At the Deluxe
By Chris Dungey. Published on March 10, 2023.
Upstairs, James Bond is about to have a laser beam slice through his cajones. OK, you’ve made your point. Do you expect me to talk? No, Mister Bond. I expect you to die! Victor Gomez can hear the dialogue through the tinny intercom. He has about ten minutes to convince the girl to leave, then dash up two flights of stairs to the projection room. Gert Frobe kinda looks like old man Boisington, his jefe and the owner of the Deluxe Theatre.
–How come you did'n say you was just a kid.
He's made the mistake of pulling off his jeans, all the way. Going for thoughtful. Or worse, romantic, like some kinda assimilated Anglo cabrón. At least he kept his white socks on. Concrete floor of the basement is cold. He used the condom just because even sixteen would get him twenty, like they say. Boisington's office door has a lock and the old man had gone home early. The basement stairs still constantly creaking with kids running up and down to the johns. On the other side of the plywood partition, making a mess for him to swamp out after closing. The towel rolls being tugged and tugged, cha-ching, cha-ching, like a cash register. Not a distraction to his performance..
–I don't remember you asking, boy.
Now she is in no hurry to pull up those blossoms-on-white undies. Nor to clear out, and let him get back up to work, When are they supposed to quit wearing little girl drawers? Felt like cotton. Should’ve been his first clue. Shit, but panocha has made him an idiot again. Maybe all them remedial classes was the right program for him, after all.
All that thick-ass make-up in the dim light could fool anybody. Any Anglo kid, too. He watched her and her friends directly below the projection room, giggling at the cartoon. He had hoped he didn’t have to go down there with the dumb flashlight. They shut up when Bond’s silhouette entered to the usual guitar music, aimed the Walther PPK into the titles. Victor paused for another look on his way down for a smoke. Couldn't have one up by the film cans. Cause for immediate dismissal, how old Boisington put it. Celluloid-like lighter fluid. Always came up sniffing.
–What chu looking at, boy? I love your Elvis hair, Don’t hardly see that no more. –I’m looking at you, Little Bit. And then he was looking up at the screen, the nude girl covered with gold paint. Showing golden titties an’ all, but it kills her. Skin couldn’t breathe. –Where’s the women’s bathroom, boy? You got a peek hole somewhere down there to watch us while you smoke? I saw you down here las’ week. –Then you know where it is.
–Should’ve quit soon as I see you got nothing but fuzz down there.
–And then, but, you didn’t stop, did’ju? Notice I ain’t complaining?
–Hard to hold up, the way you got it started, Little Bit. I guess that is a compliment, too.
–So this here is really where you say Roy Clark used it for a dressing room? You tell that tall tale to some new girl every week?
At least she starts to pull up those kid panties. Stretches them over the flaco hips.
–Yes, I wasn’t lying to you. How you even know who that is?
Fucking Roy Clark. Old man Boisington's pride an' joy. Just passing through before he got big. Two sold out shows. No place to park for three blocks around this firetrap. That was the whole business section. Three blocks, two stoplights. Victor wouldn't know who was Roy Clark except Papi listening to all that redneck yodel stuff down Texas. Trying to fit in like a bitch. They even trained him for driving lift-trucks out on the loading dock. Except then he’d make Victor use Spanish at home, just so the family don’t lose their heritage.
–That ain't why I followed you down here, Elvis Hair. But I know who Roy Clark is. He was on TV.
–OK, but it don't matter. You have got to get outta here so I can go up and switch the projectors.
Remember to take the condom. Might be some kind of gringo evidence they’d use against him. Couldn't deport him though. Born as a Yanqui in Brownsville, by-God, Texas. Papi's wanderings not yet very deep into El Norte at the time. Brown-assed Yanqui niño raised for use at Valiant Foods pickle factory. Or the Army. Or just leave the rubber, plop – in the waste basket to empty later. Could have been that pizza-faced concessions kid Lewis, too, used it. But he smokes out front, though, under the marquee. Deluxe Cinema. Pop-corn smoke prob’ly raise up his pimples even worse. Thick glasses fogging. Old man Boisington or the cops prob'ly never believe that kid climbing onto anybody.
–Now, Mr. Mes'can Elvis. I just might wanta take some time to catch my breath after how you done it. That there's a compliment. And how do you know if I don't just shave down there.
–‘Cuz it would be like a scrub brush when it came back in.
