Changeover

Tom was a projectionist, one of a rare few, and he got there through unwavering determination and a series of acts that left people in his wake. His best friend Jake, who had been next in line for more than one job. His on-again, off-again longtime girlfriend, Sandra. By the time it was over, there was no one left to argue it.

And for what, to wait for the little dot, the reel nearing its end, and start the next of five or six reels. To keep the seamless flow of the story flickering before the audience’s eyes. How did it start. When did he lose all perspective.

Tom had tried running a digital projector once, but even the dust in the beam was different. He felt he would soon be replaced by a Roomba. When he heard from Jake that a new film cinema was opening, he found himself changing his route to check on the building’s progress. One day there was a marquee. The Astor Picture House.

This was not going to be an easy get. Every reel flipper from here to Cleveland was going to go after that job. He’d even heard a Milanese projectionist, Giovanni Mezzaluna, was flying in for the interview. It kept Tom up at night, trying to figure out how to get an advantage.

Jake told Tom he thought the job was his. He said it plainly, without bravado. But when Tom sat down with the interviewer at the Astor, Jake’s name came up. Tom said Jake was strictly digital.

Jake did know digital systems. Everyone did by then. It sounded smaller when Tom said it aloud. He mentioned it casually to Jake afterward, as if it were nothing.

It wasn’t.

Sandra was drowning in loneliness. Tom missed dates, forgot to call when he got home, and when they were together it wasn’t much better. She was being worn down by his ambition.

Isn’t it enough that you work almost every night?
My job takes place at night.
Aren’t there daytime projectionists?

There was little Tom could do to explain the depth of it. The sound of film rattling through bright light. The warmth coming off the lamp. The vibration in the room behind the audience. The reflection in the projection-room glass, a miniature version of the larger flickering story unfolding on the screen. Some films asked more of you. Not just more reels. More care.

There were quiet films and dark ones. Old prints arrived wound backward and needed gentle handling on the bench. Sometimes the director or an actress sat somewhere in the back of the theater. Once, Tom was sure he saw Amos Poe, slouched low in a rear seat. Sometimes Tom could feel it. This was a special screening. He never told anyone, but he made sure the transitions were seamless and the sound was full but never peaked. A low screening was a death knell for any film. When people could really hear their own thoughts in the dark, they started following them out of the movie. Worse than candy wrappers. Worse than screen talkers.

Like the midnight screening of The Elephant Man at the Astor. The last show of the night. A man in the middle of the theater kept repeating, John is fucked up. John is really fucked up. That was not bad, Tom thought. The people around him seemed to agree. It reassured them that they might not be.

Sometimes there are things you love so deeply you want to share the with friends, with lovers, with family.but when you try, they just can’t see it.

Tom interviewed for the job and brought his meticulous records. Films, screenings, theaters. Dates, gauges, notes about prints that arrived brittle or needed careful sound levels. He composed the follow-up email late at night, revising it sentence by sentence, the glow of the screen faint but insistent.

He listed the films the way he always did, not as taste but as proof. Work done cleanly, end to end.

Late Spring.The Match Factory Girl. The Passenger. A Man Escaped.Pale Flower. Performance.

All 35mm. All run without incident. He added a line about careful handling, precise changeovers, attention to sound and pacing. He deleted a sentence about the booth heat. It sounded indulgent.

He referenced Jake once. In a separate line. He noted that Jake had participated on select screenings in a support capacity, assisting with sound checks and digital coordination when required. The phrasing was careful. Neutral. It wasn’t false. It was just incomplete.

He hovered over Pale Flower and added a parenthetical about additional booth support during sound checks. It read technical.  He closed the laptop quickly after sending.

Weeks passed with no word. Doubt set in. Tom started sitting in his car across the street from the Astor Picture House. He left it parked there, night after night.

Sandra departed back to Wisconsin to see her mother. Her mother had always thought dating a projectionist was asking for trouble. Sandra final concurred, yelling I would rather live in Siberia than with a man who only wants to be in the dark.

Tom had tried to clarify what his job really was. He told himself there would be another act. Something would intervene and she would come back around.

He watched for the owner of the Astor close the theater exit the building. The marquee went dark. No one was around.

Finally she exited and  and stood with someone for a moment. Tom leaned forward to see who it was, It was Jake.

The owner and Jake spoke briefly. She laughed. Jake nodded. She reached out and touched his arm. Not ceremonially.

Tom stayed where he was.

The owner locked up and walked off with Jake, their voices fading down the block. Rain started to fall, light at first, then steadier, collecting on the windshield. The city lights broke up in it, street lamps, traffic signals, a few open storefronts.

Tom sat there as the light moved across him. Red, then white, then green. The glass turned the street into a screen. The images falling across his hands, his jacket, his face.

He had tried to switch things, anticipating the moment, preparing the changeover. But he had been watching the wrong mark.