The film returns to the man sitting alone in the warmth of the outdoor patio, flies buzzing around a sticky sheen on his table. Both his gaze toward the beach and the camera’s proximity point to where he’s dreaming: What fictitious name will accompany his own in that roll of white words on a black background? What song will play as his name slides to the top of the screen then disappears? Placing his photograph back into the envelope, he stabs out his cigarette and drains the last of his pint. He stands, replacing his sunglasses on his face, and pivots away from the camera, walking toward the sound of gulls and surf. A medium to long shot: as he walks, slowly growing smaller, the last of the day’s sun fills the frame around his body, whiting him out like the flash of light people are supposed to see before they die.
The screen blackens. Off, as though someone hit a switch.
The bald, cheery owner jogs down the aisle to the lip of the shallow faux stage, the lights turning from dark to dim.
We thought this would be a good time to call a break, he says. But before we do, I’d like to make an announcement.
Cheryl, even as she has enjoyed the movie so far, admits that it’s a gutsy move on his part to call an intermission. It has been a quiet, moody film without any Hollywood placeholders to explain itself to viewers. No bomb to dismantle or brass-filled, climaxing music; no hapless single woman in her thirties eating too much ice cream or tripping down a set of stairs. She has no idea what might push the film to three whole hours and wonders how many of the few moviegoers will leave.
The owner claps his hands, rubbing them together, and makes the same announcement he’s made every night for the past two weeks: In order to meet the demands of changing technology, the theater must purchase a new digital projector. Movie distributors are transitioning away from film, and the new projector is costly. Quite costly, he says. But we need it to stay open. And we can’t do it alone. We need your help. He lists different donation levels, counting them off on his fingers. He has the harried yet optimistic eyes of the overworked, the underpaid, the hopelessly dedicated. See the thirty-five-millimeter films while you can, folks, he says, then runs back up the aisle to man the concession stand.
Sal. Sal is his name, Cheryl thinks, a fact she likes knowing. She’s already given the recommended sixty-dollar “friend of the theater” donation, and she’ll probably put a couple of bucks in the box on her way out. She’ll just keep giving and giving, she thinks.
She leans back, stretches her arms out to either side, and with a soft fist, gently knocks JD in the jaw: Pow, she says. I don’t like that guy.
What? Oh, yeah, funny, he sniffs. He takes out his phone, its screen lighting his face.
Last week at the bar, a man whom Cheryl had once gone out with started giving her trouble, calling her names in a voice that was too loud, that would have embarrassed her were she the kind to get embarrassed. When JD returned from the bathroom to find the man leaning over her, both hands on the table, spitting bile, JD, in a swift, clean motion, approached, pulled him back with one hand, and, with the other, punched him in the face.
The look that flashed across Cheryl’s face just then, with the man deflating into a pile on the floor—a new look surging up from some hidden wonder in her stomach: Whoa, what the fuck, JD? Not anger, but a true marveling confusion, a please-fill-in-this-blank what?
I don’t like that guy, he responded, pointing down, one sort of fierceness draining from him, another rising in his throat.
I guess not.
Then the owner coming up, putting a hand on JD’s shoulder because they were friends, because JD used to date his younger sister, Angela, in high school, the owner the real reason why they came to this bar in the first place, with its washed-out, graying beer posters and fake wood paneling, the owner, Jerry, saying, You two should probably leave.
Shit, Jerry, I’m sorry.
Cheryl up now, the three of them looking down at the black-haired man on the floor like a glass of beer one of them had spilled and then the spill sitting up, jerking away as JD and Jerry bent down to help him. JD setting him in a chair and Jerry turning behind him, asking the bartender could he put some ice in a towel, then turning back, saying, I’ll give you a call tomorrow. And Cheryl, already having gathered her purse and tucking it beneath her arm like a stolen loaf of bread, led the way, she and JD slinking out, the eyes of the other patrons still on them, the place pulsing with excitement: Something happened! Just now! We saw it!
Outside in the parking lot—the night cooler and quieter—the two of them stood, not quite knowing how to stand.
Jesus, JD. You got some pent-up testosterone or what?
He walked a few strides to his left then returned. His shoulders, the broad shoulders of a swimmer, were pushed back, his arms out, tense like another man’s appendages attached to his body, but then, with an exhale, his torso folded inward, chin dropping to his chest. Cheryl leaned on one leg, trying to decide what to do with her arms.
I’ve never punched anyone before, JD said.
Could’ve fooled me.
I’ve broken up plenty of fights.
Cheryl nodded to his pacing.
But I’ve never liked that guy. He’s a jerk, he said.
No friend of mine.
Think he lost any teeth?
I don’t think you got him that good.
He paused in his turning, spread out his hand, examined the back of it, a hand more bony, more delicate than anything else. Looking up, he asked, Are you okay?
I’m fine.
He started walking again.
Are you okay, JD?
Stopping, turning back to her, his legs slow, his head filled with air. Yeah, fine, he said.
She regarded the sheen of sweat on his forehead, thought of the way his anger had broken away from him. She thought of the only time she’d ever seen her mother drunk. A careful, staid woman with long, thick hair the color of dead grass whom Cheryl had only known to drink at weddings. It was the night her older sister had earned her law degree and Cheryl had met her and their parents downtown: one of the city’s oldest restaurants, a small Belgian pub with black and white tile and old, round-bellied waiters. Her mother had ordered a glass of raspberry lambic and had quickly become giggly and rosy-cheeked, leaning over to ask the table next to them what they were eating that looked so good, then clapping when their food arrived. Cheryl had been happy that her mother was having a good time, that everyone had had a reason to get dressed up, get into the city, and spend some money. But she remembered feeling a twinge of embarrassment at seeing her mother’s shyness and melancholy fall away, acting so unlike herself, as though people should only ever be exactly who they were.
Well, I should probably take off, Cheryl said. That’s enough excitement for one night.
Right, yeah, JD said, putting his hands into his pockets. I’m sorry.
It’s fine. What are you apologizing for? It was kind of awesome.
He sniffed. Yeah, right. Jesus.
See you on Monday, she said. And re lax. She was not standing close enough to put her hand on his shoulder and wasn’t used to touching him anyway, so she turned, and he watched her walk away, watched her put her hand up to wave behind her.
When JD told his wife the story the next morning at breakfast, the drunk man had grabbed Cheryl by the wrist, and his face had been just inches away from hers. He hadn’t meant to lie, but in the telling, JD realized that the scene was, perhaps, different than it had all seemed at the time.