Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
In every feel-good small-town flick, there’s some inspirational moment where the whole town comes together.
That’s what I see on Friday night, as I stand under the Blue Plate Picture Palace marquee in my favorite Art Spector–inspired
argyle bow tie and suspenders.
Ms. Sinclair gives me a double thumbs-up from the ticket box. When I asked her if she would consider letting the union borrow
the theater for our alternate anniversary party, she clapped me on the back and asked why I hadn’t said something sooner.
Joel, our trusty town troubadour, strums the Nuclear Seasons theme on his guitar.
In the lobby, my moms have done light catering to supplement Blue Plate’s usual theater snacks with libations from Lou’s and the Last Drip Café.
Vanessa has decorated the lobby with Blushing Blooms bouquets and garlands that have me sneezing constantly.
Irene has set up a selfie station with boxes of vintage accessories from Nine Lives.
Mrs. Morse is running a raffle for a free weekend stay at the Plumcot Inn.
Kim, Stanley’s wife and an amateur ceramicist, is giving away china sets in honor of the original Blue Plate tradition.
Mr. Jennings, the accountant who rents an office above the diner, is manning a donations table.
In the theater itself, Mr. Loman and his sons built a wooden platform-stage in front of the screen.
Then there’s the fleet of vintage cars Mr. Fuentes has been restoring, which have spent the day hopscotching around the county to pick fans up from the airport, bus terminals, and SMART train stations.
Outside, fans are lined up around the block, farther than I can see.
Efraín comes up beside me in a truly devastating pleated black skirt and vest. He knocks his shoulder against mine. “Look
what you did.”
I shake my head. “What we did.”
“It was a team effort,” Naomi says, beaming. She looks comfortable and confident with her hair done up in an elaborate braided
bun, showing off the emerald entwined with her blond curls. She’s also the most dressed up I’ve seen her in years, in a prim
corduroy overall dress.
“Ride or die,” Lola agrees, squeezing in and swinging her arms up around our shoulders. The sequin fringe on her dress swishes against my arm. She’s a vision of glitter and gloss. Her shiny fringe dress would be a dead ringer for the Marienbad dress, if it were matte black instead of metallic gold.
We clean up pretty damn well for minimum-wage kids.
At seven on the dot, we open the doors to guests—no, fans.
Everything is free. Ms. Sinclair isn’t selling tickets, just taking a head count. There are concerns about exceeding the theater’s
fire capacity.
We have union members scattered throughout the theater, acting as ushers and handing out programs.
The fans keep coming, and while the theater doesn’t quite reach capacity, it’s a near thing.
Half an hour after doors, once everyone’s had a chance to grab snacks and find a seat, the program starts.
The house lights dim, and Stanley takes the stage as emcee. As a twenty-five-year NSX veteran, longtime docent, and certified
superfan, he is uniquely qualified for the job, even if he did try to abdicate three times. But he’s so much funnier than
he gives himself credit for, and the kindness he shows his friends and museum guests shines through to everyone in the audience.
I’m observing from the back of the theater, so I can step out as needed. TJ’s creating new content for our socials while Lola
monitors incoming notifications as well as news of the other party down the road. Naomi’s darting around with a DSLR loaned to her by the photo editor from the Egan’s Creek Citizen-Courier.
After Stanley’s opening monologue, there’s a short film that Lola and Naomi cut together from their photos and reels, as well
as clips from Kiera Kim’s interviews.
Then Stanley introduces Efraín, whom the union unanimously selected as our spokesman. Efraín excels at extemporaneous speaking,
and he’s never more charismatic than when he’s detailing injustices done to people he cares about. And the thing about Efraín?
Efraín Juarez Reyna cares about everyone.
Unfortunately, I can’t focus on what he’s saying because he is truly, unfairly distracting in that skirt. But whatever he’s
saying, it must be rousing given the crowd’s hoots and hollers. I’m staring at him with cartoon hearts in my eyes when Lola
hooks her arm with mine and leads me into the deserted lobby.
My eyes smart from the bright light, and the quiet is such a sharp contrast to the palpable human energy inside.
Lola and I plop down across from TJ, who seems to be logged into half a dozen social media sites on Naomi’s laptop. “How’s
it going in there?”
“So far so good,” Lola replies.
I just barely stop myself from reaching up to fidget with my bow tie. As much as I enjoy looking dapper—and I do like how
I look tonight—the uncomfortable shirts are seldom worth it.
