I can’t lie. The first couple of films were pretty bad. The first one was just a guy following his girlfriend around, filming her in the most flattering light possible, When it was over, people clapped politely, more because the festival had started than because they thought he was a cinematic genius. The second one was about a dog in love with another dog at the park. It was kind of cute, I guess.
Down below, Raina sat in the front row, taking her judging duties seriously. She smiled and signed the occasional autograph between movies. Anjo seemed to be enjoying her role, loading up each film, one after the next, allowing for a little transition time between each. All the equipment worked surprisingly well. The picture was sharp. The speakers were loud enough, even if the sound echoed a bit in the alley. And the view out of the window was pretty spectacular. You could see about a four-block swathe from where we were, and in the middle of it, we’d turned a dingy ally into an outdoor theater.
“I’m pretty sure he would have liked this, Ethan,” said Anjo after the dog film ended.
I knew immediately who she was talking about, but it surprised me. She didn’t mention my dad all that often.
“I hope so,” I said.
“Of course he would have,” she said. “The Cinema of Revolt! What’s more punk rock than a DIY movie festival? It’s illegal. We’re celebrating guerrilla filmmaking! The art of the people.”
“And dog movies,” I said.
“And dog movies,” she said, and smiled. “You should keep an open mind. The quality might pick up.”
I looked down.
“I hope so, for Raina’s sake.”
There was more polite clapping from below. Anjo located the next file and clicked it. A shot came on of someone running through a yard, carrying a knife. Bad sound effects of sirens were layered over the action. It was a college frat-boy thriller. An early Christopher Nolan rip-off.
“I was kind of in love with him, you know,” said Anjo.
I turned away from the movie.
“My dad?”
She was still watching the wall below.
“It’s probably not something you want to hear, but I don’t know how much we’ll see each other after tonight, so I feel like I have to tell you.”
“Okay . . .” I said.
Somehow, I wasn’t that shocked. More curious than anything else.
“But why? He was a middle-aged professor.”
“You of all people should know why. You loved him, too.”
“He was my dad.”
“Well,” she said, “I didn’t really know my dad very well. And I saw him more than either of my parents. So, he was kind of my dad, too. Except that I wanted to be married to him.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t weird or anything.”
I expected Anjo to laugh. But she didn’t. She just looked at me.
“He found his exact place in the world,” she said. “How many people get to do that? I mean, sure he wasn’t the pope or the president. He was a professor at a state university and the guardian of a campus movie theater. But this is exactly where he fit. It was like the universe picked him up and set him down here. And that’s an intoxicating thing.”
“I know,” I said.
“It makes you feel like it’s possible for anyone. Like, if this guy can find his thing, then why can’t you or I find our thing? The only trouble is that it’s pretty easy to mistake his passion for your own. Sometimes, I wonder if I stayed here so long because he made such a convincing argument for all of it. The power of film. That Art House theater. He made it seem like the best place to be. The only place to be. But, I haven’t really traveled much. I barely left the projection booth the last ten years.”
“Are you trying to tell me all this is a good thing? The fact that we don’t know what’s happening next or what the hell we’re going to do with our lives?”
She sighed and adjusted her glasses.
“I don’t know if I completely believe that. I probably could have been happy in that booth for a few more years. Maybe longer. Look at Lou. She’s a lifer and there was probably nothing else she wanted to do. I guess my point is that I don’t know. But, what if I haven’t totally found my thing yet. What if my thing is in Olympia, Washington? Or Helsinki? Or in Saint Paul? Or what if I don’t have a thing. What if I have like ten things instead? Maybe I have five destinies and this is only the first one.”
The frat-boy thriller came to a predictable blood-spattered end, which was a favorite with the crowd below. They laughed and applauded the blast of watered-down ketchup that exploded onto the screen.
“Well,” she said. “Actually, I might be too old for five destinies at this point. I could probably fit in three. But you, Ethan! You’re not even eighteen. You probably have time for seven or eight destinies. It’s kind of narrow to count on one, don’t you think?”
I was looking down at Raina now. I couldn’t help it. All this talk of destiny, and my eyes could only go one place. It was bad enough the Green Street was done, but it was nearly impossible to picture a life where Raina and I weren’t together. In my mind, it had always been a given. I wasn’t sure how long it was going to take, but I had always planned to wait it out. In my mind, it had always been a when not an if. When she finally realizes nobody knows her like me. When she gets tired of living in LA. When I get a little better looking and take over the Green Street.
The crazy thing is that it had all almost happened. I had come really close. She came back. She missed me. She slept in my bed wearing my T-shirt. But there was no almost-destiny. I could try to frame it any way I wanted, but it just didn’t happen.
“Will you allow me one last Steve McQueen anecdote while I’m still technically the projectionist?” Anjo said.
“Is there any reality where you don’t tell me this story?” I asked.
“Probably not,” she said.
“Okay,” I said. “Then go ahead.”
She clicked open the next film. This one was just someone dancing in the city. Doing flips off bus stops. Swinging around signs. Like a modern-day Fred Astaire. It was kind of entrancing.
“Do you know what Terrence’s first leading role was?” she asked.
I thought for a moment. I had definitely looked up McQueen’s filmography when I first met Anjo.
“Wait a minute, it wasn’t . . .”
“The Blob,” she said.
“Whoa,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “The future King of Cool starred in a movie about a giant space amoeba that eats people in Pennsylvania. It was a questionable career choice. But beyond that, something interesting happened with his contract. When he signed on to star in the film, McQueen had the choice to take a flat fee of six thousand dollars or a smaller salary with a percentage of the profits. He thought the movie was ridiculous, and he was broke, so he took his flat fee and was happy to do it. I imagine it probably seemed like a safe bet at the time. It was a B movie. Take your money and run, Terrence! Only, as we now know, The Blob was a huge hit. It was improbable. Critics hated it, but horror fans loved it. And if only Terrence had taken the other deal, do you know how much he would have made?”
“I don’t,” I said.
“Around a million dollars. And this is in 1958.”
I whistled. It seemed the only appropriate response.
“He never took a flat fee again. He always rolled the dice, even late in his career when he could demand enormous salaries.”
Below us, the experimental dance film came to a stop with a finale in a fountain. It wasn’t bad, actually. The editing was pretty impressive for something done on a laptop. And the acrobatic dancing was cool.
“Anjo,” I said, “I know I’m not supposed to ask the Oracle what her advice and prophesies mean. That’s kind of the point. But I’m just too tired to try to figure this one out right now. I assume it doesn’t have to do with money because we don’t have any. And I don’t plan on being an actor anytime soon.”
Anjo paused for a second to load the next film.
I looked down when she was done. The film was one I recognized. A pair of shoes walking down the street, ready to find their way to the Green Street. I looked at Anjo.
“I had it digitally transferred,” she said. “Now it has played in one festival.”
I felt the urge to be back down with the crowd suddenly, to be crammed in the alley, seeing it like they were. I turned to go, but before I could make my exit, Anjo touched me on the shoulder. When I turned around, she placed something in my hand. It was the flash drive of Dad’s film. I closed my hand around it, and gave her a hug. I felt the urge to run down the stairs, so I wouldn’t miss too much of the movie.
“Ethan,” she said.
“What?”
“Our lives might be The Blob. Or they might not. I just don’t know. But I think we have to gamble.”
I smiled.
I was halfway out the door when I heard the air horn.