Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

“Who thought of it?”

“Only one man could come up with something so ingenious, Otto Waldet. Did you ever see the last scene of Lady from Shanghai? I Otto built that set for Welles. He was a set designer up until the early fifties, when he was blacklisted. By the early sixties, he started one of the first chains of gayporn theaters. He just died last year.”

“Is that why the projection booth is at that strange angle?”

“Oh no, that’s something entirely different. This theater was initially a nursery school. The projection booth was built between the second and the third floor.”

I was introduced to my staff: a middle-aged box office lady named Rosa and a Cambodian porter named Thi. Miguel finally led me back into his office and had me fill out a W-4 form and then we agreed on a mutually accommodating schedule.

“Why don’t you work with me the rest of this evening so we can get to know each other?”

The evening was almost over anyway, so I decided to stay for the remainder. Opening up a compact refrigerator hidden under the desk, Miguel took out a couple beers and a bag of banana chips. Then he pulled out a small television and we decided on a football game. It was a remarkably American evening for a neo-hippie in a gay porn theater.

As we watched the Forty-Niners beating the Jets, I remembered how in the past working had meant something far more physical, under the constant supervision of usually someone conspicuously dumber. I sputtered through a mouthful of chips, “I can’t believe I’m getting paid to do this.”

“This is really a pretty smooth operation and if nothings broken …”

“Sounds comfy.”

“It’s boring, that’s the real job.” And we didn’t talk much more until the end of the game. By the time the Jets had won, we were both pretty tired from the beer and the little room had gotten pretty humid, so we stepped out front and watched guys stray in and cars cruise by for corner whores. Miguel took out a cigarette.

“Aren’t those bad for your health?”

“They’re organic,” he replied, and lit up.

Suddenly when a long American car turned up Third toward us, Miguel snuffed his cigarette and spoke under his breath, “Quick, get into the theater.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Ox is here. He’s the district manager. I didn’t tell him I hired you yet, and he lives to yell. I’m sure he won’t pass up this opportunity. Just make like a patron until he passes.”

Out of a purple Cadillac that pulled up in front plopped a pudgy middle-aged man with a curly beard. He was wearing such a distinctly tasteless suit that it seemed to make a kind of agonizing fashion statement. His upper torso rocked solidly as if he were entering a boxing ring.

“You sure I shouldn’t meet him now?”

“Just disappear until he does.”

Hastening into the bathroom, I started to urinate but kept hearing the sounds of fumbling in the adjacent stall. I concentrated on a hand-lettered sign that Miguel must have written. It read, “Save water, New York is going through a drought.” Underneath it was all the predictable graffiti, “Fight Aids not Gays. Save Soviet Jews… Win Prizes. Ernie loves Tony loves Casper loves Ira loves Bozo…” The sounds in the stall got louder and louder. So I retreated into the theater, took a seat, and discreetly checked around me. Most of the guys were hunting around for someone. Three aisles in front of me, I caught the outline of a couple occupying the same seat in a contorted position. I watched the film awhile. Apparently a jogger named Mario had bumped into a handball player named Sheldon. It turned out that they had been noticing and admiring each other for some time. Their characters were left undeveloped, but they were both eager to advance on to the subsequent scenes. Neither of them had any other appointments, obligations, or occupation. Sheldon, it seemed, played handball and slept, and Mario jogged and slept. As the unlikely plot progressed, Mano invited Sheldon up to his house, which was conveniently near. There, they each made comments like, “Sa-a-ay, I’ll bet you’re pretty big with the ladies,” and, “You look good enough to eat,” and so on. Finally they stretched out on a sofa and started making out. Sheldon’s hand started moving down to Mario’s flimsy shorts.

Simultaneously I felt a liquid hand slide into my lap and I hopped up. It was Miguel, laughing.

“He’s gone.” I rose and followed him back into his office.

“Why does he come? Why couldn’t I meet him?”

“Well, I wanted to tell him I hired you before you met him because sometimes he acts like an animal. He usually comes by about twice a week just to make sure everything’s okay. He makes the rounds.”

“What rounds?”

“The rounds of the chain. Ottos family owns it and he does most of the administrative work for them.”

“He looks like an asshole.”

“He looks dumb; in fact everything about him is dumb. Only he ain’t dumb.”

“How do you know?”

“His actions are very calculated, almost predestined.”

Soon it was closing time. Miguel collected all the money together, wrapped a filled-out bank deposit slip around it together with a rubber band, shoved the bundle into the green deposit bag, zipped it up, and locked it. Together, we walked to the nearby bank, and he put the money into a night drop. Then we went back to the theater. Rosa, the listless box office lady, went home, and we went into the office. After Miguel filled out a variety of forms, which created the illusion that an authority was checking us, the projectionist buzzed down to warn that the film had come to an end. Miguel turned up all the lights in the theater and turned out all the outdoor lights. Together we inspected both the theater and the dungeon downstairs to clear out all malingerers. The place was empty. While checking the toilet, I asked Miguel if plunging the toilet was among our many duties.

“The last time the toilet got plugged up was sometime last October—anyway, I had to unplug it.”

“I used to do that all the time at the Saint Mark’s. Awful business, unplugging a toilet.”

“Oh,” he responded. A memory was apparently set in motion. “Last October when I started plunging, first blood started coming up, and then black feathers.”

“Christ.”

“Finally a small bird came up.”

“I once unplugged a piece of red meat at the Saint Mark’s, I think it was Kielbasy.”

“Well, I didn’t finish my story. The toilet still wouldn’t flush so I kept plunging and plunging and finally a filthy black pelt came out.”

“A what?”

“The pelt of a small animal. It looked like a gerbil. And I flushed again, but the toilet still flooded.”

“Still? I’d be on the phone to Roto-Rooter by then.”

“Well, I wish I did that,” Miguel replied, “’cause I finally sucked out what looked like a fingerless hand.”

“Christ!”

“It was just about this size”—he distanced two fingers a couple of inches apart—“like a child’s hand. But it wasn’t as awful as it sounds.”

“You found a baby’s hand and you weren’t worried?”

“Well, I had a pretty good idea whose hand it was.”

“Whose?”

“This nut that used to come by a lot. He got pissed once because I found him trying to stuff a … well he got mad at me, and later I heard that he worked with cadavers.”

“You should’ve called the police.”

“Let me warn you right now. Never, but never, call the police. They’ve been trying to close us down since the beginning. I just tossed the hand off the back of the roof. No one’ll ever find it.”

“But what do I do if something happens to me?”

“I’ll tell you exactly what Ox told me when I first started working here. If you can take them, beat them; if you can’t, run. There’s a bayonet and a baseball bat in the office. If you kill anyone, drag them into the office and Ox will get rid of the body for you.”