McMurphy
Apostate Against the Eloi
I had whipped up the following short story and admitted it into a writing contest in San Francisco although I was frustrated with the end result. The word limit of the competition was only 2,000 words, and, after initial editing, I was hovering around the 10,000 word mark. After valiantly trying to cut, re-write, and cut some more of the story to fit into the requirements, I, with two days left, scrapped and rewrote the whole thing. To make a long story short (which is something I apparently have a problem with), I am interested in smoothing out both versions of the idea. I think there is something worth keeping in the following version (the under 2,000 word one I submitted, that is), and I would appreciate some insight in this problematic text.
How can I add more detail while better economizing the dialog? There is a subtle resolution, and it would only seem worthwhile if I could tighten the script. How can I make the ending feel more complete without changing the basic focus of the resolution?
Either way, I hope you all enjoy, and thank you in advance for your honest feedback.
I entered back into the projection booth shaking my hand through my wet hair as if I had just stepped out of the shower.
"I tell you, Tom, people are assholes," I said as I settled for brushing my hair back with my fingers since I was sans comb. I had just come back from standing outside in the rain to hand out free passes as an angry audience left the theater. "Everyone should be required to work with the general public for at least a year."
Turning around with my hand still raking through my hair, I faced the cardboard cut-out that was propped up against a metal shelf to the left of the booth entrance I had walked in from. "Oh ****, I’m sorry, man," I said and wiped off a few stray pearls of water that had hit Tom in the face and started to slide down his cheek. "I didn’t mean to drag you into this."
The cardboard cut-out was of Tom Hanks in his role from Road to Perdition, and, ironically enough, he was posing in a rain storm. Droplets lined and blurred his coat while a force outside the borders of the cut-out beat down the rim of his hat. The theater had a number of these cardboard cut-outs (or standees, as they are sometimes called) tucked away even though my manager refused to use them.
"I know that it had to suck losing sound in the middle of the movie like that," I said while busying myself with picking up film reels and putting them back on the booth’s large pegboard, "but it wasn’t like it was my fault. I’m not the one in charge of buying new equipment."
I grabbed the broom hanging on the wall by a hook and continued with my nightly cleaning duties. "One hour to go, and the booth is all your’s again," I had swept my way near the side of the projector and leaned the broom against its side. "That movie was pretentious, anyways."
Lifting up the black peg above the lens turret, I opened the face of the projector and, without looking, reached behind to pull out a disposable cleaning rag from its container like a tissue from a Kleenex box.
"I need to get out of this place, Tom."
I wiped down the projector gears. Throwing the used rag into the small trashcan next to me, I stood up and grabbed a bottle of cleaning alcohol and a toothbrush that were sitting on a wooden shelf nailed above the observation window, which displayed the empty auditorium and silent screen below but in front of the booth. Dipping the toothbrush into the alcohol and brushing away at the gears with sprockets, I continued my conversation.
"I sure the hell wish San Francisco wasn’t such an obscenely expensive place to live." I kneeled down on my heels so I could get at the lower half of the projector and blew on the sprockets. Replacing the toothbrush with a Q-Tip, I also replaced my train of thought. "I wonder why film residue is pink."
I opened the film gate and wiped the Q-Tip up and down the two thin bands of metal that the film slides against as it goes through the projector. In doing so, I noticed the small decorative bulb used to light up the film gate was burned out. I walked back over to the other side of the room to get a new one.
"Excuse me, Tom," I said as I picked him up by the shoulders and moved him out of the way. Returning back to the side of the projector, I said, "You are ever so accommodating, did I ever tell you that?"
"Are you talking to me?" I heard.
I took a few steps away from the projector so it was no longer blocking my view of the booth entrance.
"Are you talking to me?" I heard again. "I loved that film. It was before your time, though." The standee was leaning against the end of the shelf and looking distinctly nothing like a cardboard cut-out.
I jumped back and dropped the bulb onto the tiled floor. It exploded with a loud pop like one of those firecrackers that are still legal for older brothers to use to scare their sisters.
A series of chuckles chugged out of Tom as he clapped. "You have always been entertaining, Seth. I must say that." He knew my name and immediately my eyes were locked on the open door behind him. "Please. Don’t go," he pleaded suddenly. I averted my eyes from the door.
He was certainly the live version of the cut-out: a too literal adaptation of it, in fact. The rain streaks covered his body like eraser rubs and were the focal points of his image. His skin and clothes seemed to shimmer a little from the same gloss that once covered the cardboard.
