Tim Meyer - The Switch House

A crown of sweat dripped from Rob’s forehead. He felt lightheaded.

“You okay?” Dan asked.

“Fine. Tell me about the print. What happened?”

Dan shrugged. “It was just too… bizarre.”

“Isn’t that why you’d watch it?”

“Listen, kid. When did this turn into an interrogation?” Dan put the reel back in the canister and shut the case. “I just collect the shit, hoping it sells when I retire. Which is next week, by the way. Which means you’re going to be the new lead projectionist. Which means we need to learn your ass.”

“We should watch it.”

Dan’s smile danced off his face. His color paled. “You… really… want to?”

“Yes.” He’d called the old hermit’s bluff. “Yes, let’s watch it.”

“Oh… oh, okay. Tonight then. Midnight. I’ll thread theater one.”

“Perfect.”

He didn’t know why, but midnight couldn’t come fast enough.

The lobby of Orchid 10 was unsurprisingly vacant for a Monday night after the last show had gone in. Rob drifted toward the popcorn stand where the cute new girl stood behind the counter, prepping the popcorn popper for closing. She had already emptied it and was beginning to wipe down the greasy interior.

“Jumping on that a little prematurely, huh, new girl?” Rob asked, leaning on the candy counter.

She twisted her neck, continuing to spray down the stainless steel kettle. Flashing him a superficial smile, she said, “Dude, no one else is coming in.”

The second the words left her mouth, a couple stumbled through the front door, holding hands and giggling. They asked Rob if they were too late, if they had missed any part of the movie. While staring at the new girl, he simply said, “No,” and then proceeded over to the ticket booth.

“And be sure to try our number one combo,” he said loud enough so the new girl could hear, his lips pressed into a devious smile.

The new girl scowled, but when the couple came over to order a number one, she greeted them like the training videos instructed. “Anything else?” she bubbled and they shook their heads “no” and headed for the theater.

“There’s always one,” Rob said, winking at her.

She wriggled her lips and returned to her closing tasks, starting the process from the beginning.

Rob leaned on the counter again, the lower half of his face barely able to contain his grin. “Always one—”

“Cram it, Garland,” she said sharply. She turned to him and pretended to squirt cleaner at him, mimicking the squishy sounds it made when it shot from the nozzle. (pshoo-pshoo). She returned his goofy grin.

The two of them had been playing this little flirty game over the last week, basically since Brianne Welker’s orientation. On her first day, she had told Rob that she had broken it off with her boyfriend and was looking forward to spending the summer before senior year single. He thought that info was a little too much to reveal on her first day, but he didn’t mind; they had shared a strong connection from the second he had laid eyes on her, the second he had opened his mouth. Their first conversation felt like it would never end, be consumed by awkward silences or grow dull. They shared likes and dislikes and discovered they loved the same movies. They spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning theaters, discussing their favorite films, albums they’d require if stranded on a desert island, and which books they’d read over and over again. She was a little too much of a Harry Potter nerd for his tastes, but that was okay; he liked the books too and told her Universal was supposedly opening up a Harry Potter theme park, which she already knew about and claimed she’d be first in line when it opened next fall.

They talked for hours even though their exchange only seemed like minutes. And when the day was over, they continued their conversation via text message.

They next day they were making out in the ice room. Rob had her back pressed against the ice machine. She jumped up on his hips and wrapped her legs around his waist. It was a scene out of every romantic comedy he’d ever seen. They’d spent the next ten minutes swapping saliva until one of the other ushers had barged in. The usher’s face had twisted with alarm and embarrassment, and he’d immediately thrown his arm over his eyes and backed out of the room.

Since then, they had made sure to carve out at least ten minutes of every shift to make kissy-face in the maintenance closet.

“What are you thinking about?” Brianne asked him.

“Nothing?”

Her eyes slimmed. Cocking her head, she said, “You’re thinking about the broom closet again, aren’t you?”

“No…” Rob winked and held the pose. “Okay, I was. Sue me. Wanna go?”

“I have to finish cleaning the popper. Then sweep and mop the stand. You know the routine.”

“Yeah, I sure do.”

“Plus, I was thinking we could do something else. You know, besides making out.”

“Oh?” Rob perked up. His pants suddenly felt a little tighter. Sweat crawled down his inner leg. “Like what, pray tell, did you have in mind?”

Buffing the counter with a clean rag, she shrugged. “I dunno. Dinner? The diner on 37? IHOP? I’ll even let you pay the bill.”

“How gracious of you.” Rob folded his arms. “Got a better idea. Dan just invited me to a movie tonight. A sneak peek.”

Brianne’s brow spiked with interest. “Oh? The new Nolan?”

He shook his head. “No, something a little more obscure.”

She seemed almost disappointed.

“Some foreign film,” Rob said, filling up the napkin dispenser. “It’s French. Aperture , or something. Says it’s supposed to be scary as fuck.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I do like French films. Ever see Chocolat?”

“No. God, no. And I don’t plan on it either.”

“It’s so good. Plus, you know—Johnny Depp and stuff.”

“Terrible.” He slammed the top down on the napkin dispenser and tugged the first one through. “So… you in?”

“I don’t know. Sounds weird. And creepy. And that guy Dan gives me the willies. He should invest in some deodorant.”

“Come on. He’s not so bad.”

“He never comes down from up there. I met him once, my first day. I said ‘hello’ and he grunted something back that wasn’t even English.”

Rob squeaked with laughter. “Yeah, that’s Dan. Man’s a bit of a recluse. He’s harmless. And a good guy once you get to know him. This theater will suffer without him.”

Brianne finished the counter, and then bent over to put the lid back on the candy case. “Fine. We’ll watch your French flick. But can we get food? Fuck, I’m starving.”

Two minutes to midnight and Dan Galloway had finished threading Ouverture. The sensation in his fingers while placing the film on the rollers had been too strong to ignore. They’d gone rigid a few times, especially while he’d fed the film through the brain, the piece stationed in the center of the print that controlled the speed of the platter. Numbness ruled his hands, down to the bone, every nerve shredded. When the tingling sensation abated, a shooting pain took its place and shot up his arm, needling his elbow. Nerves swam like a school of sharks in a feeding frenzy. His brain felt cloudy and empty, like a veil draped over his thoughts, preventing any original content from forming. He got the sense that, if he tried to speak, his words would come out as inarticulate syllables.

When finished, he took a seat next to the projector. He inhaled slowly, heard himself wheeze with each breath. A funny tingle fingered his heart, and he wondered if this was it, if this was the big heart attack that had ended many other Galloways before him.