It Happened One Knife (2 page)

“Yeah,” I told him. “We’re got
The Ghost Breakers
,
Never Give a Sucker an Even Break
, and
Back to the Future
.”

“I still say
Back to the Future
is too new,” Vic protested. “It’s less than twenty-five years old.”

“By what, twenty minutes?” I asked. “I need a time-travel comedy to go with the new Adam Sandler. What do you think I should run?”

“How about
Where Do We Go From Here
?”

“Fred MacMurray is funny? Anyway, that’s a musical,” I told him. Vic waved a hand at me.

“You should show this thing from tonight,” he said. “You’ll have an exclusive before the kid makes a deal somewhere.”

I spied my ex-wife across the room. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” I told Vic, and walked toward Sharon. Vic had the nerve to look surprised.

Before I reached my ex, however, I was waylaid by Leo Munson, a former merchant marine who is Comedy Tonight’s one and only regular customer. Leo, a trim man in his sixties who looks to be a head-to-toe callus, comes to the theatre every night it’s open, and is as obsessed with classic comedy as I am, but with broader taste. He keeps asking me for Three Stooges shorts. I keep playing Bugs Bunny cartoons.

“That was really something,” Leo said, tilting his head in the direction of the auditorium.

I’d been dreading this moment. “I warned you not to come tonight, Leo,” I told him. “I know it’s not your thing, but you insisted . . .”

“It was terrific!” he said, breaking into an eerie grin. “The kid has a wild sense of humor, doesn’t he?”

“Um, yeah,” I nodded, unable to blink.
Yeah, that amputation scene was a laugh riot.

“I spent four months watching Turner Classic Movies because you were closed for repairs,” Leo said. “That’s four months of
Mildred Pierce
twice a week. Gives a man perspective.”

“Perspective? Four months of Joan Crawford makes you appreciate an artistic sensibility that includes a man being pulled apart by buffalo?”

“Your projectionist is gonna be a big deal director, Elliot, ” Leo said. “You’re lucky to have him now, before he gets famous.”

“Uh-huh.” It was the best I could do. “Yeah. You’re right, Leo. Gotta go now.” I headed for Sharon again, but Sophie, our ticket seller/snack bar attendant, was beckoning me toward her. I sighed, and changed course for the new refreshment stand.

It was, I had to admit, a vast improvement over the previous one, which had been essentially a glass-topped table with some candy boxes on it, next to a card table for napkins, straws, and popcorn salt. This one was gleaming, lit from within, and tastefully and skillfully displayed all the varieties of chocolate-coated self-destruction we sold. It was even refrigerated to keep the candy from melting. It was, for snacks, a better home than the one I lived in. My insurance company, upon being informed of the refreshment case’s price tag, had helpfully offered to recommend another agency for any future business insurance needs I might have, but had ponied up nonetheless.

In the four months Comedy Tonight had been under reconstruction, I hadn’t seen either Sophie or Anthony. But I’d continued to pay both of my young employees, as I’d decided it wasn’t their fault the theatre couldn’t open. So it had been a shock this afternoon when Sophie had shown up for work in something other than the funereal teenage Goth wardrobe I’d been accustomed to her wearing. Until recently, Sophie had resembled Christina Ricci in
The Addams Family.
Now she was wearing a loose-fitting gray sweatshirt emblazoned with the slogan “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle” and black sweatpants over high-top sneakers. She looked like a figure from
The Life of Gloria Steinem
, as performed by the enrolled class roster of Feminism 101.

“Should I keep selling candy after the movie’s over?” Sophie asked me when I got there.

“If people want to keep buying it, yeah,” I said. “Why not?”

“Because continuing to sell these high-calorie, sugar-coated products simply perpetuates the cycle of control, the corporate patriarchy keeping women docile and distracted,” she said.

“Yeah. Because we all know men don’t buy candy or popcorn.”

“Men aren’t subject to the same unreasonable standards of ‘beauty’ as women,” Sophie said, miming the quotes.

“Try to stick to one argument,” I advised. “What did you think of Anthony’s movie?” I’d seen her watching through the rear auditorium doors.

