Midnight At the Movies
The projector flickers on the black and white screen. The detective draws his pistol and takes aim. He fires, and the villain's body tenses for an instant. He falls dramatically down the hill, a dead heap. The man two rows down snores, his head resting back. He hasn't showered in a few days, I can smell him over the stale popcorn.
I close my eyes and pretend I'm asleep. Even with such light movements the nightmares come. I can feel the cool blade drag over my cheek. I can see his face again. I crumple the ticket in my hand, my upper lip pulls back in a snarl and I feel a growl rise in the back of my throat. I don't let it come out. I open my eyes.
The femme fatale stands in front of the Venetian blinds. Her form is beautiful, the black dress clinging to soft curves. My eyes half shut as I feel his hand in mine. He shifts my body, I rest my cheek on his chest and let him rub my hand. I shut my eyes. The gunfight blazes on screen.
The credits roll as a fight breaks out in the hallway. Wood splinters. Bloody knuckles and missing teeth. One will be hospitalized, he won't make it. I don't care. I yawn against worn fabric. I smell stale popcorn and feel sticky root beer stains under my converse soles. It's every movie I've ever been to. It's every Buster Keaton silent film and every film noir talkie. It's every cheesecake musical I've ever seen where people burst out in song and dance for no reason. Fred Astaire sways drunkenly, close to falling over with the bottle in his hand and it's the way the vodka burned my throat in Petersburg.
It's 2AM and he leads me out to the hallway. His fingers curl around my shoulder. The grip's too tight but I say nothing, I just rest my cheek against him, curl an arm around his waist. His jaw sets when the ticket taker casts a sidelong glance our way. He leads me down the street. The honky tonk lights gleam in the darkness. He kicks a gum wrapper for the sake of it, mutters under his breath. I don't respond.
He sits on a fencepost, I sit on the rail. I want a smoke, I say nothing. His fingers run through my hair and I wonder. The moon shines down, full and heavy. The night's not over. I don't know why. I keep to myself, his brow furrows, his jaw clenches further. He looks away. I look down. I strike a match and eat it, exhale the smoke from my nose. He knocks the box out of my hands. I'm ok with that.
Somewhere a wolf howls. My body tenses, his does as well. Pictures need to be taken. Words need to be written. It's Monday morning 5'15, train to New York city. It's Wednesday evening, 8'00, train to New Orleans. It's late nights on rain slick streets and a vague idea of what we're doing. It's turning the blade to make the blood spray. It's tension that won't leave my shoulders, pain low in my chest.
Write you a letter tomorrow
Tonight I can't hold a pen
Someone's got a stamp I can borrow
I promise not to blow the address again
Lights, they flash in the evening
Through a hole in the drape
Jesus rides beside me
Never buys any smokes
Well hurry up, hurry up - ain't you had enough of this stuff?
Ashtray floors, dirty clothes, filthy jokes
See you're high and lonesome
Try and try and try...
Lights they flash in the evening
Through a hole in the drapes
I'll be home when I'm sleeping
I can't hardly wait