This one sure has a smart mouth on her. She has a hold of his cajones all right and knows it and wants to squeeze. What have you got yourself into here, Victor? You got to tell her something quick before that first reel runs out.
–Won’t your little friends miss you? You don't want them to worry.
–They're like children, still bug-eyed ‘bout that Chinaman with a blade in his hat-brim.
–He’s called Odd Job. I think he is Korean. Which you are missing the best parts of.
Now she looks around pretending she can’t find her jeans. Almost standing on them, kicked under the wobbly-assed table in the heat of the moment.
–Plus, you never gave me any candy like you said you would.
–Aww, now you are just making shit up so it sounds bad. You have got to get outta here so I don't lose my job.
He has to keep this one, after dropping out of high school. Two grades behind because of the family moving around; the migrant life. Would’ve been twenty by the time for graduation. Principal kept riding his culo about shaving. They didn't like ducktails, either. Seemed like a race thing while the Anglo kids got away with growing those sissy Beatle mops. So, he needs the Celeryville Deluxe–mop the sticky aisles, change the roller in the toilet, and swamp out the shitter. He goes home smelling like popcorn nearly strong as Papi's brine stink all the time. Listen kid, you want to learn the projector? Cuz I don't get enough sleep. I'll give you a nice raise. Old man Boisington was a mail-man during the day.
–Yeah, yeah. Don't wet yourself over it. I ain't staying.
But the girl giggles, reaches out and tries to grab onto him for real, right through his jeans.
–Whoa there, boy. What do we got here? Maybe we ain't finished after all.
–It don't matter, little puta. If that reel runs out, the cabrón upstairs will rat on me.
–Hey, boy. I know what that means. Lewis has a girlfriend.
He guides her out firmly by the elbow, more macho than that considerate gentleman shit from before: –Please don’t steal nothing from down here. You are so thin, you must tell me if I’m hurting you. He had even taken his shoes off and tossed his jeans to the side like she was a prom date or something.
–I'll be back, Mr. Mes'can Elvis. I wanta see 'Fist Full of Dollars" next week. That cool guy from "Rawhide” starts my motor up.
–I will wave to you. But that is all. Don't try to come up to the booth.
–Oh, now, I don’t know’f I can resist.
Victor turns his back long enough to lock the office door. But she waits for him, goes up the stairs slow, ahead of him, dragging it out, exaggerated narrow hip sway in his face. At the top, she doesn't look back, just giggles and flounces through the curtains toward the concession counter.
–Ta, ta, for now cutie.
Victor takes the steps to the projection booth two at a time. Kind of like Bond hustling to disarm the dirty bomb that will contaminate Fort Knox. The voices from big speakers by the stage echo back up to him. Pussy Galore has thrown Bond down in some hay using jujitsu and he has thrown her down too and they wrestle around. Turns out that she is not his type, But, she will rally her all-girl aerobatics team and fly a mission to help save Ft. Knox. Victor hasn't put two and two together why Bond can't get into her tight pants. It's a mystery, like girls shaving their parts, which he can't think about right now. The planes have yet to spray the fake sleeping gas which is on the next reel. He is just in time.
Peering down through the shifting beam, he spots the two little blips at the top right corner of the image. Count to ten and the single blip will appear. That’s the signal to hit the switch on the other projector. Seamless, like Boisington wants. All the while he was coaxing the girl to leave, that final scene of Bond disarming the nuke was spurring him. The timer will stop right on 007 with a burst of theme music. The gold will be saved but that is a whole reel away. Not even close.
Victor can finally relax. The pizza-faced gringo kid will hustle everyone out while Victor rewinds both cans. He won't have to face temptation again until the man with no name rides into the dusty town. The rough, wool serape is pretty cool looking. Victor has one, too. Maybe he will wear it just to tease the little gringa. He will have to leave the booth, anyway. That hombre Eastwood lights up his nasty little cigars three times just in the previews. Victor will probably need a smoke.
Chris Dungey is a retired auto worker in Michigan. He feeds a woodstove, rides mountain bike, sings in a Presbyterian choir. and follows Detroit City FC and Flint City Bucks FC with a religious fervor. He is currently in FL for some early season soccer matches and his 9th Sebring 12 Hour. More than 75 of his stories have found publication in litmags and online. He can currently be read in Duck Head Journal, The Under Review. and Tuxtails Online. (Buy him a Cup of Coffee there!) Most resent collection. We Won't Be Kissing, is from KDP/Amazon.
