Mom was not amused by my story of the protest. Nor was she particularly inspired by my act of civil disobedience. I tried to explain to her exactly the way everything had happened, but that just seemed to make her angrier. And so, as we coasted down the highway, the wind blowing her blond hair around in wild circles, I came to the conclusion that no matter how noble the cause, your mother will never be happy about picking you up from juvie.
“That Scooter was a thousand dollars,” she said. “If it had been worth a dollar more, you’d be charged with a felony right now. Did you know that?”
“But I didn’t steal it! It was a misunderstanding. I’m sure it will get cleared up.”
“By who? Raina? Your delinquent employee? Sweet Lou?”
“Well, probably not her,” I said.
Mom was silent for a moment. Then she turned on the radio.
“I’m sure you can explain all this in your college essay,” she said. “At least it will stand out from the pack. The summer I ruined my life and went to jail. I can’t imagine anybody rejecting that application.”
“It wasn’t technically jail,” I said, which was met with silence.
Mom favored the local eighties station, and so for the next few minutes I was treated to the easy listening sounds of the song, “True” by Spandau Ballet, the musical equivalent of a strong laxative. It basically repeats the same phrase a thousand times to the background sound of melodic heavy breathing.
“Why didn’t you tell me they were closing the theater down?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Yes you do.”
She turned away from the road a moment to look me in the eye.
“Fine,” I said. “I didn’t tell you the theater was shutting down because I thought you’d be happy about it.”
She was about to respond, but I spoke again.
“Even if you didn’t come out and say it, I thought I would see a look in your eye or a half smile. And I would have hated you in that moment, but I didn’t want to feel that way about you. Because I don’t hate you.”
“I see,” she said. “Thank you for clearing that up.”
I thought maybe she was going to cry, or pull the car over or something. But she didn’t. She just kept driving. And Spandau Ballet kept on sucking.
“I don’t want the Green Street to close down,” she said eventually.
“C’mon,” I said.
“Really.”
“But if it closed, your wildest dreams would come true. I would have to find something else to do with my life. Like go to business school and major in laying people off. Or become a Boy Scout troop leader and teach kids how to save their virginity for nature.”
“I’m not sure business school is an option now,” she said. “And criminals can’t be Scout leaders.”
“Admit it,” I said, “if the Green Street spontaneously combusted tomorrow, and I was unharmed, you would probably do a dance.”
“Not true,” she said.
“I don’t believe you.”
We exited the highway and found ourselves immediately stuck in construction traffic. I was pretty sure neither of us wanted to be in the car with the other anymore, but we were boxed in. There was nowhere else to go.
“We had our first date there,” Mom said. “Did you know that?”
I was expecting something different, and it took me a moment to process this.
“What do you mean, with . . .”
“Your father.”
We inched forward and then came to a stop again.
“That’s not true,” I said. “You went to that bar with the clown paintings and played pinball, and Dad got the extra game and gave it to you and you guys fell in love.”
“No,” she said. “Your dad loved to tell that story, but I don’t count that as a date. I didn’t know if I liked him yet. It was more of a platonic pinball tournament. And I was the one who got the extra game. Your dad was hopeless.”
“My whole life has been a lie,” I said.
“I knew he liked movies, so I actually suggested that he take me to one. He officially asked me out and I decided it was a date, so that was our first date. It’s only a date if both parties say it is.”
“Believe me, I know that,” I said.
The traffic freed up a little bit, and we made it another block before we came to a halt again. The radio was playing another easy listening song, this one about a smooth operator.
“What did you see?” I asked.
“Rosemary’s Baby,” she said.
“What?”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“On your first date you saw a movie about giving birth to the spawn of Satan?”
“Yes we did,” she said. “A few years ago I saw it on the list of worst date movies of all time.”
“Wow,” I said. “How was I ever born?”
“That’s a good question,” she said. “I actually thought the movie was hilarious. I think I freaked out your dad ’cause I was laughing so hard. But those old people as Satanists: it was all so silly.”
She snorted a laugh.
“It was nicer back then, the theater. There was a balcony row, which is where we sat. And if you paid for the one o’clock, you could stay for the three if you wanted. So, sometimes we would go and watch the same movie two times in a row. Once for the story. The second time for the little stuff. Occasionally we went for the air-conditioning. It actually worked back then.”
“So, you were a regular?” I asked.
She smiled.
“I guess so.”
“Why’d you stop going?”
Her smile disappeared. We rolled by the construction site, yet another new building going up by the freeway. There were three men digging in a hole, their yellow hardhats skimming the surface.
“It was your thing. You and your dad’s. I was happy you had it. That bond.”
“But you could go now. We could go.”
I watched her think this over.
“I don’t need so many stories anymore, I guess,” she said eventually. “I have my own. Why should I take on other people’s problems, even if they’re beautiful?”
She turned off the radio.
“That’s sad, Mom,” I said. “You’re missing out.”
“Maybe so, but don’t tell me I don’t care about the Green Street. I fell in love there. I don’t want to see it torn down. If you want to save it, though, Ethan, I don’t think stealing a motorized scooter and getting arrested is going to make it happen.”
“You took me to my first protest,” I said.
“I’m in favor of resistance. I just don’t know if it’s the right strategy here. I’m not sure you’ve got enough people on your side.”
“What else am I supposed to do? Just sit down and let them take it from me?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t have the answer for you. I wish I did. But maybe you need to stop thinking about yourself for a while.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The theater isn’t yours. It has given you a lot, and you love it, but it doesn’t belong to you. Think about what it can give to other people. Isn’t that what it’s there for?”
I opened my mouth to defend myself. She was basically calling me selfish. But when I thought about why I really wanted to save the place, I could only really think about myself, and everyone else who worked there. Sure there was Dad, too, but he wasn’t here anymore to see what happened. It was my memories I wanted to preserve. My job. My life. Nothing else had even entered my mind.