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Authors: Arthur Nersesian
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downstairs room. The place looked and sounded like a medieval dungeon, with dark stone walls, puddles of water, virtually no lighting, and the moans. There was constant moaning all around. A hand out of the darkness groped my thigh.
“Fuck off!” I yelled.
“Shhhh,” Miguel whispered back. “Occasionally someone might reach out; all you do is simply take their hand and push it away. Not rudely or quickly, everyone here is as human as you are.”
We went back up a staircase to the front of the theater. “Now look here.” He pointed to a burnt-out bulb. “Ow, see that? Ow ow, you should smart when you see that. A bulb is burnt-out and now the theater is in pain. Say ow.”
“Ow. Why?”
“You should be in pain until you replace the bulb. You’re both the nerve system and the lymph node system of the theater.”
“You mean the white blood cells,” I corrected his little metaphor.
“Why not the lymph node?”
“Well, isn’t the lymph node just sweat and pimple pus?”
“So?”
“Well, the white blood cells destroy foreign objects that enter the body Didn’t you see the movie
Fantastic Voyage?”
“I thought the spleen does that.”
“No, the spleen stores blood, and I think the liver cleans it.”
“All right, enough. You’re the spleen, the liver, the white blood cells, the lymph nodes. You’re all of that and anything else you can think of.”
He gave other pointers as we walked back through the dark theater. Looking up at the beam of projected light, I saw something strange. As I walked down the aisle, I noticed the ray from the projection booth was parallel to the seats. Out of an architectural interest, I squatted to inspect the incline of the floor.
“You wouldn’t have a level, would you?”
“Very good,” he replied, and yanking me up to my feet, he quickly put his finger over my lips and murmured, “I’ll explain later.”
“Explain what?” I asked as soon as he closed the office door behind us.
“Did you notice the angle of the screen?”
“No, what’s wrong with it?”
“It’s slanted backward at the top. And all the seats are anchored at such an angle that everyone sitting has to apply a soft but constant thrust to sit back in the seat.
“Doesn’t anyone complain?”
“No”—he grinned—“they just leave. No one can bear it for more than a couple of hours.”
“You can probably get a team of carpenters to fix it,” I replied. “Who fucked up?”
“Fix it? That’s like fixing the Mona Lisa! It’s brilliant.”
“Brilliant?”
“Look, porn theaters aren’t like other theaters. People come to a porn theater and they stay forever. This way they either leave or they suffer.” It was an interesting theory, but who could guess how many patrons never returned because they didn’t care for the back strain?
“Who thought of it?”
“Only one man could come up with something so ingenious, Otto Waldet. Did you ever see the last scene of
Lady from Shanghai?
I Otto built that set for Welles. He was a set designer up until the early fifties, when he was blacklisted. By the early sixties, he started one of the first chains of gayporn theaters. He just died last year.”
“Is that why the projection booth is at that strange angle?”
“Oh no, that’s something entirely different. This theater was initially a nursery school. The projection booth was built between the second and the third floor.”
I was introduced to my staff: a middle-aged box office lady named Rosa and a Cambodian porter named Thi. Miguel finally led me back into his office and had me fill out a W-4 form and then we agreed on a mutually accommodating schedule.
“Why don’t you work with me the rest of this evening so we can get to know each other?”
The evening was almost over anyway, so I decided to stay for the remainder. Opening up a compact refrigerator hidden under the desk, Miguel took out a couple beers and a bag of banana chips. Then he pulled out a small television
“Fuck off!” I yelled.
“Shhhh,” Miguel whispered back. “Occasionally someone might reach out; all you do is simply take their hand and push it away. Not rudely or quickly, everyone here is as human as you are.”
We went back up a staircase to the front of the theater. “Now look here.” He pointed to a burnt-out bulb. “Ow, see that? Ow ow, you should smart when you see that. A bulb is burnt-out and now the theater is in pain. Say ow.”
“Ow. Why?”
“You should be in pain until you replace the bulb. You’re both the nerve system and the lymph node system of the theater.”
“You mean the white blood cells,” I corrected his little metaphor.
“Why not the lymph node?”
“Well, isn’t the lymph node just sweat and pimple pus?”
“So?”
“Well, the white blood cells destroy foreign objects that enter the body Didn’t you see the movie
Fantastic Voyage?”
“I thought the spleen does that.”
“No, the spleen stores blood, and I think the liver cleans it.”
“All right, enough. You’re the spleen, the liver, the white blood cells, the lymph nodes. You’re all of that and anything else you can think of.”
He gave other pointers as we walked back through the dark theater. Looking up at the beam of projected light, I saw something strange. As I walked down the aisle, I noticed the ray from the projection booth was parallel to the seats. Out of an architectural interest, I squatted to inspect the incline of the floor.
“You wouldn’t have a level, would you?”
“Very good,” he replied, and yanking me up to my feet, he quickly put his finger over my lips and murmured, “I’ll explain later.”
“Explain what?” I asked as soon as he closed the office door behind us.
“Did you notice the angle of the screen?”
“No, what’s wrong with it?”
“It’s slanted backward at the top. And all the seats are anchored at such an angle that everyone sitting has to apply a soft but constant thrust to sit back in the seat.
“Doesn’t anyone complain?”
“No”—he grinned—“they just leave. No one can bear it for more than a couple of hours.”
“You can probably get a team of carpenters to fix it,” I replied. “Who fucked up?”
“Fix it? That’s like fixing the Mona Lisa! It’s brilliant.”
“Brilliant?”
“Look, porn theaters aren’t like other theaters. People come to a porn theater and they stay forever. This way they either leave or they suffer.” It was an interesting theory, but who could guess how many patrons never returned because they didn’t care for the back strain?
“Who thought of it?”
“Only one man could come up with something so ingenious, Otto Waldet. Did you ever see the last scene of
Lady from Shanghai?
I Otto built that set for Welles. He was a set designer up until the early fifties, when he was blacklisted. By the early sixties, he started one of the first chains of gayporn theaters. He just died last year.”
“Is that why the projection booth is at that strange angle?”
“Oh no, that’s something entirely different. This theater was initially a nursery school. The projection booth was built between the second and the third floor.”
I was introduced to my staff: a middle-aged box office lady named Rosa and a Cambodian porter named Thi. Miguel finally led me back into his office and had me fill out a W-4 form and then we agreed on a mutually accommodating schedule.
“Why don’t you work with me the rest of this evening so we can get to know each other?”
The evening was almost over anyway, so I decided to stay for the remainder. Opening up a compact refrigerator hidden under the desk, Miguel took out a couple beers and a bag of banana chips. Then he pulled out a small television
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