“The objectification of women was deplorable,” Sophie said. “I was appalled by the sexism.”

Finally, someone who had seen the same movie as I had. Well okay, not the
same
movie, but at least an objectionable one. “I understand exactly where you’re coming from,” I told Sophie.

“Other than that,” she continued, “it was awesome.”

I fled to Sharon, allowing no one to get in my way.

She looked great, of course, and was standing by herself. Sharon’s second husband, Gregory the Anesthesiologist, had not accompanied her, which livened up the proceedings by roughly 20 percent. Gregory had moved back into their house recently, despite Sharon telling me they’d separated. I considered this latest move a bad thing, but that’s just an opinion.

Given the reactions I’d gotten about the film so far, I was almost afraid to ask Sharon (after all, it was possible the rest of the gathering was right, and I was wrong— maybe
Killin’ Time
really was the next step in the progress of the cinema, and I would have to kill myself), but I plunged ahead. “What’d you think?”

Sharon is a lovely woman, slim and just tall enough not to be considered short, but now her eyes were open about a quarter inch wider than normal, which gave her a somewhat stunned expression, like Carol Channing circa 1962. “What
was
that?” she said.

“You didn’t like it?” I had to be sure; my confidence was shaken.

“
Like
it? I’m amazed I kept my dinner down!” Thank god, someone who hadn’t drunk the Kool-Aid. “What the hell
was
that?”

“It was
She Wore a Yellow Ribbon
, as it might have been seen by Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor,” I told her. “What did you expect?”

“A story would have been nice.”

“I’m starting to remember why I fell in love with you,” I told her.

“That’s funny,” she told me. “I’m remembering other things.”

I was about to comment on her flattering turn of phrase when applause broke out from my right. Anthony was descending the stairs from the balcony, and his Rutgers University friends—most of whom hadn’t become his friends until word had gotten around that he’d managed to get a movie made—began to salaam before him and prostrate themselves on the carpet. I thought of mentioning what the carpet had cost, but decided it wouldn’t impress them. College kids.

I’d offered to man the projector so Anthony could be in the auditorium while
Killin’ Time
was running, but he’d refused to turn over custody of his baby (the film, that is, not the projector) to anyone, particularly given the cantankerous nature of our ancient projector, a contraption only Anthony truly understands. So he’d run the movie himself, rewound it, and was now walking down to the level of his adoring public.

And by god, they
were
adoring. The fifty or so Rutgers students Anthony had invited for this special closed-to-the-public event did everything but throw rose petals in his path. Even some of the “adults” whom I had invited, like Sharon, Leo (well, actually I’d tried to dissuade Leo, but I still get credit for his presence), and Bobo Kaminsky, the owner of the local bike shop I practically keep in business single-handedly, were shouting
bravo
. I think Sharon’s
bravos
were strictly out of politeness, though. Tall, thin, and positively wan, Anthony looked more amazed than proud as the Rutgers crowd declared him Lord of All He Surveyed. In short, it was the most enthusiastic response any film had ever gotten from an audience at Comedy Tonight, and yes, I resented it, but hey, give the kid his night. I nodded to Sophie, who began to pass out plastic flutes of fake champagne (some in the room were underage, and I don’t have a liquor license). I’d poured them right after the second decapitation, though, so the “wine” was probably flat as a piece of paper by now.

Anthony’s semi-girlfriend (she thinks so; he’s not sure) Carla Singelese appeared from somewhere and gave him a huge kiss to much
woooooo
-ing from the crowd. Anthony, who’s usually as serious as a triple bypass, even smiled.

I noticed Anthony’s roommate Danton up the stairs a few steps, looking down on the main event, without a drink in his hand (the only such person in the room), and I tried to get Sophie’s attention, but she was back at the snack bar and away from the tray of “wine.” I took a flute from the tray and handed it to Danton, then walked back to Sharon’s side. When all the “champagne” had been distributed, I called for quiet. Then I called for quiet again, because no one had heard me the first time. When I was about to try an unprecedented third time, I heard a piercing whistle come from my immediate left. As the crowd fell into a sudden hush, I saw Sharon taking her thumb and index finger out of her mouth. She grinned at me sheepishly.

