Screams erupted from the theater. Harry, the projectionist, was checking the reels for a new movie, Halloween. Henry, an usher, set up the velvet ropes. He didn’t know why they were called ushers since they never escorted anyone to a seat, like in the old glorious days of theatergoing. Just ripped tickets, swept up popcorn, and found lost objects under seats on a sticky floor.
A half-hour before showtime, the church pastor stood at the candy counter. The owner let him in early so he didn’t have to wait outside in line with the regular people. It made no sense to Henry because he thought Jesus represented the common man.
The pastor wore his priest robe, which was unusual. We’re not showing The Exorcist, Henry joked. The pastor said he’d just come from a wake. I do prefer regular clothes, he said.
You’re like a caterpillar, said Diana, a high school kid who worked the candy counter. You shed your religious clothes for everyday ones.
Good analogy, the pastor said.
If you think about it, she said, caterpillars get to experience two different kinds of lives, one on the ground, and one in the air. On the ground they’re like everything else, but in the air they become part of something special.
People get to experience two lives too, the pastor said. Our heavenly life awaits us.
I didn’t know you liked horror movies, Henry said.
I’d rather have a new James Bond, Henry.
They usually come out in the summer, Henry told him. We didn’t have one this year.
Yes, it’s been a long time, he said. There was a forlorn look about him when he said it and he pulled on his white collar, like it was choking him. He asked if he could see the projection booth. Where the magic comes from, he said.
Henry led him upstairs. The pastor’s here for a field trip, he told Harry. What’s the movie like?
Mostly a maniac stabbing kids, Harry said. Look, there’s already a scratch in the reel. He held up a strip of film by the edges. A woman’s face frozen in a scream, the bleach-like starkness of the frame magnifying the terror. It was still a mystery to Henry, how they went from watching shadows on cave walls to 35-mm machines whirring and clicking in strip malls.
Soon, Henry heard them below, dozens and dozens of feet scampering about to find a seat. The pastor looked down. It’s funny, he said, almost as if he were talking to himself, we’re sort of like Diana’s caterpillars.
Maybe the machine was the real usher, Henry thought.
He joined Diana back at the candy counter. She was doing schoolwork. I feel weird around the pastor, she said, like he’s judging us for the movies we play.
He’s looking for James Bond, Henry said. Those movies are full of half-naked women.
The movie ended and the crowd filed out, like a swarm, multiple arms and legs, some looking back at the blank screen as if that world still existed, as if they could enter it again. Some remained in their seats long after the credits had stopped and were reluctant to leave.
Henry stopped by the owner’s office. Going to be a hit, the owner told him. You can lock up.
Henry cleaned up the lobby, torn tickets, candy wrappers. Outside, he swept up cigarette butts.
He looked up at the marquee. Halloween. There was something joyless about the marquee now, just a title, by itself. The owner always had Now Playing! above the title, but the exclamation point tile went missing after some repair work and the owner refused to keep Now Playing up there without the punctuation. It excites people, he said, even if it’s a bad movie, they think it might be something good.
The parking lot was mostly empty. The pastor’s car was still there.
Inside, Henry asked Diana if she’d seen him. Maybe he left during a sex scene, she said. See you tomorrow.
He checked the bathroom.
The lights were on in the theater. He saw the pastor, still in his seat, staring at the red curtain. Father, he called. No answer. Henry walked down the aisle. He turned into the pastor’s row. The pastor held an Oh Henry! candy wrapper. Henry was startled to see his name in the pastor’s hand.
His eyes were open.
Henry remembered what the pastor said about wanting to see where the magic came from. Maybe his love of the lie, of the movies, the power of the spinning sprockets and its images was analogous to praying to a false God, and his heart attack, was God’s retribution.
Or maybe, Henry thought, his heart gave out because it was just a good fucking scary movie.
Henry lifted the pastor up and carried him up the aisle, the wrapper with Henry’s name still in his hand, like he took a piece of Henry’s soul with him.
For the first time, Henry felt like a real usher.
