The Great American Whatever (16 page)

I try to make myself as small as possible, crouching low.

Ricky Devlin—it's gotta be Ricky Devlin—gets out of the front seat, and then a small handsome man gets out too. It's gotta be Juan. I think that's what Mrs. Devlin called him. It's clear Juan has never been to the Devlins'—has any brown person ever been to our block, other than Amir?—because Ricky Devlin comes around and takes Juan's hand and starts walking him to the front door. Before they knock, midway up their brick path, Ricky Devlin puts his hands on Juan's waist and has “a talk” with him. I know the look.

EXT. DEVLINS' HOUSE – DAY

RICKY DEVLIN (30ish, still handsome, still golden) and JUAN (mid-twenties, good-looking bartender type) stand outside the house, considering it.

RICKY DEVLIN

I promise they're going to love you.

JUAN

Have they ever met a boyfriend of yours before?

RICKY DEVLIN

I've never technically
had
a boyfriend before.

Juan rolls his eyes and nervous-laughs.

JUAN

Oh, boy. This could be a disaster. If your mom calls me your “friend,” I'm outta here.

RICKY DEVLIN

Hey, have I ever been wrong before?

JUAN

Yes. You told me we'd be engaged by now -- after the
last
movie premiere.

There's a strange pause, and then a pickup truck passes the house and Ricky Devlin backs away from Juan -- practically pushing him into the bushes.

JUAN

Jesus
, Ricky.

RICKY DEVLIN

I'm sorry, sweets. I'm jumpy. This isn't West Hollywood.

When the truck passes, he kisses Juan, deeply and almost too forcefully. They turn to head to the front door, but Ricky Devlin's gaze lingers on the street, watchful and nervous of being back on this block.

Or maybe he's looking for Quinn, his South Hills apprentice.

I wait for Ricky Devlin to kiss Juan. I wait to see a truck pass, to see what will happen. I wait for the tears to come, or the drama. But they don't. All that happens is: Tiffany opens the door—looking beautiful and, somehow, utterly first-tier—and she screams Ricky's name, and he bounds up the steps to hug her.

Their front steps aren't crumbling; they are totally intact. Juan follows. And then, wonderfully, Juan steps up to Ricky Devlin's side, and Ricky Devlin takes Juan's hand and gives it a peck, right in front of Tiffany.

I hear her give a “Whoo-hoo!” kind of siren call.

When they head inside, I do too, and as I pass through our foyer, Mom catches me by surprise, bird-watching the whole scene from behind the windows of what in a normal house you'd call a sitting room and in our house is where cardboard boxes go before being recycled.

“Well, Ricky sure grew up,” she says, still staring outside.

“I tied a ribbon for Annabeth,” I say, hearing my new phone ring upstairs and brushing past Mom and changing the subject all at once, like the world's greatest multitasker.

W
in, hey, it's Amir. I'm gonna keep calling you Win until you tell me not to. Um. Hey! Look at me, leaving a voice mail like it's the eighteen fifties. My mom would be proud of me. For once. Ha-ha. Okay, here are the deets on the party, because they just changed and I don't have your e-mail and it's too much to text. . . .”

• • •

The Ephron sisters were famous for wry films made before I was born. One of the sisters wrote, the other one directed, and it really worked out nicely. Big box office. Introduced Tom Hanks and a lady named Meg Ryan to the public as that decade's go-to romantic pair. The Ephron sisters were cool. They were trendsetters.

The Coen Brothers don't need an introduction, unless you think they do, in which case I'm not even sure I want you reading this.

The Nolan brothers are a different, darker kind of brilliant. I especially admire
Memento
, which, as I'm sure you know (right?) is told in this weird amnesiac backward fashion. Starring the kind of hottie who makes bleach-blond hair on a guy seem like not just an interesting choice but an important one,
Memento
isn't as tightly put together as you think it is, as you'll see if you watch it thirty-one times—but then: The Nolan brothers got me to watch it thirty-one times, so who am I to critique.

