Like most drive-ins this place only shows double-features which is just fine by me and it pipes the audio through a short-wave radio station so my truck gets something like surround sound. I picked up a 6-pack of cheap beer and some sandwiches to smuggle in and I bought popcorn and soda from the snack bar to keep the place in business. The first movie is a pretty colorful kid’s flick that I get engrossed in. The fairy fern curls around the popcorn I drop into its aquarium and together we have a gay old time and get a little too drunk.
I’m re-upping on popcorn during the intermission and just a little off-balance when I think I hear some leading chatter in the corner between two of the young-adult stooges that waved me in. They’re talking running-times and clean-up, figuring in post-credit scenes and bottle-necking as everybody packs up and heads out on the dark highway toward home. They’re talking lateness, really, which, to me, is like the ‘darkness’ of time. Late words about some late event still to come. I skip the butter and head back to the truck, sober and distracted.
‘Friendly reader, do not let the owner of this establishment intimidate you. The movies will be over, the families will have gone, and you will be left alone in the lot while the man’s voice leaks from your radio, saying anything that might make you leave. Do not accept his gifts, do not budge, reader, and do not fret. The man is not real, but the third feature very much is.’
This is undoubtedly a strange entry in the book. It’s much more detailed than normal, for instance, much more instructional in the way a travel guide is usually supposed to be. It also takes the tone of an annoyingly knowing college bro, a guy that’s been a year out of high school and thinks he knows the ins and outs of the world. Day by day I grow more embarrassed at my potential authorship.
“Hey there movie fans…” a man’s nasal voice cuts into the previously inoffensive background music on my radio, “We’ve got just five more minutes of intermission so get on down to that snack bar and pick up some nosh. The snack bar will be closing after intermission, don’t miss your chance!”
If that’s the guy Shitholes is talking about I’m thinking I can stand my ground but as the intermission ends and the movie rolls I feel a tension building in my stomach where the alcohol has previously kept things chill. I don’t mind wandering back alleys or dense brush in the dark but I’m not really a guy that likes confrontation with other people. My time on the road has only made me worse in that regard, awkward pauses infest my recent conversations like termites. Even my drive-in orders come out in stutters sometimes, which makes life hard for me in a way that’s pathetic and niche.
Under the guise of a restroom break I stake the place out, poking my head into the snack bar windows, checking the tall tin fences that border the place off, even using an old pair of binoculars to peek into the projection booth. If I had to guess based on this alone I’d say the whole enterprise is run by six kids, all between the ages of fifteen and twenty. Ominously, perhaps, but keeping with the narrative, the man with the nasal voice doesn’t seem to be around at all.
The drive-in doesn’t have any obvious secrets except that it’s a real junky if you look around at any of the details. Like most drive-ins I’ve been to this place teeters on the edge of financial ruin, storing old rusted metal to be worked in the fence when it needs repairs, paying minimum wage to the few movie-buffs that emerge from the local high school.
“What are you doing back here, man?”
Goddamn I’m drunker than I thought, pretending like no one would hear me tripping over garbage in the back. The kid who comes round the corner is the same that handed me popcorn half an hour ago. Now he’s got a box in his hand and now he’s tucking the thing under his arm. It’s not suspicious gesture, per se, but I’m a suspicious person in a suspicious place. And goddamn I’m drunk.
“What’s in that box you’re carrying?” I ask and suddenly he goes defensive.
“Supplies.”
“What kind of supplies? Movie theater supplies?”
“Yeah.”
“Rolls of film?”
“We’re digital, man, this is the 21st century.”
“What, then? What goes into movie theater supplies?”
“A hammer.”
“A box of hammers?” I’ve pushed it too far, he pushes back.
“Get back to the movie or I’m calling the other guys,” he says, holding the box in two hands again.
“Fine,” I tell him, and by way of covering my tracks, “Just looking for the toilet.”
