Chapter 19
‘Who’s your date for tonight?’ Paul asks. I suddenly stop putting on my shoes to head out the door and switch my phone from one ear to the other. I don’t mind telling him about my mother’s setups, but for some reason I don’t immediately tell him about Finn. Not that he would be jealous or have any right to be. Paul would never understand a guy like Finn. Attorneys think artists are goofing off until a real job comes along. Or is that just what Paul thought about me?
‘It’s not a date. It’s a work thing. Some background research.’ Vague but accurate.
‘Way to go, Sammy. You’re really taking your work at Brands seriously. Robert would be a fool not to hire you.’
‘Thanks.’ I appreciate the compliment, but it feels a bit cold, more like it’s coming from the school headmaster than from my future live-in boyfriend.
We say goodbye and I hop on the 6 train and head to St Marks Cinema in the East Village to meet Finn for our screening of Sunset Boulevard . I walk down the streets around NYU where I hung out when I was in school. There are more cell phone stores and fewer used bookstores sadly, but the feeling is the same. College kids from all over the city come down here for cheap drinks and eats that look better on social media than they taste. I pass by a bar where Omar and I used to hang out, trying to meet guys. I’d sit at the booth by the pinball machine, too scared to approach anyone, while Omar was hit on by every person who entered the place. So many nights I’d leave him to it and escape to exactly where I’m headed now.
As I approach the theater, I see Finn standing in front. The blinking colored lights from the marquee bathe him in soft pink and amber light. St Marks Cinema is one of the last remaining old movie houses in Manhattan. The owners have painstakingly kept the original features in pristine shape, like the red neon sign above the letter board of the theater, so the experience is the exact opposite of a multiplex and so much more elevated than sitting on your couch at home. Finn’s staring up at the marquee. He’s wearing a vintage black leather jacket that perfectly hugs his shoulders and falls to his hips like it was made just for his body. I have on a chunky cardigan from a thrift store that my mother has forbidden me from wearing. One of her rules is that I don’t dress ‘so old’ but this isn’t one of her setups. She doesn’t even know I’m here.
Finn turns around and gives me a big smile that quickly changes to a dramatic expression. ‘I’m ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille,’ he says, framing his face with his hands.
‘Someone has done their research,’ I say with a laugh.
‘I want to make sure we’re giving these kids a great experience.’ It’s nice to know he has an open mind, especially considering how heated our last conversation was. I walk over to the small glass ticket booth and pass my credit card to the woman with frizzy gray hair I recognize as the wife of the couple that owns the place. ‘Hey, Marlena,’ I say and she looks up from the counter where she’s tearing off tickets.
‘Well, look what the cat dragged in,’ she says in a New York accent so thick I wonder if Finn can even understand her. ‘Hey, Murray! Look who it is,’ she shouts over her shoulder.
An elderly man with suspenders pops his head from behind the curtain that separates the box office from the lobby. ‘If it isn’t our old friend, Sam. Where you been?’ he asks. He eyes Finn, who stands to the side, curiously.
I started coming here in my first week of college. I love the vintage velvet chairs, the Art Deco wall sconces, the respect for Hollywood’s Golden Age that permeates the atmosphere, but most of all, Marlena and Murray, who would often let me sneak in for free when I spent too much money on DVDs or burritos.
‘I’ve been busy,’ I say. It’s a feeble excuse but the only one I can think of at the moment. The truth is, I haven’t been for at least two years. Paul hates black-and-white movies almost as much as he hates the East Village, so once we were together, I stopped coming down.
‘Don’t make yourself a stranger,’ Murray says. ‘And you’re in for a treat tonight. Norma has never looked better.’
‘You just focus on the projector and don’t worry about making eyes at Gloria Swanson,’ Marlena scolds. She pushes the tickets through the glass opening and I promise to stop by more regularly.
‘They seem very sweet. Do you know how long they’ve been together?’ Finn asks. I love his natural curiosity. It makes it so easy to talk to him. But I noticed as I chatted with Marlena he hung back a bit. I’ve seen him at Plant Daddy a few times when I’ve been heading up to my apartment. He’s always sitting alone. He’s not a misanthrope at all but someone who is more comfortable observing.
