Self-Service
Glen Pourciau

Out of the hotel room, early evening, headed to a movie, wife too tired to come, didn’t want to thrash around a strange city looking for a movie theater, all day in the rent car, trouble getting the windshield wipers to work, trouble getting the fan to work, wrong turn here, wrong turn there, she’d rather have a nap. Street long and narrow and windy, high walls of concrete and brick on both sides, wind blowing grit in my face and teeth. The street seems to narrow ahead, the walls lean in, my chest tight, breath short, lower my head and keep walking into the wind, glancing up to see if the corner’s coming up, right turn not yet visible. Press ahead, socks sweaty, toes bumping the ends of my shoes, leaning forward, coughing, licking my teeth to unseal the grit, turning my head and spitting it out. No one else on the street, few doors or windows, the block goes on and on, but it does come to an end, it cannot stretch to infinity, corner up ahead, breath coming easier at the turn, see the theater. No ticket booth outside, enter the theater, guy inside wearing a navy blazer and a tie, tells me the tickets are self-service, keep going around the corner, machine on the wall of the building. No way to buy a ticket inside? Self-sufficiency, he says and gives me a wink, hallmark of maturity and adulthood. Back outside, find my way, another right turn, machine on the wall, short line, check my wallet, all of us shrinking into ourselves, trying to hide from the wind. Front of the line, instructions on the machine, press the button labeled with the name of your movie. It wants eight dollars, but no five or ones in my wallet, not even a ten, the machine doesn’t want my crisp twenty, line building up behind me, bill goes part way in, then back out. Guy behind me pushes a button on the machine, says try again. The machine takes the twenty, kicks out change in quarters, jackpot, scoop up all the quarters, shove them in my pockets, hands moving fast, almost forget the ticket dangling in my face. Grab the ticket, go back to the door, quarters jangling on both sides. Guy in a T-shirt stands between two ropes and tears tickets, logo of the theater across his chest, sends me off to the right, the Pocket Cinema screen, he says, theater B59. A sign hanging overhead from two wires says B59 and an arrow to the right, away from the theaters ahead of me where people are entering. Must be the right way, sign says so, directions from the staff, but no entrance to B59 in view. Keep going, it’s here somewhere, smell of old carpet overwhelms the smell of popcorn. Down the hallway, dead end, turn left, only way to go, woman at an information desk, fresh lipstick around her smile, takes a look at the ticket, directs me ahead. Onward, she says, her smile getting bigger. This hallway darker, poor lighting, lower ceiling, storefronts, variety of music coming from the different stores, chaos of sound. People going into stores, others coming out, carrying shopping bags, dragging their feet, no signs over the doorways of some stores. Fork in the road, right, left, or straight ahead? A woman steps out of a store, my mouth opens to ask her directions, but someone inside the store calls her name and she turns around and goes back in. Increasing darkness ahead, dead end to the left, right seems best, but nothing that says B59 appears. No suite numbers on the doors, but have a little faith, look for people with popcorn and cups with plastic covers and straws poking out of them. Another intersection comes up, four directions to choose from, including reversing course. To the right a wall that blocks passage, a closed door in the middle of it, young people huddled in front of the wall and up both sides, chatting with one another, some wearing earphones. Are they waiting for someone to come through the door? To the left more shops but a narrower hallway, stay straight, more light, more people, eye out for B59, still holding my ticket stub. Guy in a uniform, security guard maybe, two-way radio in hand, go toward him, he looks at the ticket stub, shakes his head, asks somebody on the other end of his radio if the name of the theater sounds familiar, but no, never heard of it. Press on, eyes wide open, getting more crowded, entering an open area, a mall, high ceiling, stairs and escalators down, food court. Someone at a distance looks familiar, his face catches my eye through a group of people. He’s moving away from me, go in the direction of the face, a connection to something, someone to talk to, someone who might know something about which way to head, hard to find my way back without directions, orientation needed, sweat in my hairline, prickly sensation in my legs and chest. The head appears again in a gap between the shoppers, not getting any nearer, wondering who it is, then it hits me, but it can’t be my father, dead for almost thirty years, before my ninth birthday, distant memory of his face, the man is too young, too tall, no reason to stay on the trail of a stranger, forget about it, give it up, confusion tangling my mind. Get directions, go in a store, a jewelry store right here, a man wearing a tie stands behind a glass display case, show him the ticket stub. He blows air out of his mouth, stretches his left arm out to the left. Way back that way, he says, a maze, couldn’t even draw you a picture. Thank him, take the stub, put it in my pocket, forget the movie, too late for it, try to retrace, go back by the same route, some sense of familiarity at first, but soon unsure which way to turn, wandering into cul-de-sacs, give up on the idea of finding my way back, return to the mall and look for an exit to the street. The noise ahead leads me, the mall appears, walk straight to the end of the finger in the mall that will lead me outside, weave through the people, glass doors ahead. Relieved to grip the door handle, dark outside now, but what’s next, back to the hotel or back to the theater for a refund? Back to the theater, don’t want to waste the money, they should hear that their signs are inadequate, but which way, right or left, what’s the difference? Right turn, chosen at random, keep moving, walk around the block if that’s what it takes, another right at the corner, familiar street, same long block as before, is it worth it? A cab passes, moment of weakness, hail the cab, it screeches to a halt, run to the window, tell him the name of the hotel. No way, he says, already rolling, not worth my time, you can walk it, he speeds away. Self-service is my comment to the back of his cab, the sound of his engine drowning me out. But better not to pay the cab and lose the price of the ticket, get a grip, continue down the long block, narrowing shadows in the distance, good place to get robbed, walk faster, coins weighing me down, making racket. Chest tightening as a gust of wind slams into me and knocks me back, corner must be where it was before, repeat it to myself, no point in turning back, sooner the better, speed up the pace. Stomach roaring with hunger, socks stuck to the bottoms of my feet, reach the corner, take the turn, there it is, pull the door open, guy with the blazer and tie still standing inside, same spot, sees me coming toward him. Take the ticket stub from my pocket, show it to him, tell him my story. Sorry, sorry, he says, we canceled the movie, our Pocket Cinema feature, locked the door, removed the easel and sign from the hallway, unusual, disappointing, not enough tickets sold to make it feasible to run, less than a handful of you, thought we caught everybody, strange filmmaker, lived alone in a cave for a year. What about putting up some better signs, what about a refund? He takes a special hole puncher from his pocket, holds the corner of my ticket, hole puncher leaves a pattern of tiny holes through it. Refunds are self-service, he says, around the corner where you bought your ticket, refund button on the side of the machine, insert the ticket stub, machine reads the holes. What if it fails? Bring it back in for a second punch, he says. Nod at that, but another question comes to mind. Do you have a reverse change machine? What’s that? he asks me. Put twenty dollars worth of quarters into it and it gives you a twenty-dollar bill back. Never heard of a reverse change machine, he says, worth keeping in mind. Outside again, wind meets me, no one in line at the ticket machine, refund button on side, press it, insert ticket stub in the slot, eight dollars in quarters drop down, put half in the right pocket, half in the left, pockets bulging, quarters pressing against my legs, start back to the hotel.

© 2008 Glen Pourciau