friend of Steven's, seemed ready to use it.
The first guy had nearly flown. Steven knew what was happening. The Dough's pants were around his ankles. A hot babe was about to slice some fools up with a katana sword in the middle of the theater lobby. Stark's brain was overloaded and for that moment, he felt very, very stupid.
"Take care of the other one!" Steven yelled, snapping Stark back to the situation, "We'll deal with these two!"
Stark couldn't help it, he had to do what Steven said. It was the only thing that his brain would allow. As he turned to run out the front doors, Stark saw yet another sight that was beyond his comprehension. The woman slashed one of the teens with her sword, splitting him in two as he ran towards her. The blade cut through the kid like he was built out of butter. She had hit him on his left shoulder just below the neck and had cut all the way through him until her blade came out the other side of him below his right arm.
She stood her ground and his head and right arm exploded over her own left shoulder. The rest of his body went sprawling towards the ground on her right. But before the torso and legs hit the ground, they seemed to reanimate. Little lines of guts and gore started to reach out on their own from the body towards the (still airborne) remainder of its parts. The same thing happened as the head and arm flew through the air. The severed insides of the slaughtered teen reached out for the rest of its body, and before Stark knew it, they had connected with the guts reaching out from their counterpart.
Then, in a snap, the teen that had momentarily been two became one again, pulling his own two severed halves back together with the cut guts and gore inside himself, reconnecting back into a whole person behind the woman with the sword. There was a wet slap as the two pieces of him smacked back together and then Stark saw his face. The life returned to the face immediately and the teen's eyes rolled for a split second and then focused. Stark and the unkillable teen's eyes met.
Then Stark heard Steven again. "Go!" Steven yelled as he moved in to punch the reassembled ruffian.
Stark went. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. If the kid who had stolen the bag was anything like the one who the purple haired ninja lady had cut in half, Stark would be annihilated. He didn't want that, but he also didn't want to be the coward who just stood by in shock and did nothing. So Stark went. He made his way through the final ten yards of the lobby and pushed brushed by a patron who was coming in one of the glass paned doors.
Stark was out in the evening air. He kept his feet moving, if only to gain ground on the thief, and spotted him almost immediately. The thief was struggling over the money bag with another employee of the theater. It was a girl that Stark knew by sight, but he could not remember her name. She worked mostly as an usher and, in Stark's estimation, had always seemed fairly meek. Yet here she was, struggling over a bag of theater cash, that she had no doubt recognized as one of The Dough's precious parcels. A twinge of what could only be described as jealousy jumped through Stark's nervous system. He had barely given chase to this pale monster, and here was this little girl, who had probably been strolling up to work, thinking about stupid boys or her math homework, and now she was fully engaged with some supernatural thief that looked like he belonged at a Marylyn Manson concert.
Stark's want to be included was short lived. The thief broke free of the little theater employee, tossing her hands back, away from the bag. Then, with his free hand, he grabbed her throat. The look of confusion and utter surprise that came across her face was short lived, as in one quick motion, the thief clutched at the soft spots of her throat and ripped outwards.
Blood and gore dripped from the thief's had as he dropped the lump of lifeless meat that used to make up the front part of the poor girl's neck. She staggered for a moment and brought her hand up to the place where her voice box used to be. Then she collapsed.
Stark no longer had the ability to be surprised at what he was seeing. He was already almost on top of the thief by the time the lump of throat hit the ground, but apparently, the thief had only been waiting for his ride.
A black boat of a car that Stark would later identify to the police as a 60's model Caddilac Sedan de Ville scooted up to the thief and rolled down the back window. Stark could not make out any of the shapes inside the car, but he realized that this was the last chance. The thief was going to jump into the window and make his getaway.
Stark looked down at his hand and saw that he was still holding the projector bulb. Somewhere during the events of the last thirty-seconds, he had relieved the bulb of its case and was now holding it by one of its metal ends.
