The Cinema
In the welfare office, the old drunk ones argued with their demons. We had nothing to do with them. Our true loves were the air (we argued with it), and the cinema (where there is no use arguing. You've already lost if you are a regular attendee of the cinema.We'd lost. We made no bones about going to the cinema. We were kind of old fashioned that way. We'd go on a Saturday or a Tuesday, sit backwards and eat juju beans. Then we'd hoist each other up so that our eyes were staring into the eye of the projector. Suddenly we'd be naked, whispering some devilry to each other over the tops of the trees.
That was the way it was until Maurisha got a job. We begged her not to. We begged her to let us take out her knees with a ball peen hammer so she could get on disability. She told us that was not an option. She told us that our options were limited. We believed her. We were naïve. We were fleshy blue babies washing each other's backs in sea foam up and down the coast. It wasn't until years later we realized she had wanted a job all along. When she came home from the unemployment office on Friday she looked pale. It must have been talcum powder. It must have been a ruse. We tried our best to look disinterested while she told us about her job.
"...helping to edit the text," she said.
"Great," we said. We were being sarcastic. "Why don't you stick our names in there. Tell our mom we love her. Give a shout out to Barry."
"I can't," she said. "It would jeopardize my job security."
"Jeopardize," we said. "There's a funny word." Then we dined.
Macaroni from a box. Tea out of powder. Spinach from a can. Over dinner Maurisha bent down to pick macaroni off the carpet and inadvertently revealed a hint of nipple. Then we had wine and she told us, very casually, that the ink yard was hiring. Well, we pretended not to know what she was talking about. Then she said, as an editor, one of the biggest problems she faced was folks letting their metaphors get out of hand. That really hurt. We went upstairs and let the sun set on our anger.) What did the people in the welfare office know about the cinema anyway?
Matthew Kirby lives with his wife in Brooklyn, New York. He is working on a collection of short stories and frequently contributes to the film interpretation journal, Metaphilm.com
