The Bijoux

The Projection Booth

Jack could see the entire expanse of the theater from this vantage point, including all corners of the balcony, but there was little amusement tonight.

He could be doing his homework, at the very least reading his required Lit List of Classics, but instead would just stare intently at that flickering screen, rewriting that stilted dialogue, re-editing the static camerawork.

Someone had hung a mirror on the back wall of this projection booth and Jack would watch himself, parroting character lines quickly etched in his memory after those first few screenings of yet another action-adventure-big-budget-star-vehicle.

All audience interest hung solely in that last word, those freshly painted hot rods the only excuse for scenic snippets shot around some cityscape, chased and chasing some grind-house hack’s idea of urban intrigue.

Finally, these flicks were just a showcase for mummified has-been talent, trotted out and spun once more around the ring, shot from below as he exits that dickmobile to the swell of basso horns, the glint of sunlight flashing from his mirrored shades.

These bland, cookie-cutter formula driven scripts were so threadbare they were splitting at the seams, patched over or even re-upholstered for a particular falling star. It was little wonder they would mouth those lines with so little authority, mustering only the barest enthusiasm, unemotional amid the murder and mayhem, escaping unscathed from the most horrific car crashes.

It would have been better if Jack determined these choices, assured all his friends would come watch some Chop-Socky imports, that Big Bad Girlie Thing was still busting out and there were always plenty of Bad Ass Biker films, even some newer ones. Who said all vehicles needed four wheels, everyone knew not all girls were created equal and fighting had always had it’s own language, not this mumbled slang being passed off as action-adventure.

Mr. Charlie wasn’t interested in the few titles he’d mentioned in those too few minutes that they spent together every Friday afternoon, palming Jack hard cash for his weeks’ work. Some had titles Mr. Charlie must have thought he had made up on the spot, smirking as he waved that cigar, gesturing toward the door.

He didn’t exist, in more ways then Jack first realized when he began this Summer after-school job as a lark. Those few hours could have been spent in the quiet of a library, but he was just as alone up here in that booth. Even getting paid. In cash money.

That worked well for both Mr. Charlie as well as Chester, who would then offer Jack some crazy-ass poster, glad-hand that glossy movie still or trade other tarnished treasures from the twenty-odd years he had been running this projector at The Bijoux.

Jack usually bought it, their dickering for a decent price comical in it’s desperation.

Any money Chester finally weaseled went to his propensity for hard liquor, it’s quality contingent on the going price for a long forgotten window card, that smell of old as distinctive as the garish graphics and saturated colors. Jack would cherish it if only for it’s curiosity and Chester would want that coin for another misspent weekend.

His friends would then decide if he was a super-duper lucky duck to unearth this long lost treasure or just a sentimental sap suckered by another lump of fool’s gold. Everything seemed priceless having been out of circulation for so very long, secreted somewhere that Jack could never determine as he made his way nightly in and out of that booth for that two hour stint.

His real responsibility was to spell Chester when he needed to go for dinner and so he tried to be timely, lately making a habit of loudly stomping up that last set of stairs, announcing his arrival.

Too often he found Chester in a fitful sleep, which was even more questionable than finding him tipsy, singing lilting Irish ballads under his thick breath. At least if he were awake he could phone the local volunteer force if there was a fire, as could so easily happen when those film spools tangled in the projector, those images slowly melting across the screen.

With the fluttering papers stuck willy-nilly to the walls between glossy promo stills of stars, calendars months out-of-date and that ever overflowing trashcan, Jack spent a few hours during the week cleaning and cataloging what he could understand, making piles of the rest.

It then fell to him to instill an iota of integrity to this latest farce, matching those transitions, stringing film like so much gossamer ribbon that ran though these giant chewing machines, floating those images out of this sealed-off airless room across a sea of darkness, splashing against that naked expanse of screen.

He rarely missed his mark.

To Be Continued..

Copyright 2017/19
JWR