The Doorman

The Doorman

  by William Schrader

  Copyright 2017 William Schrader

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  They also serve who only stand and waite

  John Milton - On His Blindness

  Table of Contents

  Start of The Doorman

  About the author

  Connect with me

  To the Kastasoon that no longer is and, of course, Yasuko

  Shortly before the end of The Cold War

  "Impossible!" Oscar declared. "Mr. Johnstone would never sell!"

  "It's true," Pete replied. "I saw the papers myself."

  "I don't believe it."

  "Whatever. So long as we get paid. I need the money."

  "Me too," Oscar admitted. "My foster child has ringworm."

  So it seemed. For weeks he had been receiving desperate letters from his foster child - children, actually; he was supporting an entire village - complaining about a ringworm infestation and pleading for more money. This Oscar had duly sent. But now, with the Palace in trouble and his bank account empty, he was unable to satisfy their ever increasing demands. Every day he searched his local paper, The Daily Star, for news of the Great African Ringworm Epidemic but, for some reason, found nothing. That all the letters had the same handwriting was not something he had noticed and, even if he had, would never have considered odd or suspicious.

  "Not that again," Pete said, his face screwing up with scorn. "How many times do I have to tell you. It's a scam."

  Although only a student, Pete considered himself a cynic and prided himself on thinking the worst about everyone. Those boxes shopkeepers put out for UNICEF? Straight into their pocket. The only things he believed in were outrageous conspiracies in which top government officials acted in direct opposition to their own interest. Occasionally, especially when high, which was often, his reasoning became so convoluted even he suspected he was spouting nonsense - like the time he found himself arguing that JFK had had himself killed to hide the truth about the Bay Of Pigs.

  "But why?" Oscar asked. "The Palace is his life."

  "What are you, blind? Look around you. This place is a dump."

  Pete had a point. Although once sumptuous, the Palace had long since descended into shabbiness: what little glass remained on the chandelier hung above them like jagged tears engulfed in a gloomy glaucoma of dust and spider webs; the carpet, beaten down by decades of dirty footwear, was a hopscotch of butter and vomit stains; and the marbled ceiling was an ugly measles of colour that, quietly crumbling, fell like the fake fluff of a snow globe.

  The neighbourhood was no better. The short strip of shops whose ethnic otherness - Mueller Meats, O'Neil Cameras, Yip Lee Cleaning, Beaulieu Barbers and the Kiev Cafe - reflected the pioneer origins of Kastasoon was now a retail relic, overwhelmed by the twin cancers of suburbia and superstore. Surrounding them were the scavengers of urban slums: pawnshops and cheque cashing services, greasy spoons and sex toy stores, welfare hotels and sleazy bars where men sold drugs and woman waited to be bought with alcohol.

  "Nonsense! It just needs a little cleaning, that's all."

  A dedicated employee, Oscar was devoted to the Palace and could find no fault with it. All his life, in fact, he had wanted to work there. Dazzled by the magic of movies, he could imagine no higher calling than taking tickets at the Palace and had immediately applied for the position upon graduating from Bible College. Pastor Wilcox had had his doubts, fearful that he might see a stray tit or two but Oscar assured him he only watched children's movies and promised to cover his eyes in the unlikely event the actors kissed.

  "Yeah," Pete sneered, "with an A-bomb."

  As someone who only worked part-time, Pete failed to share Oscar's passion for the Palace. To him, it was just a job, albeit with certain fringe benefits - principally, the ability to steal. Not that he regarded it as such. On the contrary, like waitresses with their tips or bartenders drinking for free, Pete considered theft part of his income. Why else were his wages so low? Tall but thin, he bulked up by wearing several jackets, one on top of another, which, he believed, made him look menacing. Stymied by several splotches of skin, his beard, clustered about his chin, curled out to a point, giving him a stringy, wizardly look.

  "Have you heard?" Louise asked, joining them. "He's selling. To Ziniplex. And we're all going to get a big severance package. One penny for every hour worked!"

  A middle-aged popcorn girl, Louise, like Oscar, had spent the bulk of her life at the Palace but, unlike him, wasn't particularly interested in movies. Just romances, which she consumed in various forms: movies, TV and even books. On the rare occasions when she was not taking a smoke break, she could usually be found sitting behind the Candy Bar reading a Harlequin or the latest copy of Soap Opera Weekly. Often, when Mr. Johnstone was either down at the track "investing" the previous day's take or passed out at his desk in remorse, she would merge her pleasures by smoking at her post and had even been seen using the popcorn box as an ashtray, which had a noticeably negative effect on sales. As for men, several had come her way but none had measured up to the unattainable ideals of her fantasy so, one after another, she had rejected them. For a while, in her early days at the Palace, she had thought that Mr. Johnstone might be her prince but something about his old school sense of style struck her as soft and so, that kernel of love had remained unpopped.

  "Bullshit," Pete replied. "They'd never do that."

  "How do you know?"

  "It's a big company."

  "So?"

  "Big companies don't get that way by giving away money."