He doesn’t let me out of his sight until I’m well across the lot, staring up at the giant faces moving wordlessly across the screen in front of me. I step back into the truck, resigned to playing this out by the book. When the movie ends and people begin to leave, I turn the radio on and remain where I am.
“Thanks again for coming, folks,” the man’s voice drones on, “Remember to keep left while you’re leaving and drive safe. We’ve got some jumper cables up front in case you need’em, ask a friendly neighbor to get you going again. We’ve got another double-feature for you next week…”
Somebody taps on my window, asks if I need a jump. I tell them I’m just letting the crowd pass before I get going, no hurry. As the rest of the cars file away it’s a good ten or fifteen minutes before my truck stands out as conspicuously immobile. The screen is dark by then and the radio has gone back to playing music. I get a second jump offer and then nothing until:
“Looks like we got a straggler out there,” the man’s voice cuts through the music, “Did somebody fall asleep? Heh, heh, heh.”
The chuckling seems forced.
“Anyway, just a reminder that we’re closin’ up for the night. You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here. Heh he-”
The music starts abruptly again, cutting off the man’s laughter. It seems shriller now, definitely louder so I turn the volume down and wait for someone from the front to come wake me. The lot empties entirely, though, and the place is quiet and still.
“Hello out there to the owner of the blue pick-up!” the voice says, loud but still in the spirit of a cheerful man, “We’d all like to go home ourselves, you know! Heh, heh.”
The music does not return.
“Wakey-wakey,” the voice pries.
A moment passes.
“Would the owner of the blue pick-up signal if they are able to hear us?”
I think for a second and flip through Shitholes. There’s nothing in the book about responding to this guy so I flick my lights. If it means we cut through this horseshit then…
“The owner of the blue pick-up needs to vacate the lot immediately,” the voice says, “We’re not interested in pranks and we don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”
I hold my hand out with a piece of popcorn and watch as a loose tendril of the fairy fern cautiously curls around it. It startles easy, though. A heavy breath is all it takes to set us back…
Suddenly the cab of my truck is flooded with light from the projection booth. I cover my eyes and try to squint some sort of explanation out of the new circumstances. There’s a pricking on my palm where the fairy fern has stealthily embedded itself. I pull it out and stuff the plant back into the aquarium. My knees feel tense and I wish there was room to stretch them. I hate confrontation.
“A few movie theater employees have been dispatched to make sure you’re all right, owner of the blue pick-up. If you do not vacate the premises in the next five minutes we will be forced to call the police.”
Damn. I’ve done a lot of trespassing, gotten involved in a lot of questionable activities in my life but I’ve never had more than a brief run-in with the law. My legs feel like they’re buzzing. My shoulders hurt. The light from the projection booth makes it all but impossible to see how many people are coming to kick me out. I lock the doors. I hold Shitholes to my chest.
“Do not budge…”
Several more minutes pass but nobody approaches the truck.
“Owner of the blue pick-up,” the voice says again, “The police have been called they will be here shortly.”
Nothing.
“Owner of the blue pick-up,” the voice whispers.
I turn up the volume.
“Owner of the blue pick-up, it’s not safe for you here. Nobody has called the police, there are fates far worse than the police in store for those who remain. Please leave, owner of the blue pick-up.”
The light from the projection room goes dark as quickly as it came on. I blink, willing away the spots in my eyes. The lot is still empty.
“All right, owner of the blue pick-up. We’ve placed what you came for in the back. Now please, leave us alone.”
There’s a box in the back of the truck. It looks a lot like what the kid was carrying before. It looks like somebody has taped a note to the top and the paper flutters about in the gentle breeze. Suddenly the cab of the truck feels stifling. I reach for a window, see the lock, and reconsider. The radio spews forth a loaded, waiting static.