“Well,
somebody
had to do it,” she said.

I raised my glass in Anthony’s direction. “To Anthony,” I said, “who wowed us all with his talent tonight, and who will no doubt grow as a filmmaker as he learns his craft at school. This is indeed a fine beginning. Congratulations.”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed a bit, as if that wasn’t effusive enough praise, but he sipped from his glass (okay, his
plastic
) and turned his head toward Carla, who was holding her drink up for the next toast.

“Um . . . I’ve never made a toast before, but this is such a special night . . . I’m so proud of Anthony, and the amazing film he just showed us!” (This may be the place to note that Carla said it with at least three exclamation points, but I’m including only one at a time out of a sense of restraint.) “I’m sure he’s going to become a big director, like, right away, and I’m just glad to be right here by his side, now and forever! I love you, Anthony!”

There was a large ovation for that one, and Anthony reached over and kissed Carla, even though he looked a little taken aback by her toast. Anthony isn’t much given to public displays of . . . anything, really. He’s not a cold person, but he always seems to be thinking about something else.

A few more toasts were made, largely by people I didn’t know (and who seemed to know Anthony only peripherally) . I took Sharon to one side, near my office door, where the din was a little lower, and where I couldn’t see people spilling cheap, fake bubbly on my new carpet before the paying public even got a chance to walk on it.

Bobo rumbled by on his way out of the theatre. Bobo doesn’t spend much time doing anything other than selling bicycles—certainly not
riding
one. If it were possible, he would keep the cycle shop open 24/7. But he’s a large man, in every direction, and needs to maintain his largeness by ingesting titanic amounts of carbohydrates, which takes time out of the day. He gave me a thumbs-up on the movie and kept walking, probably to go home and dream about gearshifts and fried chicken.

“How are you doing?” Sharon asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve been out of business for four months, you spent most of that time watching this place get rebuilt, and you’ve been driving me out of my mind with your impatience. So I’m saying, now that it’s over and you can get back to your mission in life, how does that feel?”

I looked at her. “Don’t hold back, baby. Tell me what you
really
think.”

“Elliot. No matter what’s happened between us, we’ve always been able to talk to each other.” She saw the look I was starting to give her, and said, “Okay, except right before you filed for divorce. But still, I’m proud that we managed to split up and stay friendly. Now, you’re going through a big moment in your life, and I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing fine,” I said.

She waited. “That’s it?”

I shrugged. “I’m doing fine,
ma’am
?”

Sharon’s lips twisted into the shape of Yosemite Sam’s moustache. “Look, Elliot, if you don’t want to talk about it . . .”

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk. It’s that I have nothing to say.”

She was about to prove me wrong—one of her favorite activities—when Vic appeared out of the crowd, rushed toward us, and grabbed me by the arm. “Elliot,” he said. “Where can we talk?”

“Pretty much anywhere we have vocal cords,” I told him.

“
Privately
,” he said.

Sharon gave me a look that said, “To be continued . . .” and excused herself for the ladies’ room. I opened my office door and ushered Vic inside. “Okay,” I said. “What’s so urgent?”

I sat in my creaky, understuffed swivel chair, which had not been replaced in the renovation, damn it, and looked at Vic. He held up his cell phone. I waited a moment, then picked up a stapler to show him, figuring this was a new game.

Turned out it wasn’t. “I’ve been on the phone,” Vic said. “Got in touch with a few guys I know in the city.”

“Organizing a poker game?” I asked. It was worth a shot.

“Guys from film distributors. Indie studios,” he said.

It took me a moment. A long moment. “Oh Vic, don’t tell me . . .”

“Yeah. I think I can set the kid up with a deal. Get the movie distributed.”

“You’re a classic comedy distributor. What does your company want with
Hannibal Lecter at the O.K. Corral
?”

Vic sneered. No, really. “It’s not for the
company
,” he said. “We don’t make prints and book theatres like a studio; we handle a catalogue. You know that.” I did, but he was confusing me with this talk of distributing
Killin’ Time
. “I think I can work out a deal for the kid with a real studio, or at least an indie.”