John Sayles - The Anarchist's Convention and Other Stories

Shine answers. "No," he says. "Top Hat won't be playing tomorrow. Did you try the University? Right, bye now."

Shine puts the cans of film under his arm and goes to the lobby. The rain is heavier outside, boiling on the pavement and glass. He walks into the theater and stands at the head of the aisle. The desert wind is roaring now, Holt and the old man barely visible through the blasted sand. Shine stands with the rainstorm behind him and the dust-blow before and lets out a long, shuddering sigh. The old man and Holt find the split bags, empty now, and squat behind a crumbling adobe wall for shelter. The fortune they work months to mine and risk their lives for has blown away. Shine is shivering now and the old man begins to laugh — loud, desperate to-keep-from-crying laughter that Holt joins in, the laugh of men who have reached bottom and found it bearable. Shine is warmed for a moment, their laughter drowning out wind and rain alike, but then the movie is over and old Pudge brings the lights up before the credits are finished. There is a long, blinking silence, the audience surprised it is ended. The world is in color now, washed-out color, tufts of yellow ish stuffing peek from split seat cushions, rips and seams are visible on the mottled-white screen. The people rise like roughly wakened sleepers, rubbing eyes and buckling coats, and file past Shine into the lobby. He sees a stationary head left near the front and walks up to it. It is the old tweed-lady, asleep, smiling slightly. He leaves her to rest.

In the lobby he finds them all stalled before the storm. They wriggle in their coats and stomp their feet for warmth, psyching up, they take turns pressing noses against the glass to check the downpour. No one looks eager to leave, they glance back nervously at Shine, read the wall posters, adjust clothing. No one wants to open the door and let it in.

"Listen," Shine calls to them, "would you like to stay and see a musical? On the Town. For free?"

They turn, smiling uncertainly, and cheat back toward the theater a bit.

"Come on," he says, "it's wet out there." They grin, conspirators with Shine, and file back in.

He tells old Pudge to go home and that the union can fuck itself, if he wants to run it himself he will. He has trouble threading the film, it has been a long time, and twice he curses and almost gives up. But he hears the rain beating outside and thinks of the teenage temptresses, the soft-core quickies that will follow him here and finally all the sprocket holes engage, the leader snakes through the guts of the machine and fastens to the take-up reel. Shine brings down the lights and the audience grows quiet. The title appears blurred at first, as if seen through a film of tears, and Shine is a technician for a moment longer, adjusting till it is sharp. There is an applause of recognition. Shine turns out all but the pilot light in the booth and waits as the clatter of the machine fades from his mind, taking the rainstorm with it. He flows onto the shaft of dancing light and is carried forward to safety, to the bright, warm colors, into the pulse and flicker of life.

HIS IS THAT ALABAMA REBEL, this is that Alabama I Rebel, do I have a copy?"

"Ahh, 10-4 on that, Alabama Rebel."

"This is that Alabama Rebel westbound on 8o, ah, what's your handle, buddy, and where you comin from?"

"This is that, ah, Toby Trucker, eastbound for that big 0 town, round about the 44'5 marker."

"I copy you clear, Toby Trucker. How's about that Smokey Bear situation up by that Lincoln town?"

"Ah, you'll have to hold her back a little through there, Alabama Rebel, ah, place is crawling with Smokies like usual. Saw three of em's lights up on the overpass just after the airport there."

"And how bout that Lincoln weigh station, they got those scales open?"

"Ah, negative on that, Alabama Rebel, I went by the lights was off, probably still in business back to that North Platte town."

"They don't get you coming they get you going. How bout that you-know-who, any sign of him tonight? That Ryder P. Moses?"

"Negative on that, thank God. Guy gives me the creeps."

"Did you, ah, ever actually hear him, Toby Trucker?"

"A definite Io-4 on that one, Alabama Rebel, and I'll never forget it. Coming down from that Scottsbluff town three nights ago I copied him. First he says he's northbound, then he says he's southbound, then he's right on my tail singing `The Wabash Cannonball.' Man blew by me outside of that Oshkosh town on 26, must of been going a hundred plus. Little two-lane blacktop and he thinks he's Parnelli Jones at the Firecracker 500."

"You see him? You see what kind of rig he had?"

"A definite shit-no negative on that, I was fighting to keep the road. The man aint human."

"Ah, maybe not, Toby Trucker, maybe not. Never copied him myself, but I talked with a dozen guys who have in the last couple weeks."

"Ahh, maybe you'll catch him tonight."

"Long as he don't catch me."

"Got a point there, Alabama Rebel. Ahhhh, I seem to be losing you here — "

"io-4. Coming up to that Lincoln town, buddy, I thank you kindly for the information and ah, I hope you stay out of trouble in that big 0 town and maybe we'll modulate again some night. This is that Alabama Rebel, over and out."

"This is Toby Trucker, eastbound, night now."

Westbound on 8o is a light-stream, ruby-strung big rigs rolling straight into the heart of Nebraska. Up close they are a river in breakaway flood, bouncing and pitching and yawing, while a mile distant they are slow-oozing lava. To their left is the eastbound stream, up ahead the static glare of Lincoln. Lights. The world in black and white and red, broken only by an occasional blue flasher strobing the ranger hat of a state policeman. Smokey the Bear's campfire. Westbound 8o is an insomniac world of lights passing lights to the music of the Citizens Band.

"This-that Arkansas Traveler, this that Arkansas Traveler, do you copy?"

"How bout that Scorpio Ascending, how bout that Scorpio Ascending, you out there, buddy?"

"This is Chromedome at that 425 marker, who's that circus wagon up ahead? Who's that old boy in the Mrs. Smith's piepusher?"

They own the highway at night, the big rigs, slip-streaming in caravans, hopscotching to take turns making the draft, strutting the thousands of dollars they've paid in road taxes on their back ends. The men feel at home out here, they leave their cross-eyed headlights eating whiteline, forget their oily-aired, kidney-jamming cabs to talk out in the black air, to live on the Band.

"This is Roadrunner, westbound at 420, any you eastbound people fill me in on the Smokies up ahead?"

"Ahh, copy you, Roadrunner, she's been dean all the way from that Grand Island town, so motormotor."

(A moving van accelerates.)

"How bout that Roadrunner, this is Overload up to 424, that you behind me?"

(The van's headlights blink up and down.)

"Well come on up, buddy, let's put the hammer down on this thing."

The voices are nasal and tinny, broken by squawks, something human squeezed through wire. A decade of televised astronauts gives them their style and self-importance.

"Ahh, breaker, Overload, we got us a code blue here. There's a four-wheeler coming up fast behind me, might be a Bear wants to give us some green stamps."

"Breaker break, Roadrunner. Good to have you at the back door. We'll hold her back awhile, let you check out that four-wheeler."

(The big rigs slow and the passenger car pulls alongside of them.)

"Ahh, negative on that Bear, Overload, it's just a civilian. Fella hasn't heard bout that five-five limit."