“Let me ask you something,” I asked. “When you take a drop, you take everything but fifty bucks right?”
“Right, why?” he asked calmly.
“Just getting the facts straight.”
“Well, I just collected all the matinee, so there is now fifty bucks in the till.”
I watched him put the money in an envelope, fill out the front with the present gauge number, and calculate the sum total of the matinee. He then put the envelope into the deposit bag for the nightly deposit.
Something fishy was going on.
The night spun on as quickly as the digits on the gauge. Miguel gave me a few pointers on the porno business. He talked quickly about the illicit side of the trade, specifically the shakedowns and the pirating of porn films. But he elaborated on the nuances of location. Aside from zoning rules that dictated the locations of gay porn theaters, it was each police captain’s private policy in his individual precinct that usually dictated whether sex was permitted in the theater or not.
“For example, Ox had to sell the theater in Queens because a homophobic commander was transferred there, and he had the vice squad staking the theater out regularly,” Miguel explained.
He also mentioned that business had slackened for a couple of weeks the previous fall because the condom dispenser in the lobby was busted and the boys were afraid of contracting AIDS.
“Anybody can do what they want in here but everybody is given a safe sex pamphlet, I make sure of it,” he said proudly, “and nobody wants to die.”
We spent most of the evening drinking beer and talking. We rambled on about our pasts, and to compensate for our lack of experience due to youth, both of us were unintentionally drawn into colorful hyperbole. He told me about his semester at college in Boulder, Colorado. He lived out of a motorless van and had long wavy hair. His favorite recollection, which also seemed to be his vision of the perfect future, was the time he went to the Rainbow Gathering. This was a festival for orthodox hippies who met once a year somewhere in the undisturbed wilderness. For the duration they met, it was like being a hobbit in a carefree world, provided it didn’t rain. I didn’t care to dredge up my drab and depressing past, so I made up a lively yet realistic background.
“I was raised in New York, but I can’t bear dealing with parents anymore.”
“Where did you meet Tanya?” he asked and for a moment my mind was a blank. Then I remembered the girl on the train.
“On a train,” I answered, almost truthfully.
We talked about other things and just when conversation was getting completely absurd, the intercom buzzed. The box office lady said that there were two people in the outer lobby waiting to see Miguel. I followed him out and met his guests. They were two punks. One was taller, appeared older than the other, and both of them had wide grins. With their mohawks and leather gear they looked like characters out of The Road Warrior, Wez and his motorcycle-mate. One of them was holding a pail and the other one, the taller one, had leaflets.
At first Miguel appeared flustered. He greeted them with the words, “I thought you were coming tomorrow.”
“We were out gluing up flyers for our gig and since we were passing we wondered if we could check out the sound system,” explained the smaller one.
“It’ll only take a moment,” concluded the other. I moved in closer to inspect the mohawks. They were spectrum-colored with glistening speckles. I could see that they were erected with the help of Elmer’s glue.
“Okay,” Miguel consented nervously. So they left their glue buckets and flyers in the box office and followed Miguel into the theater.
As Miguel and the taller one quietly led the way through the dark theater, I walked alongside the diminutive sidekick. He had what resembled the coastline of Asia minor shaved carefully into his bristled scalp; I could make out the Aegean fingering into the Bosphorus. In conversation with the punk, Miguel unlocked the projection booth. The projector was on, but there was no operator present. The two punks quickly went through a checklist and at one point I overheard the head punk whisper to Miguel, “1 didn’t get you in any trouble, did I?”
“No, no,” Miguel replied calmly, “everything’s still in orbit. Only, as a rule, try calling ahead.”
Miguel then introduced us. “This is the new manager, but he’s real cool.”
We all shook hands and Miguel explained that these were two young vanguard filmmakers. Apparently Miguel had many acquaintances from both the NYU Film School and The School of Visual Arts. Since the Zeus Theater had a superb 16mm projector, Miguel rented the theater for private functions at a nominal cost.
Since Hans—the taller one—and Grett—the smaller one—were collaborative members of an important local band called Slap, and since they were able to get Miguel on the guest list of several local after-hour spots and clubs, he was going to let them view their film for free. It was going to be screened the next day, when I wasn’t working.
Miguel talked with Hans awhile, and Grett watched the dirty film. In a moment the two had concluded their business. Hans and Grett exited, but before we could retreat back down the steps, a small door whipped open and out jumped a cute young lady wielding a crow bar. It was the same girl that I had bumped into a couple of days ago when I first got the job.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” she demanded, lowering the bar.
“I’m sorry,” Miguel replied, “I should have buzzed first.”
“If it’s not asking too fucking much!” she yelled back. “I thought you were a rapist. And besides, it’s in the union contract with all theater owners, ‘the projectionist must be duly notified before entry is gained into the booth…’”
Miguel apologized profusely, but as he did, she turned her small back to him and suddenly glared at me. Trying to ease the tension, I introduced myself.
“You’re the straight one,” she said.
“What?” Miguel cried with astonishment. Turning to me, he asked, “You’re straight?”
“Of course not.”
“He specifically told me he was straight,” the projectionist replied. “I bumped into him downstairs. He grabbed my tits and all he could say was that he was straight. Then he runs off.”
“What?!” hollered Miguel.
“Wait a second,” I replied. “I bumped into you, I tried to prevent you from falling and said I was late, not straight! That’s why I was running. Why the hell would I say I was straight?”
“To show why you were molesting me is why,” she explained.
“She’s crazy,” I pointed out.
“Then you are gay?” Miguel asked. They both peered at me like a spy on foreign soil. After years of institutionalized bias, I was sympathetic to certain cases of reverse discrimination. But despite my sympathies, I still needed the job.
“I’m nothing,” I finally replied.
“He might be nothing, but he’s a straight nothing,” she replied.
“What do you…you know…do?” Miguel asked after a period of silence.
“Quite frankly, I don’t penetrate anymore.”
“You don’t what?”
“I stopped penetrating.”
“Well, what the hell do you do?” she asked.
“I…I guess I just fondle.”
“But what do you fondle, guys or girls?” he asked.
“Guys, I guess.”
“You guess?” the projectionist said. “What do you fondle, ears?”
“Guys,” I declared, “with guys.”
“So then you are gay?” Miguel added.
“Well, I’ve fondled girls, too. What the hell is the big deal?” I finally got tired of being cross-examined. “Is it a crime to be straight?”
“We’re still something of a persecuted group,” Miguel stated, “and quite honestly, I just feel that for this particular job I believe a gay person is more fit.”