Griffin was a no-show the next day at work.
In fact, nobody had seen him since the protest. We tried his phone number on the employee contact sheet and got a disconnected number. Lucas even made the rounds of all his favorite burrito spots, but there wasn’t a trace. The closest thing we had to a clue was the nub of a joint I found out behind the Dumpsters. But this time, where there was smoke there was no fire. Just Dumpster juice.
“Maybe he went back to his home planet,” Lucas said.
“Maybe he’s lost in a paper bag,” said Sweet Lou.
She was wearing a sling on her arm, a pack of cigarettes tucked firmly in the fabric. Thankfully it wasn’t the arm she needed for her cane. The three of us were sitting in the back of the theater, all watching the screen as Anjo made some adjustments to Vicky, the house projector.
She was using an old print of the schlocky seventies horror movie, The Refrigerator, and every so often the film would kick into gear and we’d watch a possessed household appliance swallow a drunk person amid screams and spatters of ketchup-red blood.
“Well,” I said, “if he doesn’t turn up soon, we’ll talk to the police. In the meantime, this is the team.”
Lucas and Lou looked at each other, then at me.
“It wasn’t so sad until you used the word team,” said Lou.
“I agree,” said Lucas. “What the hell is this team supposed to win?”
The screen came to life suddenly and a man in a small baseball cap ran through an apartment, chased by an old-fashioned fridge. He lunged out of the way of its open jaws, red light and fog pouring from the depths of the crisper. The sound of his screams was deafening.
“The focus is still off!” said Lucas, barely disturbed by the terrifying interruption.
Sweet Lou stared at the screen.
“If anything was going to eat me in my house, I think it would be the dishwasher. Damn thing turns on in the middle of the night for no reason. I think it’s possessed by the ghost of my husband.”
“Listen, guys,” I said. “I need to talk to you about something important.”
Lucas and Lou swiveled their heads toward me, annoyed, even though I had called them in here specifically for a meeting. I heard Anjo’s footsteps shuffling above us. Her head peeked through the window to the theater below.
“We all know you’re famous in the tabloids now, Wendy,” said Lucas. “Do you have anything else to report?”
“As a matter of fact I do.”
I got up and walked toward the screen. I turned and looked around the theater, empty except for my two seated employees, and a third hiding near the rafters. I studied the frayed seat backs in mismatched colors of dark orange and gray, the long curtains on either side of the screen, and the dust drifting like snow flurries in the dim light. It still looked to me like the perfect place to spend an afternoon. It was hard to imagine that feeling ever passing.
“Look,” I said. “I know the protest didn’t really go as planned, but I’m not going to stand here and say it was a complete failure.”
“I am!” shouted Lou. “My wrist hurts like hell.”
“Okay. I know. That was a blow. But the whole thing wasn’t a disaster. It brought us some attention.”
“It brought Raina Allen some attention!” said Lucas.
“Just let me finish,” I said.
They clammed up for a moment, looking at me impatiently.
“I get it, okay? Things didn’t go right. Lou got hurt. I’m sorry about that Lou. Lucas doesn’t want to get deported. I have a misdemeanor charge, and Griffin is on the lam. We suffered a lot of setbacks, but I’ve been thinking, and it’s possible it’s our own fault as much as it is the police and everyone else. We jumped the gun a little bit. I jumped the gun.”
“What are you talking about?” said Lucas.
“Well, I tried to have a protest before anyone would want to join. It wasn’t really a cause yet; it was just something that we were all angry about. And while our anger is totally valid, nobody really understands it. They don’t know why they should care about all this.”
“It’s not our fault they’re idiots,” said Lucas.
“But what if it is our fault?” I said.
I was met with befuddled stares.
“I mean, what have we really done to try to make other people care about this place? We kind of just show the same things over and over, the things we want to see. And we don’t really care if anyone complains. And when newbies show up, we’re usually dicks to them.”
“That’s our brand!” said Lucas.
Lou took out her cigarettes and smacked them against the palm of her good hand.
“So what’s the answer?” she said, “We start showing superhero movies? Maybe we should replace my organ with a laser light show.”
“That’s not what I want to do,” I said.
I heard a voice from above me suddenly.
“What exactly do you want to do, Ethan?” it said.
Lucas and Lou looked up, a mild note of shock in their roving eyes. I’m not sure how long it had been since Anjo spoke to them, but they looked as if they had heard the voice of God.
“Thank you, Anjo. I’ll tell you,” I said. “I want to plan a festival.”
“A festival?” said Lou. “Where are we going to get the money for that?”
“Well . . .” I said.
But I wasn’t able to finish. The doors to the theater opened at the back and two figures walked down the carpeted aisle. One wore a familiar crisp polo and a bad beard, and the other looked like one of the Hazmat guys from E.T. He wore a pair of plastic coveralls, a respirator mask, and a pair of bright green gloves.
“What the hell is this?” said Lou.
Ron Marsh cleared his throat and puffed up his chest like a self-inflating animal I saw on the Discovery Channel once.
“Members of the Green Street staff,” he said in a serious voice, “I am here today because some new information has come to my attention about patron safety in your theater.”
“Patron safety? What does that mean?” I said. “And who is he?”
I pointed to the man in the space suit.
“This is my associate, Jasper. He’s an exterminator who has been working with the restaurant next door, Noodles & More. They have had a rat problem for the past few months, and Jasper here has traced that problem to your establishment.”
“Impossible,” I said. “We don’t have a rat problem. Where’s the proof?”
Ron motioned to Jasper who reached behind his back and brandished a single caged rat. He held it high like a trophy and right away I recognized the captive. It was Brando! His tremendous girth gave him away. At first I was surprised he’d been nabbed, but maybe he had finally eaten too many Raisinets and he couldn’t dart around like he used to.
“Jasper set up a camera and he actually saw them running into the restaurant from your building,” said Ron. “Pretty much all night long. And until this problem is solved, I’m ordering that this theater be shut down for health violations.”
Brando’s eyes shifted back and forth with disinterest at this development.
“You’re already shutting us down at the end of the month,” I said.
“Well,” said Ron, “consider this an early start.”
“My God. What an asshole,” said Lou.
Ron’s face began to turn red.
“Listen to me, lady,” he said. “I’ve had about enough of you calling . . .”
This time Ron was the one interrupted. Vicky the projector kicked to life and the screen lit up in front of us. The man in the little hat was caught in the open maw of the hell-bent refrigerator. He scrambled to get out, screaming like a maniac, but to no avail. A geyser of blood shot up from inside the fridge and coated his face. The special effects were terrible—it was probably Campbell’s Tomato Soup—but that made it even more disturbing somehow. The screams echoed through the theater.
Jasper, frozen in shock, dropped the rat cage.
It slammed to the ground, rolling over, and landing upside down. The small door flew open upon final impact. Wasting no time, Brando took off in a speedy wobble making his way down the aisle, right past me and behind the screen into the guts of the theater. Then the screen went dark again, along with the houselights. And as I stood there in complete darkness, listening to Lucas laughing and Ron starting to panic, I wondered if the lights would ever be turned on again.