Scarlett Crosses

    Blustering winds carry the city’s garbage from one alley to the next. A muddy spring marks the onset of endless showers. Freezing rain that coats the buildings with a filament of ice and despair, praying for warm sunlight soon.

           Accompanied by a derelict shopping cart, a displaced man covers himself with a used garbage bag and presses on past the storefronts of Northport Street. He is emaciated and worn down. His gray and black hair, damp in the early spring rain, resembles a cobweb that covers much of his tired face.

           The winds are too strong. Harsh blades of frostbite rip apart his tough skin left bare from holes in the garbage bag. Clothes that he found in the dumpster behind a newly constructed high-rise are far too thin for weather like this.

           Around the next corner is the Méliès Theater. A chic, sandstone structure hidden amongst a concrete jungle. Untouched for a century, the theater’s foggy frames boast a showing of classic films from the man’s yesteryears, as well as modern darlings.

           He eyes the door for one moment longer than he knows he should.

           A woman in black and white attire with a red bowtie rushes to the front door. The man quickly gathers his cart and pushes it hastily into the oncoming rain towards Geoff Street.

           “Wait!” The woman calls out.

           The man pauses. “I was just leaving.” He calls back. “Sorry.”

           “No.” She says, braving the weather and approaching the man. “It’s awful outside. Don’t you want to come in?”

           “No money.” The man simply says.

           He turns to face her. Angelic and kind. A soft glow around her red hair. Puffy white cheeks floating beneath seafoam eyes. “Don’t worry about that. Come inside, please.”

           The man is hesitant. “Kind of you. Won’t your boss get mad?”

           She refuses to answer. The woman grabs hold of the man’s shopping cart and parks it beneath the theater awning. “Come.”

           Frightened, the man steps through the grand double doors.

           The theater itself a sight. High beam cathedral ceilings, hand brushed oil murals across every wall, a single lacquered bar coated in buttery popcorn and spilled candies. Memories of the man’s youth pour in as the odor of the bar overpowers his own scent.

           “Stay as long as you like.” The woman says as she closes the door behind him. “I can get you a coat.”

           “No.” The man says emphatically. “I’ll leave when the rain does.”

           “Could be a while.” She says, staring out at the dark clouds that roll over the city like ocean waves. “Have a seat, at least.”

           The Man looks about the foyer. A bar and a bathroom, a lounge and a ticket booth. There are no seats. He can feel the puzzlement write itself across his haggard expression.

           “This way.” The woman says with a gentle caress of his arm.

           She leads him towards the ticket booth, and the man panics.

“No money.” He whispers. The woman either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore him.

           With a wave of her hand, the ticket booth attendee nods. The woman walks through. The man staggers forward, petrified. When the attendee nods at him, his heart nearly bursts.

           “This way.” The woman beckons him. “Theater One.”

           Confused, the man steps into the theater and takes the farthest corner seat of the row furthest from the screen. There are only a dozen people here. Hundreds of empty seats stare at the silver screen, vacant of feeling.

           “Enjoy.” He hears the woman say before disappearing behind the closed door.

           The man adjusts his deteriorating garbs and tries to find comfort in the old wood chairs, bolstered to the slanted floor by rusty bolts. The theater is a makeshift ballroom. There are emptied stone balconies and luscious red drapes all about. A large pipe organ sits near the front. The plush cushioning on every seat carries a strange odor that reminds him of the seventies.

           Abstract. Non-linear. Experimental. Avant Garde.

            These are words the man has heard before. These are words he thinks might describe the film he is watching.

           It is not an old film. It is copywritten to this year. The colors and definition of the image are supernatural – beyond his eyes' ability to interpret properly. Overly saturated and highly contoured and forcefully deepened. It is both artificial and somehow evocative.

           The story feels incoherent. There is a man and woman having sex. The man is excited by this at first, then frightened as the sex turns into something more visceral and violent. Stills of decapitated heads and crucified bodies are interlaced with coital shots. The blood on screen is brighter than the blood the man sees in the allies or in any of his previous lives. On screen, it is viscous and pinkish and almost charming. There are several gasps from the audience when the woman in bed stabs her partner.

           A flashback. The main character is flying in first class to a foreign country. The man in the theater thinks on this. He knows not what the inside of a modern plane looks like. He does not recognize the architecture of the city the man has landed in. It is awe inspiring – a bright purple sunset vista eclipsed by a sea of skyscrapers.

           It is a love story, in some ways. And the man recognizes this but knows that it is not Guys and Dolls.

           There is a great deal of action in the film, but the man knows that it is not Ben-Hur.

           Sex and degeneracy plague every scene. The man is not incensed by this, but he also knows that it is not The Postman Always Rings Twice. 

