Have You Seen It?

He stood tall, probably six-foot-six, and ramrod straight despite his old age, as they’d taught him to stand before Korea. His arms had lost much of their muscle and his skin much of its moisture, leaving long and brittle-looking hands. I was surprised by the strength in them as we shook, his ancient fingers wrapping around my hairless and soft 16-year-old skin and pressing down with firmness. I pictured the claw machine in the corner, my hand like an innocent plush koala.

            “The job’s not much, you know,” he told me in a voice I can still hear now, three decades later. Raspy but friendly, like my grandfather’s. “Selling popcorn, changing out rolls of film, cleaning the bathrooms, sweeping the floors. Pay’s minimum wage, I’m afraid.”

            “I understand, sir. I’d be happy to have it all the same. Dad says I need to make a few bucks this summer and stay active if I’m not going to play baseball.”

            “Well, a few bucks it is then. Let’s have you start Tuesday night. We’re closed Mondays, as you probably know, so Tuesday’s as slow as it gets. Jen can show you the ropes; she’s the manager. Welcome aboard, kid.”

            It was the day after my birthday, in May of ‘93. Mom had seen a flier in the window of the grocery store, said the cinema was hiring some summer help. I loved movies — still do — and needed a part-time job for the summer, as I’d told Mr. Cryer.

            The cinema was beloved in Feldspar, my small hometown in southern Illinois, and Jack Cryer was too. He and his wife built it after he returned from the war, when most businessmen were building drive-ins instead. Dementia had caught up with Mrs. Cryer a few years back and their kids were adults who scattered themselves around the country, so it was just him then, operating the two-theater cinema alongside a rotating crew of young people.

            Like other cinemas, its two theaters played new releases at night and on weekend afternoons. What made the Feldspar Cinema unique is that during the rest of the time, Theater 1 played an eclectic mix of movies. Everything from silent films and foreign classics to B-movie slashers and obscure comedies. There was no listing and no charge to see them. You just walked in, sat down and watched, if you liked what you saw. It was a popular teenage makeout spot.

            That first night shift was a blur of cash register commands and cleaning solutions. There were few customers but too much to remember. What I can recall — vividly, in fact — was following Jen, a punkish twentysomething with purple hair and nose piercings, up a narrow stairwell to the cramped projection booth for Theater 2. We’d unlocked one door at the bottom of the stairs and a second door at the top. A third door was needed to enter the projection booth for Theater 1 but the key for it wasn’t on Jen’s massive, clanking chain. Only Mr. Cryer changed the film in Theater 1, Jen said. I was too in awe of the projection booth to care.

Until later, that is.

            The job took up my Friday and Saturday nights, which sucked, but otherwise it was a good gig. I was still free most nights and the extra cash bought better clothes and fancier dinner dates than my friends could afford. Dad was happy and Mom volunteered to do my laundry after each shift so I didn’t smell like butter all the time. Nights were late, breakfast was around noon and the summer passed by like a comforting drive through short Midwestern hills.

#

            “Oh! I didn’t see you there, kid,” Mr. Cryer said one afternoon in the projection booth for Theater 2, as I was changing the film and he was leaving Theater 1. “Jen says you’ve really taken to the projectors. How’s the job treating you otherwise?”

            “Going well, sir, thank you.” I’d been there about a month at the point, as I recall. “If you ever need help with the projector in Theater 1, I’d be happy to help.”

            “Oh, haha,” he said with a warm little laugh, as if it was something we’d joked about for years. “I prefer to handle ol’ Theater 1 myself, thank you. Miriam, my wife, decorated it by hand, you know, back when we were a one-theater moviehouse in the 50s. She spent some of her final moments there in those seats. I suppose it just means something special to me still.”

            “Of course, sir. I didn’t mean to pry. I understand.”

            “You don’t, not entirely anyway,” he said in a friendly, teaching tone. “But you might someday, if you’re as lucky as I have been.” He smiled then, a kind and knowing smile, before turning towards the stairs. “Keep up the good work, young man.”

            That night, over an unfortunate meal of Hamburger Helper, one of the few things Dad could make when Mom was out with friends, he asked about the job. I said it was good, because it was, and then almost without thinking asked if he knew that only Jack Cryer changes the film rolls in Theater 1.

            “Yeah, I think your uncle Chris mentioned it once, now that you say that. He worked there a couple summers in high school. So did your cousin, you know.”

            “Yeah, I remember.” Logan was four years older, my only cousin and just about the world’s biggest asshat. We lived three miles apart and saw each other twice a year unless there was a wedding or a funeral.