There was a small pin of a golden lion’s head attached to the center of his hat’s tan band. I could’ve sworn it wasn’t there before.
"It’s funny that you joked about me being helpful with the projector because," he opened his raincoat and pulled out a dented tin canister, "I’d like to use it," he said and rapped his fingers against the canister’s lid. "May I show you something?"
I stared back at him, praying that a useful thought would come to mind.
"Oh, Seth?"
My prayers were still not being answered.
"Or, just nod if it’s okay."
I nodded.
"Great to see you are still with me, my boy." He walked to the table beyond me and the projector. The shards of glass from the broken bulb snapped under his shoes. I turned around to see what he was doing without stepping away from the spot in which I was planted.
"So, when are you going back to school?" he said with his back to me. He popped open the lid of the canister and took out a spool of film. He slid the roll of film onto what projectionists call a split-reel, which has a side that can be unscrewed so the very act Tom was doing could be done. "You are always talking about finishing the last year of your English degree. Wouldn’t you agree it’s time for you to—how do you say—‘walk the walk’? You’re a smart kid, Seth, but you need to have a fire set underneath you. Taking those naps up here is not helping."
He peeled off the piece of white masking tap that was keeping the head of the film attached to the rest of its body. "Have you tried to get back with Beth? I haven’t heard you speak about her ever since that big fight you two had over....oh, what was his name?" He looked over his shoulder at me as he picked the reel up from the table. "Work with me, here, Seth. It’s not easy keeping the conversation going when the other person doesn’t respond." The lion on his hat winked at me.
He walked past me again, but this time carrying the reel. He lifted it above his head and stuck it on the peg resting above the projector. He pushed a small pin through the hole at the end of the peg to secure the reel in place, and started to thread the film through the projector.
"T-t-tom...," I ventured.
He turned around to face me. "My name is Aizen-Myoo, actually," he said and bowed. "I can see you are confused, Seth. This image," he admitted as he tugged at his coat, "was the best I could come up with. I very well can’t manifest myself through a bag of popcorn, now can I? This was the object closest to a human form I could find. Plus, I know how much you hate popcorn," he said and laughed.
"Are you a g-g-ghost?"
He shook his head and waved his hands out in front of him as if declining a waiter’s proposal for dessert. "I’m the patron of singers, musicians, and prostitutes." He mustered better posture by pushing out his chest and placing his hands on his hips. "I am the Japanese deity of love." Laughing while releasing his pose, he added under his breath, "Considering how many quote-unquote massage parlors are in this city, I’d be pretty powerful if I could ever figure out how to get out of this theater.
"Speaking of speaking, why do you stutter, Seth?" Aizen-Myoo asked, but he didn’t pause in his dedication to wrapping the film around the wrong side of the sprockets. "There was once a time you lost the stutter only around me. And here I was thinking I was special."
Without waiting for a response, he continued. "My spirit has been trapped in this building for a very long time. Did you know that this place was originally a kabuki?"
I did know that, but I was more concerned with shifting back and forth on which of his shoulders I was to loom over. I didn’t want to block his light.
"It’s true. Yep, but it was later sold and used as a concert hall. Jimi Hendrix played here before. He was crazy, but I loved to see him play. Hendrix could see my spirit, you know. He would slip me a nod before starting his sets. When the ‘60s and ‘70s rolled over into the ‘80s, this place was sold again to a movie theater chain."
He took a step back and tilted his head to the side while looking at his threading.
"This doesn’t look right, does it? Maybe if I...."
Without thinking, I stepped between him and the projector before he could finish. I wound the film around the rollers in the correct order and took a step back.
"Arigato," he said in a quiet voice.
"Huh?"
"Thank you."
"Oh."
"So, is it ready to go, Seth?"
I nodded and noticed Aizen-Myoo’s reflection in the observation window. The image was of a young Japanese man with a miniature lion’s head mounted on top of his own head. He wore a robe, and his black hair, restrained in a pony tail, hung down between his shoulder blades. Above his brown eyes, rested a single blue eye on his forehead.
In the reflection, I could see him watch me, and his expression altered from anticipation to apprehension.
"Um, Seth, how do I take the picture off screen but keep the film rolling? You know, in case there are some parts that I’m still not ready to let anyone see."
I pointed to the handle crowned with a black ball. "Pull t-that one. It’s the hand-dowser."
Aizen-Myoo shifted his weight onto the other foot before cracking his knuckles. "It’s show time, old buddy!" He laughed a little too loud, revealing his lingering hesitation. "I hope you like subtitles."
When his finger hovered over the start button, I said, "Aizen, you don’t have to show me if you don’t want to."
