“I want a snack.”
I jump, startled. Jeanine stands behind me. Her mop of curly blonde hair makes her look younger than thirteen.
Between us, I most resemble Dad—the longer face, the prominent nose, the large eyes setting off a more straight than curved smile. Jeanine is her mother’s daughter, the eyes smaller and closer together in the middle of a more circular face, the nose not as obvious, all of which sit perched above a deep sickle-shaped smile that overwhelms all her features whenever she laughs.
I turn to block the evidence. “You just ate.”
“What about dessert?” Jeanine asks.
“How’s ice cream sound?”
“With Magic Shell?”
“Yes, with Magic Shell.”
“I want the stuff that gets hard. Not Hershey’s Syrup.”
“I know the difference between the two.”
My sister leaves the kitchen. I start to unscrew the cap to the milk when I hear the sound of feet sliding on oak hardwood floors.
Jeanine peeks into the kitchen.
“What?” I say.
“I changed my mind. I don’t want Magic Shell now. I want Hershey’s Syrup.”
“Okay.”
“And another thing.”
I grab the edge of the sink in exasperation. “Good Lord, what now?”
“I think we’re out of Hershey’s Syrup.”
“So you want Magic Shell?”
“No…” Jeanine pauses, taps her finger on her mouth. “If we’re out of Hershey’s Syrup, and if all we have is chocolate ice cream, I’ll have mine plain. But if we have vanilla, I’ll have Hershey’s Syrup.”
“You mean Magic Shell?”
“I don’t like Magic Shell.”
“Get out of here!” I push her out of the kitchen. “You’ll eat what I bring you.”
I pour out the gallon of milk. I grab the eggs, shove them one by one down the drain, then turn on the disposal. I throw away the empty milk jug, and wait.
Mom goes to bed around nine. At ten o’clock Dad takes his exalted place on the couch in front of the television. Halfway into the Channel 13 weather forecast, I “suddenly” realize we don’t have any milk or eggs for breakfast. Dad asks if I wouldn’t mind making a late night grocery run.
The five screen Regency 5 Theater sits behind my neighborhood on the corner of Regence and Farr, a mile from my house. I look at my Swatch as I pull into the theater parking lot, trying to discern the time. The face of the Swatch has no numerals. The small hand is pointing to a mint-green triangle in the upper left corner, and the big hand is about halfway between a fluorescent-orange squiggly line and a yellow circle near the bottom of the watch. 11:35 p.m. is my best guess. Dad is falling asleep right about now in the middle of Carson’s monologue.
Regency 5 used to be a two-screen theater, a nondescript brick building tacked onto the south end of a Hills department store. Then, two screens became three, and then they skipped four and went straight to five. The biggest mystery is how they managed to add three extra screens without ever expanding the building itself.
I drive a cheap-ass, late-seventies Subaru even though my father has an entire parking lot of brand-new Oldsmobiles, mostly because I have an affinity for wrecking brand-new Oldsmobiles. I park my red Subaru wagon in a handicap spot at the front of the theater. A row of glass doors wrap the front of the theater below the marquee. I give the doors a shake. They’re locked. The lights are dimmed inside, but I see someone walking toward me. She opens the doors.
“You’re early.” She closes the door behind me and locks it again.
“I know. Just thought I’d surprise—”
Her arms are around my neck, her lips already pressed against my own. She pretends to rub her lipstick off my lips but leaves it there. Laura likes to mark her territory. I can’t get enough of her: her smell, her taste, her touch, that smoky lilt in her voice when she pouts to get what she wants. We kiss again.
“Sorry, but I just want to eat you up,” Laura says, nibbling my neck. She rests her cleft chin on my shoulder.
Laura’s long, brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a few stray curls sneaking out the sides. Even smelling of popcorn oil and garbed in her Regency 5 standard issue uniform—white oxford, red vest, blue pants—I find her irresistible. Her shirt looks a size too small, but that’s just her breasts. I’m not going to lie, they’re the first thing I ever noticed about her—soft and big, with a slight downward slope to them, almost too large for her age. Not belly dancer perfect, but as perfect as I’ve ever felt. Next to her substantial rack, her most striking feature is her mass of brown curls she spends hours teasing and spraying into something that emerges, quite miraculously, gorgeous. Laura is more confident about her looks than most girls her age but not in an obvious way. She’s coy in public, taking the sexy route behind closed doors.
I grin. “No apologies necessary.”
Laura grabs my hand. “Want to catch the last ten minutes of a flick?”
“What’s on?”
“Working Girl.”
“The movie isn’t on my must-see list. Anything else?”
“Nope,” Laura says. “Last show of the night.”
“Why don’t we just stay out here?”
Laura pushes me. “You’re no fun.”
I grab her by the hips and pull her toward me. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“Unless it involves an alien popping out of someone’s chest cavity or a giant marshmallow man, I don’t care for Sigourney Weaver.”
“And I suppose you don’t like Melanie Griffith, either?”
“I happen to like Melanie Griffith very much, at least when she plays a stripper and when Brian De Palma is her director.”
She doesn’t catch the reference.
“You know, Body Double?”
Still nothing.
“Holly Body? Frankie Goes to Hollywood? Relax, don’t do it, when you wanna go to it? Not quite legendary B-movie actor Craig Wasson?”
Laura hasn’t seen the movie. By the time we finish arguing about it, Working Girl is over. Three couples file out the front door of the theater to the tune of Carly Simon’s “Let the River Run.” I refuse to admit I like this song, although it is quite catchy. Any acknowledgment of its positive attributes takes me right back to that impressionable four-year-old boy whose mother played Helen Reddy’s Greatest Hits (And More) so many times he memorized the lyrics. Mom would invite friends over and have me sing “I Am Woman” and “Ain’t No Way to Treat a Lady,” and they’d all tell me how cute I was. Yeah, Mom, it’s cute to emasculate your four-year-old son for the neighbors’ amusement.
“Time to close up.” Laura starts to segue into another subject. I pretend I’m listening, but the only thing in my head at the moment are the lyrics to “Delta Dawn.”
“What do you think?” she asks.
I have no idea what I’m about to agree to, but nonetheless I nod eagerly.