            “He’s still living at home. Number’s on that notepad your mom keeps by the phone. He worked three summers there as I recall, which is about as long as anyone does, except Jen and Jack. Could probably tell you all about the Cryers and the theaters, if you really care.”

            I pictured my curiosity and my dislike of Logan pulling me in different directions, the way we’d pulled the arms of my Stretch Armstrong growing up. Curiosity won out by a hair.

            “I’m expecting a call from Vanessa soon, so let’s make this quick, man.” Nice to hear from you too, asshat.

            “Uh, sure. Old man Cryer mentioned today that only he touches the films in Theater 1. I guess I got kind of curious why.”

            “Ah, yeah. How is Jack doing? We used to ask him about that and he’d just say it was tradition, his own personal touch. I was working there when Miriam died and he got even more attached to the cinema after that. A lot of memories for him there.”

            “Yeah, he mentioned her spending some of her final time in the theater.”

            “Well, not quite. She went slowly, at the nursing home off Fehling Road. Alzheimer’s, you know. Didn’t even know who he was by the end. But she spent her final good days there, before she got real sick.”

            “Did anyone you worked with ever try to get in the projection booth?”

            “Heh, we considered it, sure. Jen, who still works there I think, had some ideas about picking the lock but found there’s a deadbolt. Then Miriam died and we all saw how bad Jack felt and let it go. They built the place, why not let him have one room to himself, right?”

            “Yeah. Right.”

#

            I’ve wondered at times, often when alone in the small hours of the morning, what I wanted to see behind that double-locked door and why I cared so much. I’m still not sure, not really. But it nagged at me, as if I should want to know. Like I was supposed to know.

            Mr. Cryer walked around the cinema as if it was his home and understandably so. After a week of watching him, I knew the two keys to Projection Booth 1 were on a small keychain that also held a photo of Miriam encased in hard plastic. He would grab the keys from a hook on his office wall, walk up to Projection Booth 1, change the film, lock the room and walk back to his office, where he put the keys back on the hook. Then he’d do any number of chores until it was time to change the movie again. He always kept his office door open, like you might at home.

            The trick was in the timing. I needed Theater 2’s movie to be almost over, so I’d have an excuse to be upstairs, but Theater 1’s couldn’t be close to ending or else Mr. Cryer would come in while I was…snooping? It wasn’t clear what I would do once I actually got there. Probably just look around, consider my curiosity satisfied, and leave.

            It all aligned on a Thursday afternoon in late July. Jurassic Park was ending in Theater 2 just as Mr. Cryer was dropping off his keys in the office and announcing he was going to Lisa’s Diner next door for lunch, as he always did on Thursdays, when they made chicken potpie.

            I volunteered to change the film, walked unnoticed to the office, grabbed the keys and went upstairs, my palms sweaty on the doorknobs. I stood before the door, its stained wood faded and chipped, and then down at the keychain. Miriam Cryer’s face looked up at me and guilt hit like a sucker punch. But curiosity — that pulling force that had brought me there — inserted the two keys in their respective holes and twisted my wrist. The door opened inward.

            I should pause here and explain Projection Booth 2, the one I was allowed into every day. It was organized chaos: rolls of film stacked everywhere, shelves overrun by equipment, a trashcan that should have been emptied days before. But Projection Booth 1 had none of that. There were no rolls of film and the only equipment was a single projector playing The Wizard of Oz to an empty theater.

            “Not what you expected, huh?”

            I must have been swallowing when I heard the old man’s voice because the saliva caught in my tightening throat and it felt for a split second like he had done something to me. I coughed and caught my breath as I turned to face him.

            “I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t m-mean to —”

            “But you did, young man, and that’s quite alright. A few have over the years. I thought you might, the way you’ve been following me, wearing your curiosity on your face.”

            He looked and sounded more amused than angry, which my brain registered with a dizzying mix of relief and confusion. I didn’t know what to say or do. But he did the talking.

            “Now, I’m young enough to still naively believe some people can keep a secret and I’m old enough to not care when they don’t, so let me show you something.” He pointed to the film that was unspooling itself before the projector, so that Judy Garland and her friends were skipping on screen. “What do you see on this roll of film?”

            He seemed to study my face as it squinted and then furrowed in bewilderment. “I see…nothing. Why is — how is the movie playing?” I felt like a child at a birthday party just before the magician’s big reveal: dumb, but also eager for the wonderment to come.

            “Every day, someone — often many someones — dies while watching a movie, before they can find out whether the hero saves the day or the dog gets back home, if the little fella with cancer is cured or the couple lives happily ever after. When that happens, they stop off here on their way to whatever’s next. The movie is playing when they walk in and it’s right where they left off. There’s a hot bag of popcorn and their favorite drink waiting for them. They can’t see anyone else, so they think the theater is all theirs. It’s movie-watching bliss.”

