Superboy
Subterranean Teenage Blues
Subterranean Teenage Blues
I’m writing this for you, like you did for us.
It felt like no matter what I did porn would end up in the movie. Film, Honest-to-God film, would flicker across the screen several feet in front of me while senior citizens brought their grandchildren, mouths filled with hard candy, to see the pictures they saw in their youth. Then porn. People would notice after about the fifth nipple spliced in to Gone with the Wind and start demanding their money back which, in accordance with policy, we would not return. They would then either leave the theatre in a huff or trust Oliver the Manager’s assurance that penises would no longer appear in their matinées…unless they were supposed to, but I don’t think we showed that kind of movie.
“I don’t remember The Sound of Music having that many titties.” Lucy said from the entrance of the projection room. I shrugged my shoulders, humming the melody of My Favorite Things, as I took a tooth brush to the inside of the projector. Lucy moved across the room, putting reels back into containers and containers into closets. My shift ended with the After Church Special, the few old movies we owned that no one could be offended by. This was unsurprisingly, given our towns general population, the highest grossing day of the week. I ran the film on Sundays because I was the only polite, well-adjusted person on staff. The only other people on staff who knew how to run the projectors were Lucy, who was ostracized by her church and avoided them at all costs, and Ethan, who was my god brother and a dick.
“Also, someone shitted on the floor in the basement bathroom. Oliver the Manager said it wasn’t him, but he’s drunk and, you know, has shit on him.” Lucy mentioned, sliding the last container into place. She wore her uniform hat cocked to the side like a Fresh Prince of Bel-Air re-run.
I slammed the projector’s case shut and grinned at her, “Officially off shift.”
“Yeah, we kinda just threw some newspaper on it.”
“Problem solved.”
“Fuck you man, I didn’t shit on no floor.” Ethan’s voice sounded from the front of the building. Lucy rolled her eyes and motioned for me to follow her out of the room.
Our theatre was one floor and a basement. We use to have a balcony, but we never had that many costumers, so it became “The Spot”, bean bag chairs, mini-fridges, and loose bricks with weed behind them, all masterfully kept hidden with a hastily scrawled “out of order” sign. It’s where we wasted our time. You’re only young once and sometimes I wondered what I could be doing instead of getting contact high and eating Taco Bell with my best friends while Top Gun echoed through an artifact. I’d like to imagine that when I think of something better, I’ll start living my life to the fullest.
It took all of the twenty steps to reach lobby, Ethan stood face to face with Oliver, and by his grimace he clearly regretted this particular choice but couldn’t back down. Oliver smelled like a rotted brewery, but he was the 28 year old manager of a shitty two auditorium theatre, that he lived in, who’s only joy in life came from ordering around three high-schoolers that routinely shat on his life, so it was understandable. We called him Oliver the Manager to remind him that he wasn’t a real person.
I never claimed we were good kids. Sorry.
“If you didn’t, who did?” Oliver the Manager spat.
By this point Ethan was red in the face and sputtering. There was no way of arguing with Oliver. He honestly believed, while shit was on his person, that he could not have shitted on the basement floor.
I laughed.
“Fuck you, Norah. This isn’t funny. Somebody’s moving’ poop and it ain’t gonna be me.” Ethan said, whipping his body toward me. He was a bright red mohawk and one pierced ear. My mom thought he was a train wreck, but she had changed his dippers so she begrudgingly let us make each other bad people.
Lucy pulled him away from Oliver and pulled me in closer until we made a huddle “Okay, here’s the plan”, she started, “…we leave.”
“Good plan.”
“Simple, I like it.”
We strolled out of the theatre, ignore Oliver the manager’s yells, and into a Sunday afternoon. The parking lots were still emptying out after the last show and there was just enough sunlight that you didn’t need a jacket. These were the sorts of days we lived for. The kind of days where your parents didn’t expect you back until late and trusted you not to get pregnant. Ethan sat on the curb, soaking in freedom, and squinted.
“Is that your brother?” He asked me. Jonas leaned against Jeep on the other side of the parking lot. He was fidgeting more than usual.
I waited for the cars to pass and jogged over. He looked smaller than usual, with his stupid sweaters and horn-rimmed glasses.
“Hey, Jo, Dad send you?” I asked.
He looked like he was about to cry. He looked like he had already been crying.
“I wanted to tell you later, but I was here and Dad is dead.”
“…you’re shit at giving out news.”
“Sorry.”
We stood in silence. Jonas couldn’t meet my eyes. I suppose I should have asked some questions, like how or something, but it didn’t seem important at the time. I could hear Lucy and Ethan shuffling on the curb.
“Wanna hang out?”
“What are you guys doing?”
“We were gonna go to the arcade, but I guess now we’re getting drunk and setting stuff on fire.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I turned back to my friends and yelled, “My dad is dead, so we’re stealing his good whiskey and going to the beach.”
