Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

In front of me, piled up high on the desk, was a stack of files and the theater’s financial records spanning the last five years. Pushing them to one side, and seeing the wall behind it, only then did the mystery vaporize. A new digital dial system was encased in recently packed plaster. They must have caught Miguel, and I was next. I noticed that one of the buttons on the business phone was lit up. The nerd was probably notifying Ox on the extension in the box office. I slipped into the darkness of the theater. I was being captured by the new manager and his white box office woman standing near the exit. The only way out was across the roof. I limped up the steps to the projectionist booth and banged quickly.

“Who the fuck is it?”

1 announced myself and she opened. “We went through this before. You’re supposed to call up in advance.”

“Sorry, I forgot.” I entered quickly and shut the door behind me.

“What do you want?” she said. And then inspecting my enfeebled state, asked, “What the fuck happened to you?”

“I slipped while breakdancing,” I replied. “What happened to Miguel?”

“I think that he was ripping off money. All I know is that there were a bunch of police cars and they closed the theater yesterday and apparently fired everyone. They even requested a new projectionist, but the union stood behind me all the way. I’m surprised they didn’t fire you.” Poor Miguel, was all I could think.

“You didn’t turn him in did you?” she asked me.

“Of course not.”

“Then why didn’t they fire you?”

“They’re probably going to soon. I think they just want me to break in the new managers.”

“Why then did you have to ask me what happened to Miguel?”

“I wasn’t here yesterday—you were. I just said that they asked me to break this new guy in.”

“It’s all a damned shame. See what happens when you don’t have a union to protect you? By the way, be sure to fill them in on the union contract and my rights in dealing with them.”

“It’s already done. Listen, I’m a little busy right now and I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Like what?”

“They’re waiting for a report on the condition of the roof.”

“Oh, they’ve finally got around to wanting to fix that, and you’re probably going to take all the credit.”

“What credit?”

“I was the one that told you that roof was leaking. That’s what credit.”

“Calm down. I mentioned you in my preliminary report.” As I started climbing up the metal ladder, she kept hollering things up to me. While I undid the binding ropes and pushed the hatch free, I heard her nagging about the new manager looking like a repressed homophobe. What the hell did she want me to do, convert him? Despite my pains, I scrambled up and got beyond hearing distance. I wasn’t sure if eccentric people became projectionists or if the job made them that way. I supposed long hours in closed quarters would effect anybody. Looking out the front of the theater, under the flapping “Zeus” flag, I saw a cop car double parked. Next to it, another car pulled up and a fat little guy plopped out. It was Ox. Then the passenger door opened and a slim young male figure got out. He looked just like Miguel. Both of them quickly went into the theater. What the fuck was Miguel doing down there? He was supposed to be in jail.

Quickly I limped around old tar cans and other debris toward the back of the building. I slowly worked my way down the rusty, rickety fire escape. It ended in the pitch blackness of some alley. I tossed down my cane. It took too long to hit bottom; I estimated a drop of about eight feet. Stretching myself from the bottom rung, I released and hit the ground on all fours. I painfully started to move. The fall awakened pains that had been napping. I picked up my cane and slapped it against the ground like a blind man. Following the alley to a large cyclone fence, I realized that the street was over this wiry hindrance.

I tossed my cane over the fence and then started up painfully. The wire dug deep into my skin and when I got to the top I felt a tiny stab. The top was meshed with barbed wire.

Slowly working my way through the darkness, I went as far as I could go before having to commit blood. Grabbing onto barbed wire and cutting yourself wasn’t easy. It was one of those things that you simply couldn’t order yourself to do, like trying to hold your breath unto death. So I just hung there and made a bunch of false starts, until I heard those walkie talkies in the distance. That meant that the cops had combed through the theater and finally bumped into the obnoxious projectionist, who probably demanded to know, “What the hell is going on? This goes against all union rules.” And finally someone filled her in and she explained that the culprit was on the roof. In two minutes they would be here on this cyclone fence.

Pain upon pain, gash into scars into bruise through cloth and flesh. And then came the hope and then the chance and with strength, will, fear, anger—all I could muster—despite the barbs hooking into just-sealed scabs, I shoved everything into that puncture of a chance. I heard the sound of feet scampering down the fire escape so I dropped hard over the fence to the street. I grabbed my cane lying next to me and started limp/hop/running over to Fourth Avenue where I hailed a God-sent cab and was delivered.

“Where to?”the cabbie asked after I sat silently as he drove for a couple blocks.

“Just away,” I replied quietly.

“But where?” the cabbie asked. The cab whizzed up Fourth Avenue until it turned into Park Avenue South.

“Thirty-eighth and Broadway.” I randomly picked the coordinates so at least the cab had somewhere to go. But where was I going to go? What was left? When I realized that three dollars and fourteen cents were left, I had the cabbie stop when the red digits on the meter came to two eighty-five and gave him all my money. I got off at Thirty-first and Madison.

All I had was a cane and a worthless piece of paper declaring that I owned one third of a theater in Hoboken. My entire life was one ridiculous mirage after another, and after all these surefire plans of success sitting on the back burner, all I could do was rip that fucking paper to tiny bits. I limped along those streets, cold and depressed, my clothes shredded, with paranoia setting in like rigor mortis. Did Miguel get out of the car with the Ox? If so, why?

While backtracking to remember how I happened to remember to call Miguel, I realized it was due to the Harrington party. By elimination, it was the last place to go. So I limped over to a public phone and called information and got the locale. The office was on Twenty-third and Third Avenue.

By the time I limped over there it was ten o’clock, early for a Friday night party. I felt increasingly depressed with each limp. What was I going to do after the party? Where was I going to go? The offices were located in a renovated brownstone across from the School of Visual Arts and they must have been banking on some big bucks, because they hired an adorable little door/valet girl who for a single instant let me forget all my woes. She had an adolescent face and a body in full bloom, a unique distortion of perfection. She sat on a fold-out chair reading Lolita with a bored expression, just waiting to be devoured. My heart swelled to its bloody capacity as I got closer. But when filthy and broken old me finally hobbled up she scowled. Still holding the book she asked, “What do you want?”

“I’m a contributor.”

“Bullshit.”

I held my cane hard. There was only love at first sight, beyond that disillusion, pain, and death. I told her my name and she looked on the list, but couldn’t find it. Then I told her Miguel’s name, since Owensfield gave him the invitation, and apparently she located it.