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A Short Story

Friday Night Out
-- by GP Randel

Friday finally came, and to celebrate having survived another long week of writing, I decided to take myself out for the evening. It had been a while since I'd seen a good movie; most of them were such a waste of time and money. I opened the newspaper to the movie guide remembering that there was a movie I had wanted to see. There it was: "The Cider House Rules." I scanned the listings: seven p.m. at the new six-plex in town. I checked my watch: six forty-eight. I laid down the paper, shut off the computer, and reached for the windbreaker in my bedroom closet. The good thing about being single was not having to consider someone else; no girlfriend to call, no need to worry if someone wanted to see the same movie I did. I just took off whenever I felt like it.

I pulled into traffic, wondering what kind of performance Michael Caine would give. Now, there was a guy with endurance. "Alfie"-what a flick that was, and when you thought of all the actors who had come and gone over the years! I suspected he'd have to do some really good work to carry this movie though, especially if the story was anything like that Irving book, "A Widow For One Year" I had read a few months back.

There were a few people ahead of me in line. The couple in front of me was chatting lively. He had his arm around her slim waist, sliding his fingers along the rim of her tight, black designer jeans. When she laughed, her upper body shook. When she turned her head, her scented, wavy, shoulder-length, light-brown hair flashed just under his nose. It was working. He was definitely buying it.

"One adult."

I slipped seven dollars into the money tray. The girl behind the window gave me a bored look and dispensed my ticket.

It was seven oh-four when I got to my seat. The movie trailers were still playing. I found one seat in the center of the full movie house. Empty, single seats in packed theaters was another advantage of going to the movies alone. The women on either side of me shot me a glance. I sank back into my chair and folded my hands across my mouth. I spotted the couple who had been ahead of me in the ticket line walking up and down the aisle looking for seats. The carefree laughter was gone. Both of them had that glazed-eye, lost puppy look as they scanned the place for a pair of empty seats. Lover boy was keeping his hands to himself, now.   Oh, well.

The trailers ended; the movie started. I'd heard so much about John Irving. He was supposed to be such a wonderful writer. I'd been prepared to be blown away by "A Widow For One Year." Instead, I'd felt cheated. To me, the book was a thinly-veiled, cruel commercial joke. He'd recycled characters from a previous book, the profanity was overdone, and the plot was not all that well tied together. He gave a lot of struggling writers hope with that piece of work. Then again, he had a name. Maybe if I used his name as a pseudonym, and just inserted a middle initial, or spelled John without an "h." I'd sell a few hundred thousand books, too. Then I might be sitting here watching my movie instead of this guy's.

I got into my car and made the short drive home, still brushing back the occasional tear. I'd just seen my best movie in some time. True, Michael Caine convinced me, but it wasn't that. This had simply been the best story I'd seen on the big screen in years. It was complex in the twists of the plot, simple in its theme of loss of innocence. Why couldn't I come up with a story like that? I know I could have written a story dealing with classic notions of illegitimate birth and abortion and the coming of age of a young man during the period when his country was also coming of age. It was a good thing I was single, or else my date would be looking at a wimp who couldn't control his emotions while he whined that he was never going to be able to write like that. It was just the sort of thing she would want to hear.

As I waited for my computer to boot up, I went to my bookcase and pulled out "A Widow For One Year." I opened it to the page displaying the author's body of work. Sure enough, there it was, "The Cider House Rules." I closed the book and put it back. My computer was ready. I opened the file containing the fragments of what, I suddenly wasn't sure. I stared at the blank screen, silently worshiping John Irving. I turned my head away, sick. I studied my bed. The corners of the crisp sheets were tucked tightly, hospital-bed style. The soft, fluffy shams and pillows stood erect against the headboard. The native American quilt lay smooth and flat across the mattress. I thought of the woman in the ticket line. By now, her glazed-eyed lover boy was probably getting more than he deserved. Movies: what a waste of time and money.