The Projectionist Read online

  "Good morning, Miss Alice!" he said with the same big smile he wore every morning. "How are you this beautiful day?"

  "Pretty good."

  "Why just pretty good?" he said, his smile fading a bit.

  "Have to get to school early to finish some homework." She scrunched up her face and stuck her tongue out.

  "Well, what a burden, my young one," he said, the smile blooming again. "Come on, I have something to show you."

  Mr. Dan relocked the door and headed toward the stairway. Alice followed, taking in the smells she loved so much; popcorn, the carpet, all of it. At the top of the stairs they went right into the corridor, not straight ahead into the balcony. Then they turned right again and made their way up the cramped stairs to the room that said Projectionist on the door.

  Inside the little room, Mr. Dan hooked a thumb and pointed to a countertop beside the big projector. On the countertop were two film containers, the kind that films got delivered in. Her face lit up. "What are they?"

  "Don't know," he said. "Waited so you could open them."

  Now her smile was as big as his. "Thanks, Mister Dan." Alice went to the counter, grabbed the wire cutters off the little tool shelf above it, and quickly snipped the twisted wire that sealed the top container. She pulled the wire seal out and tossed it in the trash can on the floor, then started opening the latches on the container. When they were all undone, she looked back over her shoulder and said, "Here we go!" She lifted the top off the container and her eyes went wide. Squealing like a little girl, she hopped up and down and clapped, then turned around and beamed at her friend. "Come see!" she said.

  7

  Porter huffed the school steps two at a time, checking his watch on the way. Midstride to the top step, disaster struck in the form of Hank Ledbetter’s outstretched foot. Falling forward from the trip, Porter tried to right himself, overcompensated, and tumbled backward down the old concrete steps. His lanky frame had little padding and he felt every bump on the way down. At the bottom, lying on his back, he looked up to see Ledbetter at the top of the steps, laughing so hard he was bent over with his hands on his knees.

  Then the greatest thing ever happened. A girl marched right up the steps, stepped behind Ledbetter, and shoved him down the steps. He landed beside Porter and didn’t fare as well, since he fell on his face instead of his backside. Now the girl was doing exactly as Ledbetter had, bent over, belly-laughing. Now a crowd was gathering, joining in, taunting Ledbetter, having a large time at his expense. But Porter didn’t care about Ledbetter or the crowd.

  His eyes were on the girl, and what a girl she was. He had seen her around school a few times. Didn’t know her name, though. She was a year behind him. Her laughing face looked like sunshine, her eyes like blue stars. She had short brown hair and a dimple on each cheek. When she finally stopped laughing at Ledbetter, she looked straight at Porter. To be certain, his normal reaction would have been to look away at the speed of light when any girl looked his way. Especially when he was lying on his back on the sidewalk. Double especially when he got there by being bullied by a jerk like Hank Ledbetter. Triple especially when the girl showed up and paid back the bully for him. But he couldn’t look away. He was...he was...captivated.

  She came back down the steps and reached down a hand to help him up. He took it, stood, still staring at her.

  "You okay?" she said.

  "Uh, sure, yeah. Thanks."

  She stuck her hand out. "I'm Alice."

  He took her hand in his and in that first split second of her skin touching his, he knew he never wanted to let go. "Hamlin," he said.

  "That's a funny name."

  "Huh?"

  "I've never known a Hamlin."

  "Oh, sorry. Porter. Porter Hamlin."

  She tilted her head kind of sideways. "You sure you're okay?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Okay, see you later." She smiled. Paused. "Can I have my hand back now?"

  "Oh, sorry." Porter let go. Alice bounded up the steps, then looked back over her shoulder just before she went through the door. And she winked. At him.

  At his feet, Ledbetter groaned and rolled over onto his back. "You'll pay for that," he said.

  And for the second time in five minutes, Porter didn't react like Porter. Instead, he looked down at Hank Ledbetter, with his skinned nose and skinned forehead and skinned chin, and said, "I'll pay for you tripping me?"