The Wachowskis! The Wachowski siblings are very awesome. They grew up super working class, one of them came out as transgender, which is amazing and brave, and after the
Matrix
films, their
Cloud Atlas
was almost viciously underrated. If I were the type to cry in movie theaters, I would have cried, because the
sheer ambition
of how they pulled off
Cloud Atlas
—the most expensive independent film of all time—is astonishing. Great soundtrack, too. Oof, the visuals. You
have
to put it on the list.

Even the Farrelly brothers, of ridiculous old Cameron Diaz comedies, of the
Dumb and Dumber
franchise, which is a frightening concept on every level, even
they
had each other.

You know what none of the above filmmakers had? A sibling who took off, mid-oeuvre.

• • •

In the old days Annabeth and I used to ride our bikes to the Liberty Movie House in Mount Lebanon on Sundays, even though it was on this slightly sketchy strip. The Liberty used to be flat-out majestic, and if you blur your focus, it still is. There are stars painted into the ceiling. There is an Arabian setting painted onto the walls. A popcorn and a Coke is four dollars,
total
, and I guess some local donor keeps the place going because he's a huge and reclusive old movie buff and supposedly lives in like Pittsburgh's version of a “mansion.”

“Where's my birthday boy off to?” Mom says, discovering me as I'm reaching for the door to the garage.

“I think I'm gonna ride to Mount Lebo and see what's playing at the Liberty.”

“Should you look up showtimes first?” Mom says. She shifts on her feet, uneasy. Mom's from the generation of people who believe that no event can occur unless they've seen it listed in the paper first.

“Nah, I like to be surprised.” I give her a quick peck. “Especially on my birthday!”

I disappear into the garage, to the land of humid exhaust. It's the weirdest thing. We haven't had a car parked here for, oh, exactly six months now. And yet it still reeks of exhaust. Maybe this is how Annabeth is haunting us: through clouds of hot gasoline.

“Will you be home in time for supper?” Mom's holding the door open, not quite letting me go. “I thought I might cook you something for your birthday. Something special.”

I hit the garage button so that the extremely noisy retracting door drowns out and minimizes the impact of my bad news. Of my lie. “Aw, Ma, Geoff is taking me out for my birthday.”

“Tonight, he is?” she says.

“Yeah. Yep.”

If I were Pinocchio, my nose would have poked out Mom's eye by now.

She steps into the garage. The overhead door is still opening and it's louder than ever. A dad would, like, WD-40 it or something.

“Here,” Mom says, handing me another twenty and shouting over the screeching machinery. I hate to make her shout. “I keep finding money in Grandpa's old stuff.”

“What's this for?” I say, trying to play sweet.

“There's a pharmacy on Washington Road, past the post office and before the Presbyterian church that is a mockery of its former self.” Mom hates to see a religious institution fall on hard times.

The garage door is finally open. The only sound now is us.

“The pharmacy,” Mom continues, “has a whole section in the back, with beauty products.”

This is nice. She wants me to buy her some stuff for a makeover, like Annabeth used to do on her.

But no. “Pick up some new cologne before your big dinner thing tonight,” Mom says, and her eyes dart away and then she does.

EXT. LIBERTY THEATER – DAY

Quinn stands on the street outside the theater.

His bright white teeth shine and then seem to blink, and we see why: The Liberty's exterior is decorated like the 1940s movie house it is, the best kind of old-fashioned that feels not old but instead timeless. The colorful lights reflect off Quinn's teeth.

He steps up to the ticket taker, an ancient man, ED (picture your favorite grandpa), whose back is hunched but whose eyes twinkle like the Liberty sign above.

QUINN

Ed, my man!

ED

Quinn, my boy. It's been ages! Where's that freckly little sister of yours?

Quinn's smile somehow doesn't fade. He remains brave for Ed.

QUINN

Ah, she's actually my
big
sister, Ed. And she's not here anymore.

Ed looks confused, the way Quinn's mom does when he tries to explain how to erase stuff on the DVR.

ED

She went off to college?

QUINN

No, no, that would have been next year. I mean: she died, Ed. Annabeth's no longer with us.