Stark almost nonchalantly lobbed the bulb at the car. It landed at the feet of the thief, just next to the rear passenger door. When it hit the ground, the bulb exploded, sending a thousands pellet sized rockets of glass into the side of the car and the legs of the thief.
The thief, just as he was about to leap into his getaway car and be done with this whole nasty business, suddenly found his feet knocked out from under him by the small force of the explosion, his legs and lower torso now littered with shards of glass.
The car's tires squealed and roared as the car made a quick donut and headed to run Stark down. This was it. There was nothing that Stark could do. He was frozen by fear and onsetting shock. He was a deer in the headlights and the car, housing some souped up engine, probably running on the same nasty energy that had allowed the thief to jump like a grasshopper, had picked up enough speed in the tiny space it had traveled in the parking lot to end Stark forever.
Stark felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked to his right to see the purple haired woman. She was holding the bag of money, which she stuffed into Stark's grasp as she picked him up. She lifted him, one handed, and then leapt upwards, over the oncoming hood of the sedan.
As the two of them sprung upward with some odd force that Stark could not identify, the racing car's hood caught them by the feet and Stark could feel himself going head over heels as the rest of the car passed underneath him. Stark landed flat on his face, the bag of cash flattened under his frame.
He saw the woman land on top of the thief, a few feet away. She had drawn her sword again after she had let go of Stark, while she was still in the air. She landed with the sword's point preceding her, pushing it through the immobile body of the thief and pinning him to the concrete.
Stark's brain blasted him with a flurry of thoughts as the Cadillac sped away and before he passed out. One thought was that he was sure that he would not lose his job. Another, and probably the more important thought, was that he had seen things in the last two minutes that he could not understand. He was not going to be able to explain the events of this day in any rational or realistic way, at least not for years. He felt stupid again, as if he had been walking through the world around him with his eyes shut tight, and now he was helpless and unequipped to exist in the world that was his waking reality.
The car's tires squealed and roared as the car made a quick donut and headed to run Stark down. This was it. There was nothing that Stark could do. He was frozen by fear and onsetting shock. He was a deer in the headlights and the car, housing some souped up engine, probably running on the same nasty energy that had allowed the thief to jump like a grasshopper, had picked up enough speed in the tiny space it had traveled in the parking lot to end Stark forever.
Stark felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked to his right to see the purple haired woman. She was holding the bag of money, which she stuffed into Stark's grasp as she picked him up. She lifted him, one handed, and then leapt upwards, over the oncoming hood of the sedan.
As the two of them sprung upward with some odd force that Stark could not identify, the racing car's hood caught them by the feet and Stark could feel himself going head over heels as the rest of the car passed underneath him. Stark landed flat on his face, the bag of cash flattened under his frame.
He saw the woman land on top of the thief, a few feet away. She had drawn her sword again after she had let go of Stark, while she was still in the air. She landed with the sword's point preceding her, pushing it through the immobile body of the thief and pinning him to the concrete.
Stark's brain blasted him with a flurry of thoughts as the Cadillac sped away and before he passed out. One thought was that he was sure that he would not lose his job. Another, and probably the more important thought, was that he had seen things in the last two minutes that he could not understand. He was not going to be able to explain the events of this day in any rational or realistic way, at least not for years. He felt stupid again, as if he had been walking through the world around him with his eyes shut tight, and now he was helpless and unequipped to exist in the world that was his waking reality.
Everyone feels like this to some extent.
Like we are missing the boat, or have already missed it. We look back at our
accomplishments and forward to the opportunities that they have afforded us,
and neither direction (past or future) seems satisfying. But maybe that is for
the best. If we were satisfied, we would have nothing left to contribute. And it is for those reasons: his unsatisfied hope to contribute, his own wish for understanding and to be let in on the joke that seemed to be going on all around him, his want to live in a present unhindered by the past and future, that when Stark again opened his eyes and was able to be thankful for another breath, he got up.
