The Meadow 117 tank begs more out the town supply. Not a spark of heat—the tap dribbles out. Follow the beam of light to the back of the auditorium. The usherette guards the door, alert to duty. “Everything okay?” Doesn’t sound like she wants to know. “Heater’s gone in the restroom. No hot water.” Her torch comes to rest below my chin, her hungry, startled face glazed and cautious. “There’s water?” “Cold.” “Cold water?” “When I turn the hot tap, I should get hot. It’s hygienic.” “Hygienic?” “My skin’s frozen.” “There’s an error,” she says simply, her torch reaching the restroom door. “Guess someone knows about it.” “Can you chase it? Book a fix? I’m here often.” Something seems recalled to her. “I hope it doesn’t spoil your enjoyment of the picture.” “How do you hope that?” “Show’s starting.” Want to listen for her rustle through the curtain, maybe hear talk in the corridor with some grainy equipment guy. But the patched orange drapes roll aside from the screen, squeaking a little, their electric runners too high—I guess—for grease. The wall lights dim and some go out. I guess somebody’s working the levers. The screen fizzes gray and white. Long time ago, maybe, in movie houses in one or other city, a fanfare, a drumroll would bring on a stream of advertising—always more succulent than on TV. Cars and perfumes, high-stakes games of romance and compliance. Always twilight above some sea-cliffs while a guy slips loose his tie. Then trails for features coming soon to this theater, some so exact you felt you’d seen the whole picture. Always something to note, to think, ‘Yeah, I’ll come see that,’ straight forgotten. Big city
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