  "Damn better believe you'll pay for that bitch, then she will too."

  Third time and the most radical departure imaginable: Without thinking, Porter cocked his leg and kicked Ledbetter in the face. Not all that hard, mind you, and he was wearing sneakers, but still. Then he laughed and climbed the steps and went inside Diebold High.

  * * *

  Porter would later remember absolutely nothing about the rest of that day. This would prove more significant than anyone could have imagined. Ever.

  8

  Alice often didn’t know why she did the things she did. Or at least she didn’t know at the time she did them. She just acted. Or reacted, as the case might be. Later she would ponder the "why." This morning's activity didn't take much brain power to figure out. That Porter boy was cute and quiet and sweet and never bothered a soul. She hadn't met him before but she had seen him around a lot of times and she could just tell these things about people. So when she saw that skuzz Ledbetter trip him, well, she acted. Or reacted. Whatever. It felt good.

  What was funny, though? When she met Ledbetter in the hallway between third and fourth period, she'd expected him to threaten her or shove her or pull some other caveman move; instead he turned his messed-up face away and moved to the other side of the hallway. That wasn't like the bully at all. Oh well.

  She daydreamed her way through fourth period, then homeroom, thinking about the theater, so excited about Lawrence of Arabia that she could barely stand it. She also found herself thinking more than once about Porter, which was a little silly since she didn't really know him at all and he might not think much of her anyway. Pretty much nobody else at school did. And had she embarrassed him when she knocked the scuzz down the steps? That hadn't occurred to her, which was one little problem with acting in the moment. Then she remembered something even worse: She had winked at him! Why did she do that? Now he might think she was cheap and easy, or maybe just plain crazy.

  With these things on her mind, she had an even harder time tolerating Mr. Peterson and his geometry. (Gee-AHM-uh-tree is ver-ee im-por-tant!) As it turned out, she didn't have to endure him all that long. About fifteen minutes into the class, a messenger knocked on the door and told Mr. Peterson that the principal wanted to see Alice Pendergast. Mr. Peterson sighed as if the rest of his life had just been ruined and motioned for her to go.

  * * *

  Mr. Turner's office smelled like, well, like Mr. Turner. Which is to say it smelled like Brylcreem because Mr. Turner kept so much of it slathered into his hair. Hair he was always combing, which left the whitish Brylcreem gunked up in the teeth of the black comb. It was one of those things Alice couldn't help but stare at, no matter how hard she tried. It was just that gnarly.

  "Alice," he said, "I thought we agreed last week that you were going to refrain from behavior that caused these little visits of ours?"

  She didn't remember the conversation that way at all. In fact, it had been more of a speech by Mr. Turner than a conversation. Alice didn't say this out loud because she had found that correcting the faulty memory of these people wasn't necessarily appreciated.

  "Well?" he said.

  "What did I do?"

  He looked at her, drew a breath like he was about to say something, then blew that breath out and ran his hand through his hair. This made his hand Brylcreem-shiny and of course launched another combing session. "Did you or did you not shove Hank Ledbetter down the front steps this morning?"

  "Oh, that," she said.

  "Yes, Alice. That."

  She shrugged.

  "That's not a
n answer," Mr. Turner said.

  "I pushed him."

  "Why?"

  "He's a bully. He tripped a guy named Porter, on purpose. Made him fall down the steps. Then pointed and laughed at what he'd done."

  "And what did that have to do with you?"

  "It wasn't right."

  "I ask again, Alice, what did that have to do with you?"

  This was a dumb conversation and Alice was about done with it. She shrugged again. This prompted another deep breath and long exhale and hand in hair and combing session.

  "Three days detention," he said.

  "That's not fair!"

  "You think not?"

  "No!"

  "Maybe you'd prefer four?"

