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Abandoned-By-The-Sea: Part 13
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Posted by tomasi Wed Nov 29, 2006 10:33:58 PST
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As we drove back over the mountain to Bandon, Debbie and I discussed why we had left California. After all, except for a few days in summer, Bakersfield weather isn’t that bad, but I guess when compared to the cool northwest, it hadn’t stood a chance. Oregon, just to say that name brings to mind trees, cranberries, and salmon. It sounds so…oh, I don’t know, refreshing, which was one thing the stale air of the Central Valley lacked. Yes, Oregon had sounded like a paradise, but what we hadn’t expected was to be cut off from family and friends. After all, in that not-too-distant past, there was on P.C. and the internet, so communication was done through letters and occasionally, by phone.

When we pulled up in front of the theater it seemed like any other Bandon afternoon -- a little drizzle and few people out and about. Debbie reached into her purse for the keys Hemmings had given her.

She then turned to me, and said, “We’ll make this work, I promise you.”

Wanting desperately to believe her, I agreed and we walked into the theater. As if on signal, Edgar appeared and began sweeping outside the theater. A rusted Volkswagen, clattering and belching exhaust, pulled up to the sidewalk and disgorged Betty. In a cloud of smoke, she came smiling through the front doors. From beneath the voluminous skirt she extracted a somewhat wilted bouquet of wispy white flowers. When Betty went behind the counter, she rummaged around until coming upon an old coffee can. Once she had filled the can with water, in went the flowers. She then announced proudly, “Queen Anne’s lace. It’s for your first night.”

“Or, last,” I mumbled under my breath, immediately reminded that while flowers are given out of love or to celebrate, they are also a mainstay at funerals. I sensed that those flowers were soon to be put to good use.

As the hour to unlock the doors approached, we became more and more apprehensive.  However, when Dan arrived to work the projectors, he assured us it would be fine.

Just before he opened the door to the stairs, he turned to us and said,  “Don’t let them sense your fear.”

We watched as the door shut behind him. Sensing our anxiety, Betty, who had been popping corn, rushed over and said, “He’s just teasing. Everything’s okay. Oh, look,” she pointed to the clock, “it’s show time!”

Debbie settled herself in the booth then I cautiously opened the front doors. As the Saturday evening crowd surged into the cramped lobby there was heightened tension in the air. Hemmings was conspicuously absent and the Bandonites, like so many savvy hunters, sensed that the prey was weak. With Debbie safely tucked into the ticket booth, it left just me and Betty to man the snack bar. Things went well enough, and although I had expected at least one person to ask about Hemmings, not a single enquiry was made. Did they know already? Of course they did. After all, this was a small town. As we were soon to find out, everyone knew everything about each other.

The show began without a hitch. Betty, flashlight in hand, walked into the darkened auditorium, then joined her friends in their smoky sector. I stood on the opposite side and watched as a Frisbee was thrown from aisle to aisle. Even one person in Betty’s crowd caught the Frisbee and tossed it into the center section. There was a madcap, carnival feeling to the crowd. As I stood there, immobile, I realized that this was Betty’s job. So, I walked back into the lobby, crossed to the other side, and walked down the aisle. I stood next to Betty and asked her to come out to the lobby. Her zany smile made me even more frustrated.

Once there I closed the curtain and turned to the grinning flower child.

“Why don’t you do something?” I demanded.

“Do what?” she asked with a vacant expression.

“Well,” I blurted out, “for starters you could do your job and control the crowd. After all, you’re the one with the flashlight.”

She thought for a minute, then set the flashlight on the counter, “Here, you do it. Besides, my old man has been after me to quit.”

I gaped open mouth as she turned with a swish of her skirt and reentered the auditorium.

“What have I done? What have I done?” I kept asking myself.

Debbie came out of the booth just to see Betty walk away.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

Before I could answer, Dan came stumbling down the stairs, pale and definitely nauseated. He handed me his gloves.

 “Gotta go. Sick,” he managed, “but you can do it.” With that, he hurried out the door into the dark of night.

Accusingly, I turned to Debbie, “Well, Miss I-can-run-a-theater, what do you propose we do now?”

For the very first time since our Oregon adventure began, I saw a cloud of regret cross my wife’s face. “I don’t know,” she offered, then walked back into the ticket booth and shut the door. I was left standing in the lobby holding gloves and now in possession of a flashlight.

 

 

 

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