Gertie

Gertie felt old. She sat by the edge of the pond, pondering her life. She’d made it this far, and most days, she didn’t mind her age. She stood up, listening to her joints popping. There was no way she was going to sneak up on someone these days, she thought to herself wryly. Brushing the dirt off her butt, she felt the ache in her hip begin. Slowly, she started to move, lifting first her right foot and then her left, easing the pain in her hip slightly, wobbling with the effort.

At the beginning, he had told her what to do, how to dance. She loved how he guided her steps, her movements. She had chased others off, wanting all his attention for herself. She stood in the center of the screen, waiting for his next request, willing him to want her for who she could be. Who she was had not been important at the start. Gertie was built from his imagination. Her height, her long neck, her large but graceful feet, all came from the depths of his mind. That had been a long time ago. They had talked and eventually understood each other, who they were, and the roles they played.

What Gertie had learned in time was that it wasn’t the character he seemed to draw out, but rather the way and the timing that had made the difference. Shuffling along, she arrived at the bus stop and sat heavily on the bench. Back in the day, she had been the darling, the first of her kind to do what she did. And what she did was tell stories, simple stories. Of course, she was only following his lead, listening to his instructions. The camera had captured it all, and she was proud of her, of their work. People had admired her and were amazed at what she could do. She had held her head high as she smiled at the memory of her fame.

Eventually, she had let her humility slip away. Time had moved on, and so had the man. No longer were her simple stories and dances enough. He wanted to tell bigger stories using newer, more impressive techniques. The man had moved on, but Gertie stayed by the pond, in her comfort zone, convinced she would always be watched and wanted.

The bus screeched and let out a “humph” as it pulled up to the stop. She struggled to get up. She had sat still too long, and her bones and joints had gotten stiff again. She grabbed the rail and pulled herself up the bus steps. The driver looked at her patiently while she pulled out her pass. She waddled down the aisle and collapsed into a seat. The dust and pollen clouded her window view as she caught her breath.

The bus screeched and “humphed” again as it pulled to her stop. As she walked down the street, she passed a dog sitting with his chin on the windowsill, his nose sticking out of the window. His eyes dashed back and forth, surveying the neighborhood for intruders, aliens, and delivery trucks. Jumping to his feet, he whined, then barked loudly as Gertie passed.

“Do I know you?” Gertie asked out loud as she walked by. She was not entirely sure if the question was meant for the dog, herself, or the universe in general. Her mind yearned to go back to that place where she had lived so long ago. Who she was or who she had been was still on her mind as she approached the building.

The theater was old and empty. It had once been a jewel of Hollywoodland when her star had glimmered. Her mind went back to that place where she had felt so comfortable so long ago. In time, the moving pictures had changed and so had her world. It wasn’t his fault. He had just been doing his job. As part of his imagination, she had faded and merged into other projects, other adventures. He had not re-imagined her as anything different, and she had stayed a dinosaur.

Now, nearly eighty years after it showed its last silent movie, it stood empty, abandoned, and discarded. She went to the back of the building and forced open the unlocked door. All around the entrance, the unhoused had strewn sleeping bags and dirty blankets, bags of discarded fast food and cigarette butts, bottles of sodas and booze. She shuffled her way through the debris, remnants of lives that clung to what memories and sometimes hope still remained.

She proceeded to the front where the silver screen somehow still managed to hang cockeyed over the stage. The footlights had long stopped lighting the actors unfolding their stories. Gertie sat in one of the few chairs that remained. Her breath was measured, and her heart beat rapidly. She stretched out her thick legs. Her eyes fluttered. A slight glow emanated from the screen. She blinked, and the moving picture slowly came into focus.

At first, it was blurry, but then the black and white images took shape, and she saw herself on the screen. Gerties was beside a pond. She faced the audience. The man was small and stood to one side of the image. She heard the man say, “Now lift your right foot,” and watched herself obey. “Now, lift your left foot.” In the background, she saw a rival meander into the picture. Not wanting to lose the scene to a mere underling, she saw a hesitantly slight, mischievous smile take over her lips. With a swift, somewhat clumsy move, Gertie managed to push the upstart into the pond.

The man was upset. He called her naughty and chastised her. She then lifted her left foot as requested and grinned. The man seemed delighted now, and he praised her. The motion picture ended.

Usually, in her memory, the curtain closed, and she came back to the empty cinema and the dirt and filth of her everyday life. But this time, it was different. The silver glow shone brighter than she had ever remembered. This time, as she watched, her eyes stayed open. She followed the light and let it guide her. She was done. The theater was silent, and the screen’s glow faded until the silver shine was dark.