“You fucker,” the voice on the radio is hissing now but it crawls to a low sneer, “You leave us the fuck alone you monster! Do you know how many shit-smelling grifters I have to deal with on a weekly basis? You think it’s funny or noble to sit in the middle of the business that my family built from the ground? The business that I keep afloat by kissing-ass and begging money from the hardworking folk who come here just to enjoy the latest movie? Have you ever cleaned a popcorn machine? Have you cleaned a fucking thing in your life? GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LOT!”
The wind pulls the note from the box and it tumbles into the darkness. What did it say?
“You don’t want the box, then?” the voice says, “Owner of the blue pick-up, blink your lights if you don’t want the box.”
Fuck, that box is tempting. I flick my lights.
“You don’t want the box,” the voice says before the lights have even faded.
I wait a second and then flick them again in agreement.
“No, owner of the blue pick-up, I understand. You don’t want the box.”
I stare out the back window at the box, willing it closer.
“Tell you what, owner of the blue pick-up. I’ll send someone out to collect the box, but I need to be sure you’re not going to hurt them. It’s dark out there, after all, and this could be a way that we form a sort of understanding. If you would, owner of the blue pick-up, just turn on your interior light so that I can see you, and then cover your eyes so that I know you won’t hurt my employee, I would be appreciative.”
That seems like a terrifying prospect to me. I look over the dash for something that would best communicate skeptical hesitation and settle on the emergency lights.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, owner of the blue pick-up,” the voice says, “If you wanted, you could just drive on out of here.”
The radio goes quiet for a moment before continuing.
“Right, then. Let’s just go step by step. There’s no harm in you turning the interior light on, right?”
There really isn’t, as far as I can tell. I turn off the emergencies and switch on the interior light. It’s difficult, now, to see even a few feet outside of my truck.
“All right, handsome,” the voice says, “Heh, heh, heh. Let’s see you cover your eyes. The box will be gone and you won’t have to worry about that.”
The lot is still completely empty, the buildings behind me quiet. I listen closely, in case there’s someone under the truck. I look carefully along all sides. I sit back and the voice asks:
“Ready?”
I bring my hands to my eyes, carefully watching the box through imperceptible gaps in my fingers. Nothing happens.
“CLOSE YOUR GODDAMN EYES!” the voice screams and then it keeps on screaming like a man burning alive, screaming and screaming until the windows in the truck rattle with screams.
I reach around to crank down the volume and after a moment I hear the voice again, barely a mutter. I cautiously turn it up again.
“That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
The box has gone from the truck. I turn off the interior light.
“No hard feelings, I’m sure,” the voice says, “Heh, heh, heh.”
It’s nearly three in the morning now and I’m tired. Tired generally and tired of all this. I yawn and try to keep a vigilant eye on my surroundings during the long silence that follows. The radio is thick static now. The volume of the static rises slowly until it lingers just below a level that would be unbearable. Then it cuts out entirely, casting me into true silence.
The projector starts up again, aiming back at the screen now. It’s off-center and the frame shakes and jolts as the operator moves it back into position. A low chord plays over the radio, so deep that it rattles the cheap factory bass of my truck’s sound system. I compulsively eat a handful of popcorn.
Music plays and a film begins. Silent. Black and white. It follows the trials of a 20’s flapper who descends into a life of ‘degeneracy.’ Drugs, dancing, alcohol. I look at the empty beer bottles on the floor of the truck. The flapper hits rock bottom, finds religion, redeems herself. She lives to an old age and dies surrounded by her family. The screen fades to black and the music peters out. I look around the lot and assume it’s over.
Then that low chord again. The screen comes alive with vivid, twisting colors. The flapper’s in hell, tormented by demons. The scenes are intricate and gruesome, the production incredible for something as old as it is. Every 10 seconds or so a screen flashes to explain the noises you would be hearing if that sort of technology was viable at the time. It only ever says ‘Woman screaming.’
The film ends abruptly, a fraction of a way through a scene. Then nothing. I yawn and turn the key in the ignition, feeling like I’ve had my fill. Nothing happens.
Dead battery.
-traveler