| “Can you help me with this? The boy’s not in today. I’ll take this one here, you grab that one.” “Sure, Mister -” “Fleming. Go easy there.” Joe lifted the handle of the big metal can, wondering how much it would weigh; he watched Fleming to see if he strained. No bodybuilder, that guy. Odd bird – homely as hell, but a face that held your attention for a moment before you felt the need to look away. He lifted the can a few inches off the ground without complaint, and dragged it towards the doors. “What’s the picture?” “Western.” “They heavier than movies set in big cities, with all those big buildings? Although you got those mountains to account for, depending on where it’s set, I suppose. And of course the horses. I’ll bet the war pictures take two men to lift.” If the man heard him, he gave no sign. Fleming opened the door of the theater, slid the can inside, and held the door ajar for Joe. The lobby was cold. “C’mon in. Now what did you want to sell me?” Joe handed him a matchbook. Not his best, but one of his favorites. It had a clean look he considered his own, and he liked the children’s blocks that spelled out CANDY. “I got a candy distributor,” Fleming said. “Comes by every Wednesday ‘round now, in fact. You two want to do pistols out on the street there, fine by me, but otherwise I’ll have to kindly decline your business.” “No – it’s not candy. It’s the matchbook.” “Oh, is it now.” The man walked over to the wall and flipped a few switches; lights sprang on over the candy counter against the wall. “And why would I want matchbooks? It’s all I can do to keep the roughnecks from flicking matches at the curtains as it is. I gotta go in the theater here; follow me.” “You’re right, of course” Joe said. “But think of it like this. A customer always feels better about a place that gives him something for nothing. And what’s better to give away than a matchbook? It’s useful. Folks carry it around, think of you when they use it.” The entered the theater; the ceiling lights were on, giving the hall a strange and naked look. Takes the mystery right out of the joint, Joe thought. Reminds you the movies are just a neat trick. Fleming coughed. “All right, let me look at those again.” He read the front aloud. “Well, I do appreciate their patronage, and I suppose you can’t say that enough.” “Exactly.” “But isn’t this usually where you put the name of the folks who made the matches?” Yes, Joe thought, you’re correct. You’re absolutely one hundred percent correct. Unless, of course, you’re making matches for vending machines, who don’t put their name on a machine in someone else’s business. And let’s say you got stuck with overstock when the vending machine company went bankrupt. Then you’d hit the road for a few days and spend your time driving through small towns, looking for marquees, standing in narrow little theaters with threadbare carpets and empty scratched screens, talking up the virtues of a product no one could see in the dark. Unless they lit the match, of course. “You would – but there’s no other theater in town, is there? No sir – you’re it. So just imagine you got someone who lights up during the show, and what’s he going to see? CANDY. If one out of ten gets up and for a Sugar Daddy, you’ve made your money. And trust me, we’re offering these at competitive prices. No reorder contracts.” “Huh.” The manager took a pack of Kools out of his pocket, dug in his pocket, patted the others. Nothing. He grinned. “Got a match? I seem to be without at the moment.” Joe handed him the sample. He’d written the cost per hundred inside. “Og, sure. I’ll take ten boxes. I always run out of matches; be nice to have my own.” He lit the Kool and squinted at the screen. “You like movies?” “Sure, who doesn’t.” “You’d be surprised. I still get hard looks at church.” He took a deep drag. “I blow hot and cold on them myself. Used to be in pictures, as a matter of fact.” “You’re kidding. Which ones?” He shrugged. “Republic features, Universal, Warner, you name it. The cheap ones they play second in a double feature. Oaters, gangster movies, romances, wrestling pictures. I was the cowboy at the end of the bar, the guy at the train station reading a newspaper. Never had a line. Never saw a script the whole time I was out there; they’d just put me where I needed to be.” He took another drag. “Pretty dull stuff, when you get down to it.” “Still. Must have been a kick to see yourself on the