‘They were high school sweethearts. They went on their first date here and fell in love over a screening of West Side Story. Now they’re in their eighties and they’ve spent their whole life together.’
‘I’d love to hear their whole story.’ I go to take two seats in the middle of the theater. He stops. ‘Are you sure you want to sit there?’
‘Yes,’ I say, scooting toward the middle.
‘I like examining the detail. Don’t you want to sit closer?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I like to sit in the middle so I can get lost in the drama. If I’m too close, I can’t get the whole picture.’ A nearby man with his hand in a box of popcorn gives me a dirty look.
‘But you can’t get the whole picture if you can’t examine the detail,’ Finn insists. We are in a standoff and beginning to attract the attention of the people around us. The lights dim and I can hear the familiar sound of the projector starting up.
‘These are the best seats,’ I say, and about a dozen regulars over the age of seventy shush me, and they have every right to do so.
‘Please just sit down,’ a woman behind us says and literally shakes her cane at us. The rest of the audience mumbles in agreement. I give Finn an exasperated look and he follows me to the seat I’ve selected.
‘The next movie we see, we sit in front,’ he whispers, though I have no idea what makes him think we are going to see another movie together.
Once the lights dim and the screen starts to flicker, I’m transported. There is no here and now, there is no Finn and no conflict over seating. There is only the sprawling story in front of me. I’ve always used movies to escape and they’ve never failed me. Tonight is no different.
We stay until the very last name on the very last credit rolls and the lights come up. Most of the audience has already left. My mind is still lingering in the monochromatic world of old Los Angeles. I can’t help but get emotional. Norma wanted it so deeply. She had been the world’s biggest star, but everyone forgot about her. She was desperate to make it big again. I connect so much with her desire – the wanting. But also, the not getting. I’ve seen the film dozens of times but each time it has a different impact on me. Tonight, it makes me feel raw and vulnerable. I think about sitting on the couch crying after hearing that Hurlington passed. I think about how much I wanted it and how much it defeated me.
We head out of the theater but I make sure to say goodbye to Marlena and Murray before we exit. ‘What did you think?’ I ask.
‘It was dramatic. I’ll give you that,’ he says as we make our way down the block. ‘But wouldn’t a documentary about Gloria Swanson be… more authentic?’
I stiffen. ‘Do we always need authenticity? Can’t we just get lost in the story sometimes?’
He considers my comment as we walk in silence past a bodega and a laundromat with bright LED signs. ‘It’s a masterpiece, no doubt,’ he says. ‘A great film. But don’t you ever crave something… more contemporary? Something that reflects our stories?’
I tilt my head, taken aback. ‘It’s a classic, Finn. The storytelling, the character depth…’
‘But where are the queer characters? Where’s the representation? We live in a different era now. Shouldn’t our films reflect that? I think we should use something more current.’
It’s just after midnight and the East Village is finally coming alive, even on a chilly October night. College kids swarm the sidewalks and the doorways. The endless amount of bars in the neighborhood overflow with people despite the temperature dropping while we were inside the movie house. It’s one big party in the East Village every night but I’m not feeling a part of it having to defend one of my favorite films.
‘This movie is one of the foundations of the queer culture that you are so rhapsodic about,’ I say, trying to keep my tone level. I’ve never had anyone argue against one of my favorite movies of all time. Besides – how can he not get it? ‘It’s pure camp,’ I continue. ‘Do you have any idea how many gay people have watched this film and understood it as a gay film without there being any out queer characters in it? For decades, gay people have decoded and understood it as a gay classic. The relationship between Norma and Max? If that’s not queer, I don’t know what is. The way Cecil B. DeMille calls her “Little Fellow”? The way Norma looks at William Holden in a swimsuit is gayer than an episode of Drag Race. ’ I’m riling up for a fight and I’m not sure why. Is it because I identify with old Norma too much? Joe Gillis does accuse her of not adapting to the times.
‘But there aren’t actual queer people represented in it,’ he says, challenging me.
‘Not every classic needs to be dissected for representation. Sometimes what isn’t said is more powerful,’ I continue, more defensive than I intended. I’m not even sure how much I believe what I’m saying. It’s not a very popular opinion. But he challenges me in ways that get me wound up.