           The language on screen is indecipherable. Not the words – he understands the dialog perfectly fine, oblique modern references and all – but the visual patterns. The erratic splicing of images, the confusing juxtaposition of stories, the bombastic sounds and disarming music, the characters screaming at the camera and the special effects consuming the backdrop.

           As the film draws to its climax, there are baited breaths across the theater. Couples squeeze one another tightly. Several viewers are taking notes on small pads of paper or in their phones. The man cannot take his eyes off the screen. The message is muddled and the themes are a mystery, yet this film has taken a hold of him.

           There are tears.

           Before the film can resolve all of its loose ends, the man openly weeps. Petrified he will be asked to leave, he buries his face in his filthy garbs and mutes his sickly breath. Yet tears continue as the pace of the film quickens. More harsh imagery. Flashbacks reveal the main character – now presumably dead – was incognito from the start.

           The final frame of the film shows a displaced man, faintly resembling the main character, wandering the streets of an empty city and holding up a sign that reads The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth.

           Credits begin to roll over a black screen. The rest of the audience quickly gather their things and make for the exit.

           Bereft, the man remains in his seat and openly weeps through the credits, well until the house lights are turned on. Custodians begin cleaning up while the man continues to wipe his face with his leathery hands.

           A soft spirit sits beside the man once the custodians have finished.

           “What did you think?” The woman from before asks.

           The man struggles to find words. There are no articulate ways to describe what he has experienced. He is overwhelmed, both overjoyed and overwrought with emotions. He manages to shake his head and wipe away more tears.

           “Yes. That seems to be the common experience with this film.”

           “What’s it called?” The Man asks.

           “Scarlett Crosses.” The woman says. “A pun, I think. Did you like it?”

           “Very much. But I didn’t understand it.”

           “Such is art, often times. Or so they say. Does it bother you to not understand it?”

           He shakes his head, and the woman smiles.

           “Why did you let me in?” The man asks.

           She thinks on this, and then shrugs. “Because you wanted to come in.”

           “Out of the rain?”

           The woman shakes her head. “You wanted to see it. Just like everyone else.”

           “I’ve never heard of it until now.”

            “But you wanted to be a part of something. And why shouldn’t you be a part of this?”

           “I haven’t any money. I haven’t a home or anywhere else to go.”

           “And that’s why you should be here.”

           The man stops and wonders for a long time. He can think of nothing else to say to that. The images of the film are still etched into his mind. “Why did the film look like that?”

           “Look like what?”

           “…Loud. It looked very busy and bright and loud.”

           “That’s how films are nowadays.”

           “Is that why everyone was wearing masks?”

           “Masks? Those were simply their faces.”

           “Where did the story take place?”

           “Right here, in this city.”

           “Did they film it here?”

           “Not at all.”

           “I see. Have you watched this film yet?”

           She beams. “Many times over.”

           “Do you like it?”

           “I did, but I’m growing to hate it the more I watch it.”

           “I’m glad you let me see it.”

           The woman looks away. She is deep in thought over something the man has said.

           “Who are you?” He asks her.

           “I’m just an usher.” She says.

           “Do you have a name?”

           “Not anymore.” Her seafoam eyes glisten; almost a unnatural color.

           They both stare at a lone kernel of dirty popcorn left in the aisle.

           “When was the last time you saw a film?” The usher asks the man.

           “When was The Ten Commandments?”

           “No wonder you’re so confused.”

           “Who knew a movie could change so much.” The man says. “Beyond my understanding.”

           “You sell yourself short.” The usher assures him. “You are as sentient as anyone else here, and you are all the more human for what you have endured. You merit the fruits of art greater than most and yet are robbed of that joy every day. You needn’t go hungry or die of thirst while these dilettantes suffer meaning gladly.”

           His voice compelled and brash now. “But I am but one meager soul."

"Amidst a torrent of thirst." She said. "Craven is the vessel that seeks to find answers in another’s work. Desperation is what guides them, and leads them here every week.”

"Desperation or hope."

           “Do you envy them?” The usher asks.

           “I pity them.” The man says. “There can be no other feeling in greater contrast with what we may experience every time someone subjects us to their expression. Pity those who do not take solace in the space between where we end, and the subject begins.”

           “Then why did you weep? If not for understanding and not for pity, then why would a noble vagrant waste good sympathy on the pompous artist and careless witnesses?”

           “For the same reason you invited me in, usher. For the sheer ecstasy of feeling. Feeling at all.”

           The man and the usher sit muted until the next batch of ingrates meander in. Finally, the usher leans over to pick up the stale piece of popcorn and tosses it in the garbage can behind them.

           “Would you like a fresh batch before the next screening?” She asks.

           Renewed, the man smiles. “Butter and salt, please.”