But I’m hoping tonight is worth it. We never defined what success looks like. It sure seems like we’ve succeeded in throwing together a killer party in forty-eight hours, but this is just another tool in our strike tool kit, not the end but rather the means.
I clear my throat. “How’s it playing in . . . what’s the internet equivalent of Peoria?”
“For us or for them?” Lola asks.
“Both.”
“Our posts are getting good engagement,” TJ says. “Good, not great.”
“We haven’t pulled out the big guns yet,” Lola says. “Trust, we’re fine. Unlike a certain high-ticket gala a few miles up
the road.”
“Yeah?” This bittersweet Schadenfreude wells up like acid reflux. I’m on tenterhooks, waiting to hear how the museum’s anniversary
party is floundering. “What’s the word?”
Lola angles her phone toward me. “Remember, their official programming doesn’t start till eight, but at this rate, it might
not start at all. Craig has been texting Divya and Miles nonstop, begging for security staff to show up because Dagny’s wild
scheme to con fans into volunteering as scabs fell flat. Jaime has also gotten texts from a friend at the catering company
the museum contracted with, and according to him, there’s no one there.
“Half the guests who bought tickets are no-shows, but that’s not even the worst of it.
Practically everyone who had anything to do with making the show bailed.
They’ve only got Christine Holloway and a couple minor guest stars.
So I have no idea what they’re going to do in five minutes when they have to put on a show unless it’s just Dagny and Christine alone on the stage ‘in conversation.’ ”
“I wouldn’t put it past them to spend two hours in conversation about how we’re persecuting the TERFs,” I mutter.
“Sounds about right,” Lola agrees absentmindedly as she scrolls. “Oh shit.”
“What?” TJ asks immediately.
“Divya says Craig just panic-emailed the whole department because no one can find Dagny. Holy shit, did Dagny bail on her
own party?”
Dagny has always tried to protect the sanctity of the museum as an institution. Now it looks like her messaging backfired,
and she’s backed into a corner.
“I don’t know,” I say, “but I’m ready to get back to our party. What about you guys?”
TJ just shakes his head, and Lola waves me off. “I’ll catch up in a minute,” she promises.
I adjust my noise-filtering earplugs as I head back into the theater. I scan the room, spotting Efraín and Jaime whispering
conspiratorially in the front row, spying Naomi crouched in an aisle and snapping shots of Eden on the stage. I must have
missed Ms. Sinclair’s segment about the history of Blue Plate Picture Palace. Stanley and Dan are absent, which means they
must be checking on our special guest.
For now, Eden’s finishing up introducing the video essay that she and Winston have been secretly working on for months, in the hopes that they might someday be able to use it as an introduction for an exhibit about the lost love letters of Victor Kane.
The audience reacts viscerally, some gasping, some crying, as the story plays out on-screen, with key quotes from the letters.
I’ve read the letters multiple times, bawling in the privacy of my bedroom, but I can’t help tearing up now, too.
Winston offers a few choice words about how concerns over “institutional messaging” and maximizing revenue have resulted in
censorship of Victor Kane’s legacy. He doesn’t have much in the way of stage presence, so as Winston dawdles, half the audience
is gossiping, the other half eagerly posting on their socials.
I’m fidgeting against the back wall, waiting for our next act, anxious at the delay. I’m wondering if I should do something
when Stanley and Dan finally emerge from the wings, accompanying none other than our headliner, George Rhodes.
The noise I make is embarrassing. Then again, who wouldn’t be starstruck by the sight of Emmy-winning, Oscar-nominated George
Rhodes in a full tux? I didn’t get a chance to meet him when he arrived earlier because I’ve been running point on logistics,
which has been gratifying, yes, but far from glamorous.
George Rhodes, however, is all Hollywood glamour. He doesn’t look like he’s aged at all since the photos from the NSX opening party twenty-five years ago—except for his gracefully receded hairline.
His smile is bright and dazzling. “You know, I had a whole speech prepared, but after I saw that video, I had to rip it up.
Because you’ve all heard the story about how I first met Victor Kane on the set of a terrible B movie, when I was trying to
break out of Blaxploitation films, and he was writing his first pilot. But the story I never thought I’d get to tell? Let
me tell y’all about the night I introduced Victor to Sam Schatz in a WeHo gay bar. You see, Sam and I both had bartending
gigs because they sure paid better than acting.”
I barely breathe as George talks about the Victor Kane he knew, who was not always a pleasant man and often a grueling director,