"See, you’re talking to me like I’m not here already." He smiled and pushed the button.
When a black and white countdown appeared onscreen, he motioned me to come closer to the observation window where he proceeded to lean forward onto its sill.
"Arigato," I said as I leaned up beside him.
How can I add more detail while better economizing the dialog? There is a subtle resolution, and it would only seem worthwhile if I could tighten the script. How can I make the ending feel more complete without changing the basic focus of the resolution?
Either way, I hope you all enjoy, and thank you in advance for your honest feedback.
Aizen’s Kabuki
I entered back into the projection booth shaking my hand through my wet hair as if I had just stepped out of the shower.
"I tell you, Tom, people are assholes," I said as I settled for brushing my hair back with my fingers since I was sans comb. I had just come back from standing outside in the rain to hand out free passes as an angry audience left the theater. "Everyone should be required to work with the general public for at least a year."
Turning around with my hand still raking through my hair, I faced the cardboard cut-out that was propped up against a metal shelf to the left of the booth entrance I had walked in from. "Oh ****, I’m sorry, man," I said and wiped off a few stray pearls of water that had hit Tom in the face and started to slide down his cheek. "I didn’t mean to drag you into this."
The cardboard cut-out was of Tom Hanks in his role from Road to Perdition, and, ironically enough, he was posing in a rain storm. Droplets lined and blurred his coat while a force outside the borders of the cut-out beat down the rim of his hat. The theater had a number of these cardboard cut-outs (or standees, as they are sometimes called) tucked away even though my manager refused to use them.
"I know that it had to suck losing sound in the middle of the movie like that," I said while busying myself with picking up film reels and putting them back on the booth’s large pegboard, "but it wasn’t like it was my fault. I’m not the one in charge of buying new equipment."
I grabbed the broom hanging on the wall by a hook and continued with my nightly cleaning duties. "One hour to go, and the booth is all your’s again," I had swept my way near the side of the projector and leaned the broom against its side. "That movie was pretentious, anyways."
Lifting up the black peg above the lens turret, I opened the face of the projector and, without looking, reached behind to pull out a disposable cleaning rag from its container like a tissue from a Kleenex box.
"I need to get out of this place, Tom."
I wiped down the projector gears. Throwing the used rag into the small trashcan next to me, I stood up and grabbed a bottle of cleaning alcohol and a toothbrush that were sitting on a wooden shelf nailed above the observation window, which displayed the empty auditorium and silent screen below but in front of the booth. Dipping the toothbrush into the alcohol and brushing away at the gears with sprockets, I continued my conversation.
"I sure the hell wish San Francisco wasn’t such an obscenely expensive place to live." I kneeled down on my heels so I could get at the lower half of the projector and blew on the sprockets. Replacing the toothbrush with a Q-Tip, I also replaced my train of thought. "I wonder why film residue is pink."
I opened the film gate and wiped the Q-Tip up and down the two thin bands of metal that the film slides against as it goes through the projector. In doing so, I noticed the small decorative bulb used to light up the film gate was burned out. I walked back over to the other side of the room to get a new one.
"Excuse me, Tom," I said as I picked him up by the shoulders and moved him out of the way. Returning back to the side of the projector, I said, "You are ever so accommodating, did I ever tell you that?"
"Are you talking to me?" I heard.
I took a few steps away from the projector so it was no longer blocking my view of the booth entrance.
"Are you talking to me?" I heard again. "I loved that film. It was before your time, though." The standee was leaning against the end of the shelf and looking distinctly nothing like a cardboard cut-out.
I jumped back and dropped the bulb onto the tiled floor. It exploded with a loud pop like one of those firecrackers that are still legal for older brothers to use to scare their sisters.
A series of chuckles chugged out of Tom as he clapped. "You have always been entertaining, Seth. I must say that." He knew my name and immediately my eyes were locked on the open door behind him. "Please. Don’t go," he pleaded suddenly. I averted my eyes from the door.
He was certainly the live version of the cut-out: a too literal adaptation of it, in fact. The rain streaks covered his body like eraser rubs and were the focal points of his image. His skin and clothes seemed to shimmer a little from the same gloss that once covered the cardboard.
There was a small pin of a golden lion’s head attached to the center of his hat’s tan band. I could’ve sworn it wasn’t there before.
"It’s funny that you joked about me being helpful with the projector because," he opened his raincoat and pulled out a dented tin canister, "I’d like to use it," he said and rapped his fingers against the canister’s lid. "May I show you something?"