screen, right?” “Sure. But anyone will tell you they’re more fun to watch than make. The lights are hot, you got to stand there and wait half the day, you’re wearing so much makeup your face feels like you got dipped in Vaseline, and even if you get to kiss the girl it’s one of those movie kisses, where you just sort of mash her up like your teeth are wired together. But it was fun. I tell you, they have some pretty women out there. You’d just sit outside the soundstage in your cowboy uniform, waiting for the call, watching them go by, one after the other. I saw Merle Oberon once, too. She always said hello. Sort of gal who’d give you the time of day – hello, boys, let me buy you a Rueben. That sort of thing.” “Yeah, I liked her.” “She was born in India, you know.” “You don’t say.” “Couldn’t tell, though.” “No, you couldn’t.” Joe wondered if he’d be here all afternoon. This was interesting, in a way, but he wanted to hit a few more towns before doubling back to Cleveland. “Well,” he said. “Thennnn I got drafted, and that was it. Lost my taste for playing dress-up after that. Came home, kicked around, got a job taking tickets here and now –“ he spread his arms – “I’m on the other side. The last man in the chain.” He ground out his cigarette on his heel and cupped the butt. “They can make ‘em as big as they like, but if I blow a bulb on the projector they might as well send me someone to stand up on stage and describe the damn thing. Well, you got the matches with you, or they come in the post?” “They’re in the trunk. I’ll go get them.” “I’ll help.” They unloaded the boxes; the man wrote Joe a check, and they shook hands. “You want to see the show?” the man said. “I have to run the reels before tonight; you’re welcome to stay.” “Thanks, really. But I have to move on.” “Fine, fine. Well, look for me on the TV.” He winked. “They run some of my pictures from time to time.” “How many did you make?” “One hundred and sixty seven.” He grinned again. “You know I must be the only man who turns on the Saturday afternoon movie and sees himself staring back. Every week. Late shows, too. And I don’t even remember most of ‘em. But there I am. Hey, here’s my candy man.” A maroon Buick glided up to the curb; the engine knocked twice. A fat cheerful fellow in a cream coat got out, and waved. “Hello, Todd!” the salesman said. They shook hands and slapped backs, and Joe took the opportunity to depart. Todd Fleming, Joe thought as he drove away. Maybe not his real name. Maybe he had one of those names with all the consonants bunched up around some z’s or y’s. The sort of name you’d swap if you thought you might end up on a poster – Idiot! Jesus, what were you thinking? He pulled over on the shoulder, checked the traffic, and doubled back into town. The Buick was still there. Fleming was in the lobby, going over some order forms. Joe introduced himself to the salesman – Karl, he said his name was; Karl Rudden. Well Karl, I have an opportunity for you. “Well hell yes,” Rudden said when he saw the matchbooks. “I’ve been after my distributor for just such a thing.” He bought the entire lot.. They sealed the deal with a nip from Rudden’s flask – a medicinal precaution against the February cold, they all agreed. Fleming invited them to stay and watch the movie – why not? Joe had sold everything. No more stops ahead. Sure, he said. Sure, Rudden proclaimed. They sat in the middle of the theater, one seat between them, and passed the flask while Fleming spooled the film. “He tell you about his Hollywood career?” Rudden asked. “Yeah, he did.” “Huh.” “What? You think it’s bunk?” “I don’t know. Hard to prove. All I know is every time I see an old movie on TV I lose the plot because I’m always looking in the background for that ugly SOB. ‘Hey, maybe that’s his back – about the right size guy!’ Could be anyone. Could be him. But I think he’s telling the truth, and you know why? He’s got no stories. Nothing about drinking into Bogart or taking a leak next to Cagney. I think the closest he got was getting sandwich from Olivia de Havilland.” “I thought it was Merle Oberon.” They looked at one another. “Yeah,” Rudden finally said. “Her. That’s who he said.” “IT’S A WESTERN,” Fleming called from the projection room. “LOOK AT THE INDIANS. THEY ALWAYS USED JEWS AND ITALIANS. DON’T ASK ME WHY.” Then the lights went out and the screen went bright. The candy salesman fell asleep twenty minutes into the movie. He snored. |
|
||
 |
|
||