‘We don’t have to do that anymore,’ Finn says. ‘We’ve worked hard for equality, so why not watch something that mirrors our struggles, our lives, our love?’
I laugh, but it’s laced with sarcasm. ‘So now, every film we watch has to check the contemporary and queer representation box?’ I think back to my mom making me wear that Say Gay T-shirt and how much I resisted. Am I the problem?
‘Sam, I respect classics. I do. But sometimes, I want to watch stories where people like us aren’t just subtext, where our narratives are the story. Where the lives of queer people, people of color, and disabled people are shown authentically. We don’t need to hide anymore.’ He stops, turns and his eyes stare right at me, maybe inside me.
‘You think I hide?’ I ask. The question makes my chest wince. I stop walking and try to fight the discomfort of his accusation. It’s a question I don’t want to think about at all. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to going to a movie with him like this. He’s too intense. He says whatever he thinks and asks whatever he wants. I feel like I’m constantly being interviewed, observed, and asked uncomfortable questions that should be none of his business.
‘That’s not what I said. Not exactly.’
‘That’s not a no,’ I snap back.
‘Sam, I’m just trying to figure out why…’
I can feel myself moving from annoyance to anger with tinges of self-doubt and confusion. I don’t want to feel any of these things. For a second I think about the easy detachment of my mom’s setups. The guys are bizarre but they don’t challenge who I am at my core. I just want to get out of this conversation. That’s really the only way to stop the feelings from bubbling up to the surface and making me feel out of control.
‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore,’ I say and start walking again. His steps match mine. ‘You want to show something else to the students? Fine.You can decide. I’ll show up and talk about whatever you want.’ He’s a client and I have to start treating him like any other client. From now on I’m going to treat him the same way I treated the Surentox campaign – detached and emotionless.
Finn stops walking and turns toward me. I want to keep going but I know I can’t just run away. ‘We’re just having a debate. Why are you getting so worked up?’
‘I’m not getting worked up. But this is something that’s important to me.’ I shove my hands in my pockets. It’s only the middle of October but the wind is making me shiver.
He’s quiet for a second but his eyes are directly on me. I think he’s let it go but then he says, ‘Maybe you should be telling your own story instead of hiding behind old movies.’
‘Hiding behind old movies!’ Now I am shouting at him in the middle of Second Avenue. Again, he goes to that word: hiding. I do not like it. ‘You don’t have any idea what those movies have meant to me. I’m not hiding behind anything. In fact, they make me feel seen.’ I make sure to look him right in the eyes when I say this. It’s not the first time I’ve been accused of hiding behind something. When you make most of your living writing as someone else, it comes with the territory. But he has hit a nerve and now all the emotions I have been trying to keep under control start racing to the surface. I turn away from him. I don’t want him to see how close to tears I am.
‘Sam,’ he says softly. ‘I’m sorry. I used the wrong word. I pushed too hard. I’m sorry. I do that. I don’t know how to just…’ He smashes his fist into his other open hand and lets out a grunt like he’s trying to control himself. ‘I don’t know when to stop. I get into it with people about the things I’m passionate about. I try to stay on the sidelines but I couldn’t do that with you.’ He pushes his hair back but keeps his hazel eyes on me as he does.
‘I’m passionate about it, too,’ I say, swallowing hard and trying to regain my composure but I think it’s too late.
‘I can see that. That’s what made me push harder. I want to know. I want to know more about—’
‘Don’t,’ I say, cutting him off. I finally have myself under control and I don’t want to lose it. I made a decision to give it up – all this emotion and disappointment about telling stories and sharing stories. I need to move on with my life because if I don’t I will become Norma Desmond, desperate to have her big break but having a nervous breakdown. I thought if I could get a publisher to bite on something with my own name on it I could have my comeback but that didn’t happen. I keep hearing Paul telling me it’s time to grow up, and now I’m even more sure he’s right. I need to find a mature distance from all this stuff, but Finn is trying to pull me back into it. I don’t want to feel the pain and anguish of not being able to do it anymore.
‘I’m serious, Finn,’ I say. ‘We can show whatever movie you want. Just promise me we don’t have to talk about it anymore. Goodnight.’ His eyebrows are pushed together and he opens his mouth to say something but there is nothing else to say. I pick up my pace and walk away from him without looking back.