built. Before all the cross-country traffic was drawn away from town. Only the drive-in still operates — in July and August — and based on the weed-chewed pavement, Carl isn’t sure it will survive to see ’87. He steers clear of potholes and broken glass until he finds space number fifty-three, the one with the ratty folding chair propped against the post. He drops the kickstand, positions the chair next to his bike, and grabs the speaker from its post to hang it from the Schwinn’s crossbar. Headlights approach, and he prays it’s not who he thinks it is. But of course, it’s Andy’s growling Ford. The truck backs into space fifty-four to share the same speaker pole. Andy gets out of the truck, and from the opposite side comes fellow offensive lineman Wade Spratt. A third person slides out from the middle seat: Becca Cline. She wears a tight pair of Jordaches, a green tee, and Andy’s well-worn Nebraska cap. She reaches back into the cab to grab a six-pack of Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers. She smiles at Carl, “Want one?” Carl shakes his head. “Are you sure? They’re Body Shot Lime flavor.” Again, he declines. The three of them climb up into the bed of the truck and sit facing the screen, backs against the cab. He should be glad she’s here. Her presence will have a dampening effect on Andy and Wade’s worst testosterone-jacked impulses. But seeing her wearing Andy’s cap still stings. Carl knows how stupid it is to feel that way. Despite being in the same classes all of their lives, Becca has never once showed the least bit of interest in him, but that hasn’t stopped him from imagining what could be if he wasn’t so … weird. He doesn’t like that word, especially when applying it to himself. But he can’t escape it. Might as well have it tattooed on his forehead, if it weren’t already so painfully obvious from the mom-cut hair and the generic Swoosh-free sneakers. He long since realized he couldn’t change the way he was, and he learned to accept it. What he can’t understand is why his classmates can’t accept it too. Why can’t they just leave him be? Is it really so strange that a person doesn’t like baseball or basketball or any other kind of ball? So what if he prefers to play Dungeons & Dragons all by himself? Why does anybody care if all of his notebooks are filled with sketches of swords and war hammers and labyrinthine dungeon plans? About the only normal thing he does is watch movies, though he knows his tastes run toward the, well, weird. The VCR he bought with his own money is his most prized possession, and the after-school job he works at Janesburg Videos gives him access to thousands of films. His favorites are the videotapes that don’t come in perfectly produced boxes. He likes the ones that show up in their original Memorex or Maxell sleeves and are only identifiable by crooked or peeling stickers on the black plastic spines. Ones with titles like Swamp Tramp of the Underworld and Fanged Hamster Slumber Party. That is what makes tonight’s feature so special. The movie never made it to TV or VHS or any other format beyond its initial release in the late 60s. Viewings are so rare many around town insist the movie never really existed. The projector fires up to bathe the screen in bright white light. Several of the screen’s panels are missing, and those that remain are warped badly enough to create a visible crosshatch of seams. Hundreds of moths dart and dance in the projector’s beam, casting dancing black dots on the blank screen. Carl sits forward as the first shot appears. It’s a crow sitting on a fence, a cornfield in the background. He thinks he recognizes the grain silo as the same one five miles north. The crow caws, and the movie’s title appears in big purple letters: Alien Parasites from Outer Space. Carl smiles and claps until he realizes he is the only one applauding. A Budweiser bottle cap lands near his feet. “Keep it down, Cramer.” Carl hears a banging sound and turns to see that Scar-y Joe has moved from the ticket booth to opening the concession window. Carl doubletimes for it before a line forms. If he’s fast, he can be back before the opening credits finish. By the time Carl arrives, Scar-y Joe has already filled a double-meteor-sized cup with root beer. He tops the soda with a plastic lid and hands over a king-size box of Junior Mints. Carl notices the Walkman headphones sitting askew on Scar-y Joe’s nubby ears but has no interest in asking what he’s listening to. Other than movie scores, music holds little interest to Carl. He pays up, then nabs a straw and a long plastic spoon before spinning back around to face the screen. The credits are over, and a pair of teenagers are walking through a cornfield. Carl hustles back to his spot and drops into his chair. The girl is wearing a poodle skirt, and the boy reminds Carl of the Fonz. They’re carrying a blanket and speaking in hushed tones about finding a quiet, secluded place near the creek. The scene makes a sudden cut. The background is now black but dotted with pinpricks of light. A starfield. The camera pans left to land on a planet the color of Welch’s Grape Juice. Another planet swings into view, and the two orbs collide like those Clackers toys. The view cuts to an explosion. A slo-mo spray of rocks, dirt and sparks hurls toward the lens. Next, the camera focuses on one particular flying rock that dangles from a barely visible wire. Andy is laughing now. “Holy shit, that is so fake!” Carl resists the urge to shush. The movie cuts to show Earth. Then the rock. The music picks up pace as the view switches back to Earth. Then the rock. Earth. Rock. Back to the teens in the cornfield. They look up at the sky, and the movie freezes on terrified faces for several seconds before the film becomes overexposed, the colors saturating into a blur. The speaker hanging on Carl’s ten-speed spits and crackles over the sound of a bomb going off. Carl is nodding his head. This movie kicks ass! As is his routine, he sucks his straw until he’s downed a third of his root beer and pulls the lid open. He sets the open cup on the ground before grabbing the box of Junior Mints in both fists so he can strangle the life out of it. He likes his mints mushy. He wrings the box a few more times, then opens it and uses the spoon to scoop the melty mash into his root beer. A moth bumps his forehead, and he swipes it away before digging the spoon into his cup. He fishes out a minty mass and gleefully gobbles it down. The movie is starting to drag now. It’s ten years later, and the town has rebuilt. Two high school seniors — Stan and Sam — hog the screen time. Stan’s parents are going out of town, and the boys scheme to throw the biggest, baddest party in the history of parties. Typical high school fare. A scream startles Carl, but it doesn’t come from the speaker. “Fuckin’ moths,” says Becca. “It flew in my ear.” Andy and Wade laugh, and another bottle cap arcs from the truck. On the screen, Stan is handing out invites to the party. He goes into the library and pins one to the bulletin board. He hears a sound. Spooky music starts as Stan creeps between the bookshelves. He rounds a corner, and his eyes go wide with shock. The librarian is there, looking how a movie librarian should look. Glasses. Pinned-up hair. Black ankle-length skirt. Except this librarian is completely topless. “Oh, Stan, I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come in,” she says with a flirty batting of the eyes. “Woohoo! Now we’re talking!” shouts Andy. “Why aren’t you clapping, Cramer?” This kind of random encounter happens in a lot of the movies Carl watches. He’s never been a fan of such scenes. Stuff like that just doesn’t seem as realistic as the rest of it.
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