I stared back at him, praying that a useful thought would come to mind.
"Oh, Seth?"
My prayers were still not being answered.
"Or, just nod if it’s okay."
I nodded.
"Great to see you are still with me, my boy." He walked to the table beyond me and the projector. The shards of glass from the broken bulb snapped under his shoes. I turned around to see what he was doing without stepping away from the spot in which I was planted.
"So, when are you going back to school?" he said with his back to me. He popped open the lid of the canister and took out a spool of film. He slid the roll of film onto what projectionists call a split-reel, which has a side that can be unscrewed so the very act Tom was doing could be done. "You are always talking about finishing the last year of your English degree. Wouldn’t you agree it’s time for you to—how do you say—‘walk the walk’? You’re a smart kid, Seth, but you need to have a fire set underneath you. Taking those naps up here is not helping."
He peeled off the piece of white masking tap that was keeping the head of the film attached to the rest of its body. "Have you tried to get back with Beth? I haven’t heard you speak about her ever since that big fight you two had over....oh, what was his name?" He looked over his shoulder at me as he picked the reel up from the table. "Work with me, here, Seth. It’s not easy keeping the conversation going when the other person doesn’t respond." The lion on his hat winked at me.
He walked past me again, but this time carrying the reel. He lifted it above his head and stuck it on the peg resting above the projector. He pushed a small pin through the hole at the end of the peg to secure the reel in place, and started to thread the film through the projector.
"T-t-tom...," I ventured.
He turned around to face me. "My name is Aizen-Myoo, actually," he said and bowed. "I can see you are confused, Seth. This image," he admitted as he tugged at his coat, "was the best I could come up with. I very well can’t manifest myself through a bag of popcorn, now can I? This was the object closest to a human form I could find. Plus, I know how much you hate popcorn," he said and laughed.
"Are you a g-g-ghost?"
He shook his head and waved his hands out in front of him as if declining a waiter’s proposal for dessert. "I’m the patron of singers, musicians, and prostitutes." He mustered better posture by pushing out his chest and placing his hands on his hips. "I am the Japanese deity of love." Laughing while releasing his pose, he added under his breath, "Considering how many quote-unquote massage parlors are in this city, I’d be pretty powerful if I could ever figure out how to get out of this theater.
"Speaking of speaking, why do you stutter, Seth?" Aizen-Myoo asked, but he didn’t pause in his dedication to wrapping the film around the wrong side of the sprockets. "There was once a time you lost the stutter only around me. And here I was thinking I was special."
Without waiting for a response, he continued. "My spirit has been trapped in this building for a very long time. Did you know that this place was originally a kabuki?"
I did know that, but I was more concerned with shifting back and forth on which of his shoulders I was to loom over. I didn’t want to block his light.
"It’s true. Yep, but it was later sold and used as a concert hall. Jimi Hendrix played here before. He was crazy, but I loved to see him play. Hendrix could see my spirit, you know. He would slip me a nod before starting his sets. When the ‘60s and ‘70s rolled over into the ‘80s, this place was sold again to a movie theater chain."
He took a step back and tilted his head to the side while looking at his threading.
"This doesn’t look right, does it? Maybe if I...."
Without thinking, I stepped between him and the projector before he could finish. I wound the film around the rollers in the correct order and took a step back.
"Arigato," he said in a quiet voice.
"Huh?"
"Thank you."
"Oh."
"So, is it ready to go, Seth?"
I nodded and noticed Aizen-Myoo’s reflection in the observation window. The image was of a young Japanese man with a miniature lion’s head mounted on top of his own head. He wore a robe, and his black hair, restrained in a pony tail, hung down between his shoulder blades. Above his brown eyes, rested a single blue eye on his forehead.
In the reflection, I could see him watch me, and his expression altered from anticipation to apprehension.
"Um, Seth, how do I take the picture off screen but keep the film rolling? You know, in case there are some parts that I’m still not ready to let anyone see."
I pointed to the handle crowned with a black ball. "Pull t-that one. It’s the hand-dowser."
Aizen-Myoo shifted his weight onto the other foot before cracking his knuckles. "It’s show time, old buddy!" He laughed a little too loud, revealing his lingering hesitation. "I hope you like subtitles."
When his finger hovered over the start button, I said, "Aizen, you don’t have to show me if you don’t want to."
"See, you’re talking to me like I’m not here already." He smiled and pushed the button.
When a black and white countdown appeared onscreen, he motioned me to come closer to the observation window where he proceeded to lean forward onto its sill.
"Arigato," I said as I leaned up beside him.