            “Wh-Wha —” My mind felt like it was stuck in one of my grandma’s Jell-O molds and my throat tightened again.

            “Now, I can imagine you have questions. How and why did this place come to be? I’m not going to answer that. How are the movies chosen? No clue, but I know I don’t choose them.”

            “Can you see —”

            “Ah, yes, and can you see them? The last time a kid snuck up here and asked me that, I honestly told her no. Now I’m honestly telling you yes. Ever heard of Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone?”

            “Can’t say I have.”

            “And I can’t say I blame you. Awful movie, a big flop about 10 years ago. It was ripped to shreds by critics and it gave my customers headaches, literally. Because of these silly things.”

            He pointed to a cardboard box with a studio’s logo on the side and hundreds of unused pairs of flimsy paper 3D glasses inside. “You’re telling me you can see ghosts with these?”

            “Well, not the term I would use, but yes. At least in here. I’ve never tried to anywhere else. Can’t say I’d want to.”

            “What do you call them?”

            “Moviegoers.”

            “Moviegoers,” I repeated in a near-whisper. I felt dazed, sleepy all of a sudden. It was in this slack-jawed stupor that I looked out at the theater — a homeless man had wandered in at some point, pint bottle in hand — took a pair of the 3D glasses from the box and put them on.

            Three seats to the man’s right was an elderly woman who had not been there when I looked before; she was knitting as she watched the screen. Four rows behind her was a little girl, maybe five, staring in wide-eyed amazement, a massive slushie between both hands in her lap and the end of its straw on her lips. A Minnie Mouse bandana covered her soft, bald head.

            “How many are there today?” Mr. Cryer asked.

            “Two, an old woman and a child. They look so…”

            “Real.”

            “Alive.” They were not spectral. Through the glasses they looked just as the homeless man looked. But when I took the glasses off, they were gone. Disappeared, like ghosts.

            “How did you know about them before the glasses?”

            “Well, the unplugged projector would turn itself on and play movies that weren’t there, so that was a big clue that something was up,” he said with a grin and a short snort. “And you could just feel them. They don’t know you’re there, as I said, and they don’t make a sound, so they don’t bother anyone. Miriam noticed it first, a few years after we opened. The air in there — it’s different somehow.”

            My dazed brain came flashing back to life, like a projector turning on. He could see it too, how my eyes had flickered at the sound of her name, and he knew what I’d ask next.

            “Miriam. She was — she was here, wasn’t she?”

            “When the nursing home called to say she was gone, I was in the office, bitter and angry and sad that I’d not been beside her at the end. Then I remembered this place. I called the nurse back, asked if she’d been watching anything at the time, hoping to heaven she’d say yes. And she did. Valley of the Dolls, one of our favorites. It started playing about 40 minutes later. I put those stupid glasses on my face and waited for her to walk in. I got lucky, kid: she’d only seen the first 15 minutes that day. I took the seat next to her, right in the middle of the theater, as she always preferred, and I watched Valley of the Dolls but mostly I watched my wife’s face for 100 perfect minutes. Just before the credits rolled, when we both knew what was happening, she put her hands down on both armrests, not knowing which one I was using, and mouthed the words, ‘I love you, Jack.’ I told her I loved her too and that I’d see her again someday. She couldn’t hear it but goddamn it if sometimes I think she could.”

            He told me all of this without a note of sadness. My eyes were wet but his were happy. I only had one more question.

            “What happens in here — this is a good place, isn’t it, sir?”

            “You know, I think it is, kid. I think it is.”

#

            I worked at the Feldspar Cinema another four weeks after that, until school started. You’re probably wondering if I put the glasses on again, but I didn’t. I wasn’t afraid of what I’d see — afraid of the moviegoers, that is. But I also didn’t need to watch them anymore. It would’ve felt voyeuristic. Rude.

            My dad’s job changed that winter and we moved a few towns east. I never told anyone about what I saw that day in ‘93 and never discussed it again with Mr. Cryer. The old man had a bad stroke and died three days later, in ‘09 I think it was. Long movies played in his hospital room 24/7, as outlined in his living will. Their cinema is still there, by the way; his kids sold it to a chain of cinemas after the company agreed to keep playing assorted films for free during off-hours.

            I’ve stopped in today for old times’ sake. There’s a bag of hot, buttery popcorn waiting for me, along with an extra-large Surge, a soda I didn’t know they made any more. My ticket directs me to Theater 1, where Galaxy Quest has been playing for 75 minutes. As I take my seat, I see that I am all alone.

            Now to find out how it ends.