Dark Films And Flapdowns

Chip had made a mental note of the car’s registration number, which was not too difficult, seeing that he possessed a photographic memory. He had seen it mow down a zebra-crossing full of schoolkids and imagined the carnage, if it had actually hit. Later, as the cinema reduced in noise, the credits of the main feature slowly scrolled. Chip was cramped behind a tall misshapen head which bobbed about to gain a clear view between further obstructions further beyond. Even the long-beamed torch that sporadically dodged its path of light towards the emptier seats at the front failed to pry into the nature of various obstructions. Chip wondered why the flapdown seats were not more tiered than they were. He returned his attention to his steady who was beginning to wipe off her lipstick. He was not self-conscious about snogging, since they had their backs to the usherette’s partition, so no patrons could complain of Chip and his steady coming together in front of the screen. People were arriving all the time, others leaving. Many had already departed amid the throes of this B film - maybe the point in the film when they had first come in. Chip failed to understand how they were able to enjoy a film back to front, as it were. He yearned for the Single Performance days of an intangible future, beyond the Sixties, when everyday colour would be more common. But why should it matter? Especially when one wasn’t here for the films in the first place. Chip felt a hand upon his knee, sending a tingle to every extremity. Puckering his lips, he took one last longing look at the black-and-white screenful of images - noticing that the patrons immediately in front were now much lower in their seats, eyes in the backs of their heads, or so he thought in a moment of misplaced paranoia. Yet he could not be sure, since the main feature film was light-faded. He vaguely remembered (as far as a photographic memory can remember vaguely) a poster outside - and some framed stills of dark shots. Wondering why such things were put outside (for they could only serve to deter), he shut his own eyes and waited for the hand to travel from his knee, before he gave himself over to a heavy session of petting... A sudden screech and bloodcurdling squeals sounded from outside, during the quiet romantic moments of the film with the actors half-asleep. Chip quickly untangled himself from the tentacles of snogging and dashed, via the foyer, into the street. His eyeballs were seared by the as ever unexpected daylight. This was where he remembered having come in. But now in colour - and more than real. Hit and run.

(published 'Atsatrohn' 1993)