It was hot, heavy work, but, stripped down to a clammy tanktop (in which she cut quite a sexy figure), she was going about it with complete self-assurance. âMay I help?â I asked.
She refused. âIf that son of a bitch knows you can run these fucking machines, heâll never show up. Goddamit! Itâs
his
job.â I was assigned to the ticket counter and espresso machine.
Though Clare chewed him out royally when he returned, Sharkeyâs erratic absences continued, culminating in a week-long disappearance. We later discovered heâd spent the time in a Tijuana jail, charged with drunk and disorderly conduct. Clare had no choice but to hire a replacement; that was costly. The price of a union-scale projectionist could wipe out a weekâs worth of the theaterâs earnings. After that, she decided it was time for me to learn the projectors, even though she knew that once Sharkey had trained me, he would feel even more license to goof off. As eagerly as I looked forward to assisting Sharkey, I was troubled by one unresolved issue that lay between us. I had, after all, taken his woman from him ⦠or at least that was the self-congratulatory slant I privately placed upon things. A man like Sharkey was bound to be hurting over that. Should I apologize ⦠make excuses to save his pride? I neednât have worried. Without being asked, Sharkey put the matter to rest on our first night in the booth.
âListen, pal, I want to thank you for helping me out with Clare.âHe dropped the remark as he pulled on the frayed undershirt that served as his official projectionistâs uniform. As far as I can recall, this miserable little rag, sweated yellow front and back, was never sent out to be washed. âIâve been hoping somebody would take the old girl off my hands for a while.â
âOh?â I said, shaping the vowel to mean
is that what Iâm doing, helping you out?
And âOh?â again, meaning
for a while?
Sharkey, assiduously polishing the projectors, failed to hear the implied questions.
âSeems like what our Miss Swann needs is something more on the effete side, you know? Lots more sex in the head. Youâre just the man for the job. See, the woman just never did know how to be an animal. God knows Iâve tried to warm her up. But itâs like trying to move a glacier with your bare hands. Myself, Iâm strictly a steak and potatoes man. And you can hold the potatoes, serve the meat raw. Now, Clare ⦠like youâve probably noticed, sheâs happy just to read the menu.â
Iâd noticed nothing of the sort. If anything, I found Clareâs sexual appetite voracious, and her erotic imagination nearly overwhelming. But if that was the way Sharkey preferred to see it â¦
I remember distinctly the impression I carried away from that first lesson on the machines. Now that I was to lay hands on them in earnest, I realized what strange instruments they were. The picture out front on the screen that evening was Cocteauâs
Beauty and the Beast,
a gossamer-fine fairy tale that came as close as any film ever has to capturing true magic. But here inside the dark, tiny hotbox at the rear of the theater was a brace of wheezing, rasping, thirty-five-millimeter projectors with no more magic to them than a couple of broken coffee grinders. And there was Sharkey, sweating over his task like some frenzied demon toiling in the bowels of hell, muttering away, pleading with these rattletrap monsters to please be on their best behavior. How could the delicately wrought elegance of such a movie emerge from these infernal contraptions? In the sweltering booth the machines, which broke down regularly, snagging and singeing the film, seemed at war with the hapless movie that was forced to run the risky gauntlet of their pitiless gears and wheels. From their menacing look and sound, the projectors might almost be intent on devouring the fragile artistry
She refused. âIf that son of a bitch knows you can run these fucking machines, heâll never show up. Goddamit! Itâs
his
job.â I was assigned to the ticket counter and espresso machine.
Though Clare chewed him out royally when he returned, Sharkeyâs erratic absences continued, culminating in a week-long disappearance. We later discovered heâd spent the time in a Tijuana jail, charged with drunk and disorderly conduct. Clare had no choice but to hire a replacement; that was costly. The price of a union-scale projectionist could wipe out a weekâs worth of the theaterâs earnings. After that, she decided it was time for me to learn the projectors, even though she knew that once Sharkey had trained me, he would feel even more license to goof off. As eagerly as I looked forward to assisting Sharkey, I was troubled by one unresolved issue that lay between us. I had, after all, taken his woman from him ⦠or at least that was the self-congratulatory slant I privately placed upon things. A man like Sharkey was bound to be hurting over that. Should I apologize ⦠make excuses to save his pride? I neednât have worried. Without being asked, Sharkey put the matter to rest on our first night in the booth.
âListen, pal, I want to thank you for helping me out with Clare.âHe dropped the remark as he pulled on the frayed undershirt that served as his official projectionistâs uniform. As far as I can recall, this miserable little rag, sweated yellow front and back, was never sent out to be washed. âIâve been hoping somebody would take the old girl off my hands for a while.â
âOh?â I said, shaping the vowel to mean
is that what Iâm doing, helping you out?
And âOh?â again, meaning
for a while?
Sharkey, assiduously polishing the projectors, failed to hear the implied questions.
âSeems like what our Miss Swann needs is something more on the effete side, you know? Lots more sex in the head. Youâre just the man for the job. See, the woman just never did know how to be an animal. God knows Iâve tried to warm her up. But itâs like trying to move a glacier with your bare hands. Myself, Iâm strictly a steak and potatoes man. And you can hold the potatoes, serve the meat raw. Now, Clare ⦠like youâve probably noticed, sheâs happy just to read the menu.â
Iâd noticed nothing of the sort. If anything, I found Clareâs sexual appetite voracious, and her erotic imagination nearly overwhelming. But if that was the way Sharkey preferred to see it â¦
I remember distinctly the impression I carried away from that first lesson on the machines. Now that I was to lay hands on them in earnest, I realized what strange instruments they were. The picture out front on the screen that evening was Cocteauâs
Beauty and the Beast,
a gossamer-fine fairy tale that came as close as any film ever has to capturing true magic. But here inside the dark, tiny hotbox at the rear of the theater was a brace of wheezing, rasping, thirty-five-millimeter projectors with no more magic to them than a couple of broken coffee grinders. And there was Sharkey, sweating over his task like some frenzied demon toiling in the bowels of hell, muttering away, pleading with these rattletrap monsters to please be on their best behavior. How could the delicately wrought elegance of such a movie emerge from these infernal contraptions? In the sweltering booth the machines, which broke down regularly, snagging and singeing the film, seemed at war with the hapless movie that was forced to run the risky gauntlet of their pitiless gears and wheels. From their menacing look and sound, the projectors might almost be intent on devouring the fragile artistry
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