The phone rings in the office. Gerald listens for a moment, then offers it up to Shine.
"Hello."
"Mr. Shine?"
"Yes."
"This is Arnold Marchand of Picoso Productions? We've been informed that your theater operation is undergoing a change of policy, and we'd like to give you the chance to look over our line and see if we can do some business."
"I'm not in business anymore."
"This is Mr. Shine, isn't it?"
"Yes, but — "
"It won't be any trouble, we'll just bring down a few samples of the product for a screening. You know, trailers of the best scenes cut together — "
"I don't think you — "
"Some of our double bills have been getting very heavy traffic in your area. Did you catch Teenage Temptress and Evita at the State-Ex?"
"No."
"Ours. Played five weeks, house record. Area's been saturated with those two of course, but there's plenty more where — "
"I'm not connected with booking anymore. You'll have to speak with Mr. Pincus."
"We can supply all the promotion ourselves, it's written into the rental. Whatsay we set up a meeting Saturday, fourthirty, maybe five?"
"Talk to Pincus."
"We've got the full range, hard-core right down to Russ Meyer and the cuntless wonders, we — "
Shine hangs up. "Trash," he says to Gerald. "He's buying trash."
"So what do you call this stuff?" Gerald nods to the bundle of posters. "Art? It's pornography of the spirit, Hollywood propaganda, fluff. Different brand of trash, that's all." He returns to his book.
The phone rings again. Shine grits his teeth and lifts it. "Talk to Pincus."
"Pardon?" It is a new voice.
"Oh. Sorry. What can I do for you?"
"When are you going to have the wizard again?"
"The wizard?"
"Of Oz. When are you going to have it again?"
"I don't know," says Shine, "but I wouldn't hold my breath."
Bogart gains the upper hand and wounds Tim Holt, leaving him for dead in the brush. He tries to handle all the burros and gold himself. Not far from safety, he runs into Gold, Hat and two other banditos. The two try on his hat and measure his boots as he tries to bluff them into thinking help is on its way. Gold Hat cuts him down with a machete, and not knowing unrefined gold dust from sand, slashes the bags open, leaves them lying on the desert floor and scrambles after the burros. A wind begins to pick up.
Meanwhile, Holt has been found by Indians and brought to the old man. His wounds are treated and they mount up to search for Bogart.
The phone rings again. Gerald leaves to find a spot where he can read in peace till the six-o'clock showing. "Crosscutting," he mumbles at the door.
Shine answers. "No," he says. "Top Hat won't be playing tomorrow. Did you try the University? Right, bye now."
Shine puts the cans of film under his arm and goes to the lobby. The rain is heavier outside, boiling on the pavement and glass. He walks into the theater and stands at the head of the aisle. The desert wind is roaring now, Holt and the old man barely visible through the blasted sand. Shine stands with the rainstorm behind him and the dust-blow before and lets out a long, shuddering sigh. The old man and Holt find the split bags, empty now, and squat behind a crumbling adobe wall for shelter. The fortune they work months to mine and risk their lives for has blown away. Shine is shivering now and the old man begins to laugh — loud, desperate to-keep-from-crying laughter that Holt joins in, the laugh of men who have reached bottom and found it bearable. Shine is warmed for a moment, their laughter drowning out wind and rain alike, but then the movie is over and old Pudge brings the lights up before the credits are finished. There is a long, blinking silence, the audience surprised it is ended. The world is in color now, washed-out color, tufts of yellow ish stuffing peek from split seat cushions, rips and seams are visible on the mottled-white screen. The people rise like roughly wakened sleepers, rubbing eyes and buckling coats, and file past Shine into the lobby. He sees a stationary head left near the front and walks up to it. It is the old tweed-lady, asleep, smiling slightly. He leaves her to rest.
In the lobby he finds them all stalled before the storm. They wriggle in their coats and stomp their feet for warmth, psyching up, they take turns pressing noses against the glass to check the downpour. No one looks eager to leave, they glance back nervously at Shine, read the wall posters, adjust clothing. No one wants to open the door and let it in.
"Listen," Shine calls to them, "would you like to stay and see a musical? On the Town. For free?"
They turn, smiling uncertainly, and cheat back toward the theater a bit.
"Come on," he says, "it's wet out there." They grin, conspirators with Shine, and file back in.
He tells old Pudge to go home and that the union can fuck itself, if he wants to run it himself he will. He has trouble threading the film, it has been a long time, and twice he curses and almost gives up. But he hears the rain beating outside and thinks of the teenage temptresses, the soft-core quickies that will follow him here and finally all the sprocket holes engage, the leader snakes through the guts of the machine and fastens to the take-up reel. Shine brings down the lights and the audience grows quiet. The title appears blurred at first, as if seen through a film of tears, and Shine is a technician for a moment longer, adjusting till it is sharp. There is an applause of recognition. Shine turns out all but the pilot light in the booth and waits as the clatter of the machine fades from his mind, taking the rainstorm with it. He flows onto the shaft of dancing light and is carried forward to safety, to the bright, warm colors, into the pulse and flicker of life.
I-80 Nebraska, m.490-m.205
HIS IS THAT ALABAMA REBEL, this is that Alabama I Rebel, do I have a copy?"
"Ahh, 10-4 on that, Alabama Rebel."
"This is that Alabama Rebel westbound on 8o, ah, what's your handle, buddy, and where you comin from?"
"This is that, ah, Toby Trucker, eastbound for that big 0 town, round about the 44'5 marker."
"I copy you clear, Toby Trucker. How's about that Smokey Bear situation up by that Lincoln town?"
"Ah, you'll have to hold her back a little through there, Alabama Rebel, ah, place is crawling with Smokies like usual. Saw three of em's lights up on the overpass just after the airport there."
"And how bout that Lincoln weigh station, they got those scales open?"
"Ah, negative on that, Alabama Rebel, I went by the lights was off, probably still in business back to that North Platte town."
"They don't get you coming they get you going. How bout that you-know-who, any sign of him tonight? That Ryder P. Moses?"
"Negative on that, thank God. Guy gives me the creeps."
"Did you, ah, ever actually hear him, Toby Trucker?"
"A definite Io-4 on that one, Alabama Rebel, and I'll never forget it. Coming down from that Scottsbluff town three nights ago I copied him. First he says he's northbound, then he says he's southbound, then he's right on my tail singing `The Wabash Cannonball.' Man blew by me outside of that Oshkosh town on 26, must of been going a hundred plus. Little two-lane blacktop and he thinks he's Parnelli Jones at the Firecracker 500."