  Now it was her turn to draw a speaking breath and then change her mind and hold her tongue. She did not, however, run her hand through her hair. It would not have come back slick with hair grease, but still.

  "You can't wander around executing what you consider justice, Alice. If you were concerned about what you saw, you should have told a teacher."

  "What happens to Ledbetter for what he did?"

  "That's not your concern."

  "Who told on me?"

  "You know I can't tell you that."

  "I have a right to face my accuser. It's the American way."

  "This is not a court of law and you're not on trial, Alice. And for what it's worth, it's not a democracy, either. It's high school. More like a benign dictatorship," he said, then gave her a little smile.

  "Dictators are never benign," she said.

  His little smile disappeared. "Alice, you should go now."

  So she did.

  * * *

  Her heart sank when she checked the bulletin board and saw that Mr. Peterson was the detention teacher that week. She slogged her way to the library to serve her time, settled into a chair at the detention table, and waited. (Maybe she was supposed to have gone back to the rest of geometry class, but she figured a detention hour with Mr. Peterson was punishment enough.) The bell sounded the end of school and a couple minutes later, she got a pleasant surprise when Porter walked into the library and made his way toward her.

  9

  NOW – PRESENT DAY

  Locked inside the projectionist room, Porter sat on his stool and stared at the two film cans as if he could burn holes in them. Where in cripes had they come from? From the exact spot Alice’s letter had said they’d be. But how did they get there? He only walked past that shelf many times a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, decade in and out. They had not been there that morning or that month or that year.

  Yet there they were on the shelf, covered in a thick layer of dust, a lattice of spider webs knitted from the top can to the wall. Even the cobwebs looked old. Good hell, the spider in the middle was a dry husk, also coated in dust after no doubt having died of ripe old age. How long did spiders live, anyway?

  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK on the door. "What?" Porter said.

  "Porter, you okay?"

  "Fine. Go away, Teddy."

  "What's wrong with you?"

  "Leave. Me. Alone."

  A beat, then Teddy said, "It is my theater, you know?"

  "As if you'd ever let anybody forget that," Porter said.

  "Come on, open up. I need to talk to you."

  Porter said nothing.

  "It's important."

  "I'm sure."

  "I'm selling it."

  Porter scrunched up his face for a moment, then stepped to the door and unlocked it. Opened it and looked at Teddy. "Selling what?"

  Teddy walked through the door, squeezed past Porter, and sat on the stool. "The Magic."

  Porter stared at him a good thirty seconds, then said, "Have you completely lost your mind?"

  "Maybe."

  "The hell are you talking about?"

  "That chain out of Knoxville wants it. ReelMark."

  "They're huge megaplexes. What would they do with this?" Porter spread his arms, palms up.

  "They're buying several old singles in the region, say they're turning them into art cinemas."

  "But you can't sell the Magic!"

  "Sure I can. It's mine, the business, the building, everything in it. Been paid for a long time. I--"

  Whatever Teddy said next, Porter didn't hear. Decades of memories were playing through his mind. Magical memories. Him. Alice. Teddy. The people. Everything. It was the social center of the town, had been as long as he could remember. Alice. It was the passion of her heart. This could not be happening. He interrupted Teddy and said, "No."

  "Excuse me?"

  "No!"

  "Listen, Porter, old buddy, we—"

  "Get out of my booth," Porter said.

  Teddy looked dumbfounded. Didn't move. Said nothing. Just sat there with his mouth half open, staring at Porter through bug eyes as if Porter were the one going nuts. So Porter took Teddy by the arm, guided him off the stool and out the door. Then he shut the door and relocked it. Teddy started making racket outside the door again, but Porter didn't care. He had things to do.

  He pulled his old ostrich feather duster from its hanger on the wall and started dusting off the film cans. A special showing of Lawrence of Arabia was indeed just what the doctor ordered. Yes sir, it sure was.

