The Projectionist
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University of New Orleans ScholarWorks@UNO University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations Dissertations and Theses 5-16-2008 The Projectionist David Parker Jr. University of New Orleans Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td Recommended Citation Parker, David Jr., "The Projectionist" (2008). University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations. 662. https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td/662 This Thesis is protected by copyright and/or related rights. It has been brought to you by ScholarWorks@UNO with permission from the rights-holder(s). You are free to use this Thesis in any way that is permitted by the copyright and related rights legislation that applies to your use. For other uses you need to obtain permission from the rights- holder(s) directly, unless additional rights are indicated by a Creative Commons license in the record and/or on the work itself. This Thesis has been accepted for inclusion in University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks@UNO. For more information, please contact [email protected]. The Projectionist A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the University of New Orleans in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Film, Theatre, and Communication Arts Creative Writing By David Parker Jr. B.A. Hampden-Sydney College, 1994 May, 2008 For the Angel in the fountain. ii Acknowledgments So many people helped me bring forward this body of work – and to them all I offer my sincerest thanks. First, of course, to my family for their unfailing support and long distance power hours – great love and respect to the tribes of Parker, Adams, Sparks, and Featherston. To my mentors, Joseph and Amanda Boyden, navigators of perpetual motion – it has been a delight and an honor to ride with you in the bar cars of the world. Thank you for your encouragement, honesty, and dedication. In the pantheon of Parker, you are wordsmiths and skinny dippers of the highest caliber. Huge thanks to Joanna Leake and Rick Barton, not only for your time and thoughtful instruction, but for helping guide the entire CWW when the levees broke, and for steering us home again. Humble thanks to Jim Wilcox and the writers at LSU who treated me so generously during the evacuation. Great admiration and gratitude go to my remarkable peers who live in Fox Holes, Houses of SIN, and Pirate Ships. Who tell futures and fortunes by reading key rings, palms, poetry, and the bottoms of empty Jameson bottles. Who make movies of ghosts and run with bulls. Who drink sunset gin beside the shallow lake, dance at One-Eyed Jacks, call themselves Number Wonders, and repeatedly flummox the Fairhope Police Department. Chrys, Lish, Casey, Jason, Barb, Jen, Arin, Rachel, Erin, Trisha, Jessica, Missy, AC, Nicole, Jeni, Pete, Brad. I will remember you always the way you looked at prom. To the Compound crew and the IHOJ hurlers of flaming arrows – you are a constant source of fear and amazement. To Alison – I live in admiration of your guns, your kung fu, your shoe collection, and your remarkable grace. To JC, Jeff, Janice, Ride, Karissa, Leonard, Lee, and Chris – you were right to lock me in the closet. Thank you. To crazy Julie, seer of angels – your freestyle is so whack. To Patty, the teacher and inspiration that brought me back to this crazy place – I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay. To Don Guillermo, explorer of distant worlds – thank you for the safe passage. Last, but certainly not least, thanks to Sunday Shae, killer of piñatas, for her enthusiasm and her support over these past months. Your tree house full of music, and your fridge full of wine have been sources of great nurture and inspiration. iii I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies, but not the madness of people. - Sir Isaac Newton iv Table of Contents i. The Projectionist ........................................................................................................... 2 Trouble With Girls Who Bite ..................................................................................... 29 Jonesy O’Neil is Dead .................................................................................................. 46 The Johnny Damn Show ............................................................................................. 65 ii. Scavenger’s Waltz ....................................................................................................... 86 Pale Hand, Rock Steady ............................................................................................ 104 iii. Tribe of the Mole ....................................................................................................... 117 The Velocity of Ed ..................................................................................................... 140 Tripwire ..................................................................................................................... 169 Boogie Music .............................................................................................................. 191 iv. As the Crow Flies....................................................................................................... 200 Jar of Teeth ................................................................................................................ 217 Singularity ................................................................................................................. 236 v i. In an expanding universe, time is on the side of the outcast. Those who once inhabited the suburbs of human contempt find that without changing their address they eventually live in the metropolis. - Quentin Crisp 1 The Projectionist The sky was made of crushed violets, and Franky Whitman sailed down Tenth Street, gliding on a perfumed breeze toward the Metropolis Theater with its crumbling art deco façade and its lighted marquis announcing the classic film of the week: Desire, with Marlene Dietrich and Gary Cooper. This was one of those days that Franky was happy to be dying. His heart contracted and expanded smoothly, pumping blood and morphine through his body, making the world seem magical to him, bizarre, as if he were walking through a surrealist vision. He imagined his pink heart floating down the street ahead of him as the buildings veered overhead at beautiful angles. Tenth Street lay like a worn ribbon between rows of small unhealthy sugar maples that grew from planters set into the sidewalks on either side of the road. Franky wondered if the girls were nearby, his strange angels. He saw them here quite often these days, lurking among the storefronts, peering at him when they thought he wasn‟t looking. Franky walked toward the front doors of the Metropolitan Theater where he was the projectionist, a position he had occupied for more than thirty years now, since he was a boy in high school. At the doorway he paused and glanced around. Sure enough, there they were – the strange angels, slipping into a doorway down the block. He only got a glimpse of them, but he recognized the tangle of dark hair, the clunky dark sunglasses, the way the angels were drawn in sharper contrast to the rest of the scene, as if they were filmed on 16 millimeter film instead of Super 8. Franky thought perhaps they were waiting, ready to take him. Someplace. 2 In the dim light of the projection booth, he often had fantasies about the angels, wondering what it would be like to touch them, to feel their caresses on his face when they finally came for him, to feel their pale arms wrap around him as they drew him into their shadow world. In the theater lobby, Franky would watch pretty girls walk across the carpet with their tickets in their hand, and his body reacted to the warm life that radiated from them. They passed beneath the old crystal chandelier, and Franky would sometimes forget what year it was, what decade it was, as he watched the curves of their bodies move away from him. Time became fluid as he stood at the edge of this lobby, but he always heard the Siren song of the angels somewhere in the distance, filling him with desire. “You‟re late,” Mimi said, standing in the theater lobby as Franky came through the doors. She checked his eyes to see how glassy they were. The glassier the eyes, the slipperier the Franky, and she liked to know what she was dealing with. “Hello, good-lookin,” Franky said, and his eyes looked only moderately glazed, which meant the pain wasn‟t too bad today. “Don‟t sweet talk me,” Mimi said. “There are thirteen people waiting for Desire to begin, and I don‟t have my projectionist.” “Thirteen people?” Franky said, winking at her. “That would be quite a riot,” and he wandered off toward the projection booth, leaving Mimi to scowl after him. He‟s getting worse, she thought. She knew he wandered around the city, hallucinating angels and flowers and god knows what. He often forgot what year it was. 3 And something about his cocktail of cancers and “pain management” medications put him in bizarre states of sexual arousal; last week, after the late show, he had cornered her behind the concession stand again and placed his hand on her hip romantically. “Hello, Kitten,” he said. “How would you like a special tour of the projection booth?” “Unhand me,” Mimi had replied, “you villain.” Mimi knew she could find a new projectionist or even learn to run the booth herself if it came to it. She had a hard enough time keeping this theater open without making her few customers wait around, but