  As someone who had spent almost a full year at university, Pete was an expert on everything: history, finance, politics... nothing escaped his critical gaze. Most things, in fact, were just bullshit, lies spun by powerful people to make us accept things as they are. Fortunately for humanity, he saw through it all and resisted in small but powerful ways - like the time he defaced a Conservative candidate's poster by writing 666 on his forehead and the words Today Eckville, Tomorrow Alberta at the bottom.

  Just then Mr. Johnstone emerged from his office carrying a suitcase. The grandson of one of Kastasoon's original settlers, a former farmer turned wheelwright who, largely due to lack of competition, had leapfrogged from the peasantry to a position of power in a single generation, and the son of an alderman who had dreamed of being premier, Mr. Johnstone prided himself on his sophistication: besides wearing a fedora and listening to old jazz, he felt totally at home in the few fancy restaurants his rural metropolis had to offer. In a land where most people considered dinner conversation an oxymoron, restaurants were proud to put the word Family in front of their name and portion size was considered more important than taste, being able to identify the salad fork automatically marked one as an aristocrat - a distinction Mr. Johnstone thoroughly embraced.

  "Can I have your attention please?" he asked, slurring slightly.

  The three employees turned to look at him.

  "As you may know, I've decided to sell."

  "No!" Oscar cried. "Don't do it!"

  "Thanks Oscar," the drunk owner replied, tears forming in his eyes. "You wasted your youth working for me and I appreciate it."

  Expecting similar outbursts from the other employees, Mr. Johnstone paused; getting only silence, he put his suitcase down and took out a tattered but stylish handkerchief.

  "We've had a good run," he said, wiping his eyes. "I did my best and I'm sure you did too but there's just no place for si
ngle screen theatres. Not in today's market. People want more, luxuries like comfortable seats and a screen without slashes. We can't compete with that. So I've sold the theatre to Ziniplex."

  "What about our pay?" Pete asked.

  "That's the tricky part."

  "Tricky?" Louise echoed.

  "I had a lot of debt. Ziniplex took advantage of that."

  "What do you mean?"

  "They're only paying the bank."

  "Fucking corporations," Pete muttered. "Always screwing the little guy."

  "Believe me, I feel bad. You guys are like family to me. More than family really since you didn't leave me. But at least you get to keep your jobs. All you have to do is follow a few rules and regulations. Little things, like wear a uniform and be on time."

  "Uniforms!" Pete exclaimed. "What is this, Nazi Germany?"

  "I'm sorry," Mr. Johnstone said as, attempting to stuff his handkerchief into a pocket, he dropped it onto the floor. "Take what you want. Ziniplex won't know the difference."

  Then, picking up his suitcase, he briefly looked around, tipped his fedora once and headed for the door. Inside his suitcase a pair of half-drunk whiskey bottles clinked quietly.

  A stunned silence settled upon the three employees.

  "Dibs on the cashbox," Pete shouted, racing towards it. But all he found was a note that read: Sorry Pete but it is my theatre.

  "The bastard!" he yelled. "He took his money."

  Unable to find any cash, Pete's thoughts turned to drugs. The First Aid Kit. There might be something good in there. But all he found was a bottle of cough syrup, some Band-Aids and a half-chewed vitamin.

  "Fucking cheapskate!" he cried, flinging the box onto the floor. "What if there was an emergency? A fire or paper cut?"

  "You could use the Band-Aids," Oscar pointed out.

  "That won't get you high."

  Pete opened the cough syrup.

  "This will have to do," he said, and took a big greedy gulp.

  "I claim the Candy Bar!" Louise said as, grabbing a handful of chocolate bars, she took a quick bite of each to establish ownership.

  Just then Dale entered carrying a copy of Swank. Short and muscular, he was obsessed with fitness. Flexing and grunting were so natural to him he did it everywhere he went, in bars and restaurants and while waiting in line, which the people around him often found disconcerting. Not that he cared: spellbound by his body, he assumed others were too and was convinced that any woman who didn't want to have sex with him was a lesbian.

  "What the fuck? Are you nuts? The old guy will have a shit fit."

  "No chance," Louise replied. "He's gone."

  "Gone?" the sleazy projectionist repeated. "Where?"

  "Who knows? But he isn't coming back."

  "What about our pay?"

  "That's gone too."

  "Jesus Fuckin' Christ! I just bought me a new chopper!"

  "Here," Louise said, handing him a cup of pop. "Join the party."

  Dale looked down at the cup in disgust.

  "What am I, some fucking kid?"

  "That's all we got."

  "That's all you got," he said as, pulling a mickey from his pocket, he raised the level of his cup an inch.

  "You drink on the job?" Oscar asked.

  "I can't watch these movies sober."

  "Me too," Pete said, holding up his cup in hope.

  "What the fuck," Dale said. "Might as well. Ain't ever going to see your ugly faces again."

  Splashing a bit of whiskey into their cups, Dale made up for his generosity by silently scowling at each of them. His disapproval made plain, he returned the mickey to his pocket and protectively covered it with the edge of a torn T-shirt.

  "To the future," Pete said, lifting his cup. "Whatever it brings."

  *

  Pete awoke to a horrible headache. Whiskey, pot and cough syrup were clearly a bad combination. Who knew? All about him was darkness.

