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As they turned away to the candy-stand, Jack stuffing the
one into the pocket of his grimy jeans, the ticket-girl mouthed to the counterman: Look at his nose!
Jack looked at Wolf and saw Wolf ’s nose flaring rhythmi-
cally.
“Stop that,” he muttered.
“Stop what, Jack?”
“Doing that thing with your nose.”
“Oh. I’ll try, Jack, but—”
“Shh.”
“Help you, son?” the counterman asked.
“Yes, please. A Junior Mints, a Reese’s Pieces, and an
extra-large popcorn without the grease.”
The counterman got the stuff and pushed it across to them.
Wolf got the tub of popcorn in both hands and immediately
began to snaffle it up in great jaw-cracking chomps.
The counterman looked at this silently.
“Doesn’t get off the farm much,” Jack repeated. Part of
him was already wondering if these two had seen enough of
sufficient oddness to get them thinking that a call to the police might be in order. He thought—not for the first time—that
there was a real irony in all this. In New York or L.A., probably no one would have given Wolf a second look . . . or if a second look, certainly not a third. Apparently the weirdness-toleration level was a lot lower out in the middle of the country. But, of course, Wolf would have flipped out of his gourd long since if they had been in New York or L.A.
“I’ll bet he don’t,” the counterman said. “That’ll be two-
eighty.”
Jack paid it with an inward wince, realizing he had just
laid out a quarter of his cash for their afternoon at the movies.
Wolf was grinning at the counterman through a mouthful
of popcorn. Jack recognized it as Wolf ’s A #1 Friendly Smile, but he somehow doubted that the counterman was seeing it
that way. There were all those teeth in that smile . . . hundreds of them, it seemed.
And Wolf was flaring his nostrils again.
Screw it, let them call the cops, if that’s what they want to do, he thought with a weariness that was more adult than child. It can’t slow us down much more than we’re slowed down already. He can’t ride in the new cars because he can’t
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stand the smell of the catalytic convertors and he can’t ride in old cars because they smell like exhaust and sweat and oil and beer and he probably can’t ride in any cars because he’s so goddam claustrophobic. Tell the truth, Jack-O, even if it’s only to yourself. You’re going along telling yourself he’s going to get over it pretty soon, but it’s probably not going to happen. So what are we going to do? Walk across Indiana, I guess. Correction, Wolf is going to walk across Indiana. Me, I’m going to cross Indiana riding horseyback. But first I’m going to take Wolf into this damn movie theater and sleep either until both pictures are over or until the cops arrive. And that is the end of my tale, sir.
“Well, enjoy the show,” the counterman said.
“You bet,” Jack replied. He started away and then realized
Wolf wasn’t with him. Wolf was staring at something over the counterman’s head with vacant, almost superstitious wonder.
Jack looked up and saw a mobile advertising the re-issue of Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters floating around on drafts of convection.
“Come on, Wolf,” he said.
8
Wolf knew it wasn’t going to work as soon as they went
through the door.
The room was small, dim, and dank. The smells in here
were terrible. A poet, smelling what Wolf was smelling at that moment, might have called it the stink of sour dreams. Wolf was no poet. He only knew that the smell of the popcorn-urine predominated, and that he felt suddenly like throw-
ing up.
Then the lights began to dim even further, turning the
room into a cave.
“Jack,” he moaned, clutching at Jack’s arm. “Jack, we
oughtta get out of here, okay?”
“You’ll like it, Wolf,” Jack muttered, aware of Wolf ’s distress but not of its depth. Wolf was, after all, always distressed to some degree. In this world, the word distress defined him.
“Try it.”
“Okay,” Wolf said, and Jack heard the agreement but not
the thin waver that meant Wolf was holding on to the last
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thread of his control with both hands. They sat down with
Wolf on the aisle, his knees accordioned up uncomfortably,
the tub of popcorn (which he no longer wanted) clutched to
his chest.
In front of them a match flared briefly yellow. Jack smelled the dry tang of pot, so familiar in the movies that it could be dismissed as soon as identified. Wolf smelled a forest-fire.
“Jack—!”
“Shhh, picture’s starting.”
And I’m dozing off.
Jack would never know of Wolf ’s heroism in the next few
minutes; Wolf did not really know of it himself. He only knew that he had to try to stick this nightmare out for Jack’s sake. It must be all right, he thought, look, Wolf, Jack’s going right to sleep, right to sleep right here and now. And you know Jack wouldn’t take you to a Hurt-Place, so just stick it out . . . just wait . . . Wolf! . . . it’ll be all right . . .
But Wolf was a cyclic creature, and his cycle was ap-
proaching its monthly climax. His instincts had become ex-
quisitely refined, almost undeniable. His rational mind told him that he would be all right in here, that Jack wouldn’t have brought him otherwise. But that was like a man with an itchy nose telling himself not to sneeze in church because it was impolite.
He sat there smelling forest-fire in a dark, stinking cave, twitching each time a shadow passed down the aisle, waiting numbly for something to fall on him from the shadows overhead. And then a magic window opened at the front of the
cave and he sat there in the acrid stink of his own terror-
sweat, eyes wide, face a mask of horror, as cars crashed and overturned, as buildings burned, as one man chased another.
“Previews,” Jack mumbled. “Told you you’d like it. . . .”
There were Voices. One said nosmoking. One said don’t litter. One said groupratesavailable. One said Bargain Matinee-priceseveryweekdayuntilfourp.m.
“Wolf, we got screwed,” Jack mumbled. He started to say
something else, but it turned into a snore.
A final voice said andnowourfeaturepresentation and that was when Wolf lost control. Bakshi’s The Lord of the Rings was in Dolby sound, and the projectionist had orders to really
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crank it in the afternoons, because that’s when the heads
drifted in, and the heads really liked loud Dolby.
There was a screeching, discordant crash of brass. The
magic window opened again and now Wolf could see the fire—shifting oranges and reds.
He howled and leaped to his feet, pulling with him a Jack
who was more asleep than awake.
“Jack!” he screamed. “Get out! Got to get out! Wolf! See the fire! Wolf! Wolf! ”
“Down in front!” someone shouted.
“Shut up, hoser!” someone else yelled.
The door at the back of Cinema 6 opened. “What’s going
on in here?”
“Wolf, shut up!” Jack hissed. “For God’s sake—”
“OWWWWWW-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Wolf howled.
A woman got a good look at Wolf as the white light from
the lobby fell on him. She screamed and began dragging her
little boy out by one arm. Literally dragging him; the kid had fallen to his knees and was skidding up the popcorn-littered carpet of the center aisle. One of his sneakers had come off.
“OWWWWWWWW-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHH-
HHH-HHOOOOOOHHHHOOOOOO!”
The pothead three rows down had turned around and was
looking at them with bleary interest. He held a smouldering joint in one hand; a spare was cocked behind his ear. “Far . . .
out,” he pronounced. “Fucking werewolves of London strike again, right?”
“Okay,” Jack said. “Okay, we’ll get out. No problem.
Just . . . just don’t do that anymore, okay? Okay?”
He started leading Wolf out. The weariness had fallen over
him again.
The light of the lobby hit his eyes sharply, needling them.
The woman who had dragged the little boy out of the theater was backed into a corner with her arms around the kid. When she saw Jack lead the still-howling Wolf through the double doors of Cinema 6, she swept the kid up and made a break
for it.
The counterman, the ticket-girl, the projectionist, and a tall man in a sportcoat that looked as if it belonged on the back of
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a racetrack tout were clustered together in a tight little group.
Jack supposed the guy in the checkered sportcoat and white
shoes was the manager.