  10

  The pole was the bane of Porter's existence. Stick the letter to the suction cup. Raise the pole to the marquee. Slip the top of the letter in the channel, then the bottom. Sounded simple but the suction cup dropped the letters as often as it held them, and the long reach up to the sign was tedious to maneuver. And of course Alice couldn't have picked something with a short title. It took him an hour to spell out the details of tomorrow's showing of Lawrence of Arabia. Finally, he collapsed the pole and walked across the street to check the sign, as he did each and every time he changed it. Looking good. Happy, Alice?

  Naturally, here came Teddy. Out the front door, then craning his neck to look at the marquee, then crossing the street with a confused look on his face. "Porter? What on God's big green Earth are you doing?"

  "What does it look like?"

  "Lawrence of Arabia?"

  "It's an epic," Porter said. "First rate film."

  "I know the film! Why are you putting it on the sign? We don't even have it here!"

  "It's in the booth."

  "Why? When? Where'd it come from?"

  Porter started to tell him the truth, that he didn't have the foggiest where it came from, changed his mind. "Looks like it's been there a while is all I can tell you."

  "And you just had the urge to show it, without talking to me at all? The new film we're running is selling well. We need the business, in case you haven't noticed."

  "Teddy, would you say I've been a good employee here?"

  "You're more than an employee, Porter, but sure. The best. What's that got to do with Lawrence of dadgum Arabia?"

  Porter drew three deep breaths and said, "I need to do this. I can't explain why, but I do. You say I'm more than an employee, then cut me a little slack here and let me do what I gotta do."

  Teddy drew a breath to speak, then stopped. Drew another and said, "I don't know what's going on with you, but I don't like it."

  "Is that a yes or a no?"

  He didn't answer. Teddy just turned and walked back across the street, slowly shaking his head.

  * * *

  The next day at 6:00 P.M., Porter had the projector loaded and ready. No trailers tonight, just the feature at 6:10 on the button. He barely had any view of anything outside the booth, so he made his way down the stairs and into the auditorium. He really didn't know what to expect, but he surely did not expect what he found: The room was almost full. For a fifty-year-old movie. Whose only advertising had been a day on the marquee on an uncrowded Diebold day.

  He left the auditorium and headed back to the stairs. Teddy spotted him and hustled over, a big smile on his face. "Wow, Porter. Looking like a good call!" He looked over his shoulder at the concessi
on stand, where Jenny Phillips was servicing a healthy flow of customers.

  "It's nice to see the room that full," Porter said. A good weeknight at the Magic was twenty-five or thirty people. The current crowd of more than a hundred was unheard of. "Well, I better get back up there."

  Teddy patted him on the back. "Good call, buddy. Good call."

  Porter climbed the stairs and found Larry Walker waiting on the tiny landing outside the door to the projectionist booth. What the crap?

  "Porter, good to see you, good to—uh, looks like a pretty busy night."

  Porter nodded, checked his watch. "I have to start the film in five minutes. Can this wait?"

  Larry shook his head and pulled an envelope from inside his coat. "Afraid not. You're not the only one who has to follow some strange instructions." He opened the envelope, extracted a piece of paper. An old looking piece of paper like Alice's strange letter Porter had read in Larry's office. Then he started reading: "My Dearest Porter. This will be brief because if Mr. Walker has done as I asked, you need to start the film in just a few minutes. So please listen carefully and do exactly as he asks you. All my love. Alice."

  11

  Porter would have been—should have been—shocked to hear Larry Walker standing there reading what sounded like another letter from the grave. But no. After weeks of grieving and wondering and crying and why-ing, his tank of high level emotional response was running on fumes. So he just stood and listened.

  "From the moment the first reel of the movie runs out, wait exactly ten minutes before starting the second one."

  Teddy will be having a conniption at five minutes, Porter thought.

  "Don't worry about Teddy. Mr. Walker has a note for him too and he won't be bothering you this evening. Ten minutes. Trust me. All my love. Alice."