Fiction by Lois Anne DeLong
Rita’s feet hurt. She had been patrolling the aisles since the theatre opened at ten that morning. Outside, New York City had begun celebrating the end of 1939 hours ago. But here, in this dark hall, there was no sense of anything new coming into being. And, by the time Rita re-entered the real world, the big moment would be over. 1940 would already be in motion.
Meanwhile, here in the Roxy Theatre, where the walls weep paint from its glory days before the Great Depression, the only meaning time had was how much more of the film was left to unspool. Rita guessed it had perhaps another 15 minutes to go. A different film might have helped the time pass quicker. Down the street, they were showing “Raffles,” starring David Niven as a charming jewel thief. Here it was the day’s sixth showing of “Another Thin Man,” the third installment of a film series that, in Rita’s mind at least, was wearing thin. Really, she thought, how many times can you watch Myrna Loy and William Powell make elegant chit chat?
“Hey, William, I could use a martini about now,” she said under her breath, as Powell, in the guise of detective Nick Charles, was prepping yet another drink on the screen. “Come on,” the fictional conversation continued, “It’s New Year’s Eve, for Pete’s sake. Why does everyone get to lift a glass but me?”
As she braced herself against the wall to take some stress off her aching legs, Rita found herself beginning to doze off. At one point, she barely caught herself from pitching forward onto the threadbare carpet. Like other elements of the once beautiful Roxy, the rug had seen better days. The city may have recovered from the Depression, but the Roxy reaped no such benefits. She brushed a hand across the wall of the small alcove, near the exit sign and the shedding paint fell like leaden rain. Rita was grateful for the job—shift work like this made it possible for her to continue her studies— but it certainly wasn’t the most pleasant place to spend one’s days.
As she lightly stomped her feet to reduce the tingles, she found herself questioning every decision in her young life. She let out a sigh as she acknowledged how much easier it would have been if she had accepted Allen’s earnest proposal and become a New Jersey housewife. Instead, she had chosen to continue her slog toward a degree that did not even guarantee her a job, and a life in one room of a boarding house so small she knew all the intimate details of her neighbors’ sex lives.
The back door of the theatre opened quietly and Charley, the manager, stepped in. Rita moved into the aisle to be sure she was seen. Charley hated it when the staff sat during their shifts. He must have seen her at her post, because he waved vaguely in her direction and then shut the door behind him. A lifelong bachelor, with no family to speak of, the Roxy seemed to be Charley’s whole world, and it was a world he guarded with surprising ferocity. Rita didn’t like him much, but she had to admit he was fair, and everything he asked of his staff was designed to keep the marquee lit. For all this, he had earned her grudging respect in recent days.
Rita walked back a few aisles and as she did, each step reminded how long she had kept her vigil by the exit. She contemplated heading up to the balcony now to get a head start on clean-up. But, there were dangers in the dark up there, from tripping on the stairs to being groped by the drifters who used the balcony as their own personal flophouse. Instead, she decided to sit out the last few frames of the film. Charley be damned, she thought. As she sat down, the rush of blood through her weary legs was as refreshing as one of the ice-cold bottles of Coca-Cola chilling by the snack bar.
A quick check of her watch revealed that 1940 was only seconds away. What would that year hold? And, would she still be celebrating the start of 1941 within these walls? She was too tired to contemplate the answers to such questions. Instead, she watched William, Myrna, and their surprisingly intelligent dog solve yet another mystery. As the credits began to roll, she wondered if Charley might want to have a drink when they finished closing up. There was a New Year to welcome and neither of them had anywhere else to go.
Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and an active member of the Woodside Writers literary forum. Her work has appeared in Dear Booze, Short Beasts, Bright Flash Literary Journal, The Bluebird Word, and DarkWinter Literary Journal.