Ed exits the ticket booth, walks slowly around, and gives Quinn a paternal hug. He is in a very heavy sweater, despite the summer heat. When he pulls away, neither guy is crying. They are both strong.

ED

Stay here.

QUINN

Where are you going?

ED

To talk to the projectionist.

Ed walks with great determination toward the wide double doors, edged in beautiful brass buttons, that lead into the Liberty lobby.

QUINN

What for?

ED

Today only, back to back:
Forrest Gump
, then
The Wizard of Oz
, then
E.T.
, if I've still got it in the back.

Quinn looks up at the marquee and laughs.

QUINN

But it says you're playing
The Poseidon Adventure
, Eddie.

ED

Not today we're not.

Ed's eyes water. Now he's not strong. It's beautiful.

ED (CONT'D)

Today we're only playing her favorites.

Quinn gets choked up. He coughs into his hand.

ED (CONT'D)

And little brothers get in free.

He holds the door open for Quinn.

I hope Ed's working today. He's so grumpy and sweet. Old guys are the best. I hope I get really old and wear scratchy sweaters and treat obviously gay kids like they're extra special.

It's been a while since I've been to Mount Lebo, and when I cross the street, I don't even bother locking up my bike, because who the hell is going to steal a Mongoose on a Sunday?

Maybe I'm feeling overly optimistic about the forty new bucks in my pocket, or about the day of movies ahead before Amir's temporarily-going-away party tonight, and I guess what I'm saying is: I'm feeling so good, I catch myself off guard when I hear the word “No” before realizing it's me who's saying it.

Ed is not working at the Liberty. The Liberty is not even
open
. There's a big sign placed over one of its beautiful old window cards, which once displayed vintage movie posters and now has these giant red letters:
FOR RENT, CONTACT JENNIFER “JEN” RICHART AT RICHART REALTY
. And I'm thinking two things:

1) No, this cannot be fucking happening.

2) Jennifer “Jen” Richart, way to go with the highly original nickname.

I'm standing and staring and staring, and my raspberry iced tea is working its way like a chemical-fueled speeding train toward my bladder, and finally a homeless man, who is lounging in the shade of the marble entrance of the theater, goes, “Bummer, right?”

He's the kind of bum where he probably actually had really good parents who wanted big things for him and he's slowly making his way across the country till he can live in Portland or whatever. What I'm saying is, he's not far gone. He's actually kind of cute, if you squint, which I am, because it's sunny and I always lose sunglasses.

“Is it like
closed
-closed?” I say.

“Yeah, like, six months ago.”

“What happened?”

The homeless man sits up. I like his shirt, like, a lot. This is my life.

“The old dude died.”

“Ed?” I say stupidly.

“Don't know names, bro. It was the guy who, like, funded the theater.”

You can't ask a crazy person to explain anything, and so don't ask me why I'm tearing down “Jen” Richart's real estate sign, but I am. As if by pulling it down, the lights will flicker back on, Ed will take my ticket, I'll have a place to pee, and be.

“Of course,” I say when I see it. The ad for the last movie that played here. “
The Wizard of Oz
,” I say out loud, for the homeless man or maybe for myself. Or for my sister. Her second-favorite movie of all time, after
E.T.
—“The best movie ever, shut up shut up shut up,” she'd say, when I'd make fun of her for such an obvious choice. But you know what? She was right. Her favorite films—
Forrest Gump
and
E.T.
and
The Wizard of Oz—
were sappy and sincere and actually not quite perfect, and so was she.

“We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” the guy says. He chuckles and leans back, and the crazy person being played by me goes, “That's not the line; everyone gets that line wrong.” The
correct
version of the quote is in my top-ten favorite movie quotes, in fact.

I take a step toward him. I lean my hand against the box office glass and realize its windows are now wholly papered with flyers for moving companies and babysitters and lost cats. I begin tearing them all down.

“Chill your harsh, bro.”

“It's just, if you're going to quote a famous line, you know, get it right,” I mutter, but I guess loudly enough to piss the guy off. And so when he gets up and starts toward me, I think he's going to lunge or something, but he doesn't. He just smiles a little and juts his chin out, as if using it as a pointer.