  They must've gone home, he thought. The bastards. Leaving him passed out in his puke like that.

  Stumbling towards the washroom, he saw a light on in Mr. Johnstone's office.

  "Oscar?" he asked, pushing open the door.

  Lying on the desk with her skirt pushed up to her waist, was Louise; between her legs and pounding furiously was Dale, his beefy buttocks taut with tension.

  "Harley!" he shouted, and sprayed her with his biker seed.

  Unable to move, Pete stood and stared.

  Still stiff inside her, Dale looked up.

  "What the fuck you want?" he asked. "Sloppy seconds?"

  *

  Never one to let the past get him down, Oscar arrived the next day ready and eager to work. Yes, Mr. Johnstone was gone and that was sad but the Palace remained. All morning, in fact, he had been reviving an idea which Mr. Johnstone had several times rejected: an Incredulous Journey marathon. That all the movies were the same - thoughtless owners take their pets into the wilderness, inexplicably abandon them and then rejoice when they return weeks later - mattered not a bit. No, the key was Barkie, their leader, whose unshakable altruism knew no bounds: several times over, often in the same movie, he risked his life to save his weaker, shockingly stupid followers. Jump into a raging river? Why not? Tangle with a snarling bear? Might as well. Put your paw into a hornet's nest? Could be fun. Each time, no matter what, Barkie was there for them. Nothing thrilled Oscar more than seeing him come running to the rescue. So much so he had founded a fan club, Barkie's Buddies, which he had convinced several children to join, largely through the lure of free ice cream. Fooled by the thought it would be fun, they were quite eager at first but rapidly lost interest upon discovering that it was mostly just sitting in a smelly room, talking about movies and discussing the pros and cons of various brands of dog food.

  "Sean," Oscar asked, "could you please read the minutes?"

  Sean reluctantly stood up. "Paul burped. Carol farted-"

  "I did not!"

  "Eugene said a bad word. George fell asleep. Henry picked his nose and we all ate ice cream."

  "Is that it?"

  Sean looked at his notes. "Yeah."

  "Good job. Now," Oscar continued, "if you were Barkie and you saw a wolf with a puppy in its mouth would you: A, run away; B, play dead; or C, save the puppy? Henry?"

  Henry pulled his finger from his nose. "Uh... save the puppy?"

  "Correct. Come here."

  Oscar reached into his pocket and pulled out a homemade badge.

  Bee brave, it read. You can dew it.

  "Congratulations."

  Henry looked at the cloth blob.

  "Ice cream?" he asked hopefully.

  "No, not yet."

  Disappointed, he sat back down.

  "Now," Oscar asked. "Who can tell me how to get rid of fleas?"

  But, to his surprise, the Palace was still closed. On the door was a sign notifying people of the change in ownership and promising to reopen soon. Although disappointed, Oscar took solace in the fact that a treasure like the Palace was not likely to be closed for long. The question now was what to do. Of course! The library. As a member of the motion picture industry, Oscar considered it his duty to be well-informed and there were several magazines that required his perusal. Variety, of course, although he often found it difficult to understand, and others, like Entertainment Always and Movie Magnet. Even publications like Humans or Scandal Surprise had interesting information in them sometimes. A regular, Oscar was well known at the library and affectionately referred to as "that movie nut."

  Passing through the turnstile, he gave the receptionist a gracious wave and headed for the magazine corner. A few new issues caught his eye and he diligently gathered them up. Then, depositing his cumbrous rump into its usual spot, he considered them closely, paying special attention to anything that might soon play at the Palace. An hour or so of serious study was sufficient to pave the potholes of his ignorance and he carefully returned the magazines to their selected spots. Duty done, he rewarded himse
lf with a quick trip to the washroom, which resulted in yet another successful urination, and then it was upstairs to Pooh Corner for Storytime. That he was the only unaccompanied adult bothered him not a bit. This too was research. Not to mention a prime hunting ground for Barkie's Buddies. For some reason - jealous no doubt: how could any of their stories compete with the big screen experience of The Incredulous Journey? - the staff had been reluctant to let him solicit new members. In time, however, they had come to see the error of their ways and his reputation as a deluded but harmless and, most importantly, free babysitter had attracted the attention of several desperate mothers. Go learn about the dog, they would say, kicking their kids out of the car. But it smells bad! the crying children would protest as their mothers raced away. Indeed it did since the class before them was judo, several of whose members considered deodorant a violation of their martial training.

  That today's story was Charlotte's Web was an added bonus. Oscar loved that story, focusing as it did on the friendship between a spider and a pig. Unfortunately, however, he had a tendency to break out bawling at the part where Charlotte tells Wilbur she's going to die. Often, in fact, he had to be removed for upsetting the children. Oscar listened for as long as he could. Then, feeling himself well up, he quietly withdrew by tumbling over a small plastic chair, several of which he had bent with his big bulky bottom.

  Returning to the washroom, he wiped his eyes with a tissue. The lure of the urinal was there before him but he resisted it, preferring to wait till later. One of the many perks of the library was its free phone, which was quite convenient since his own had been inexplicably cut off. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he called Pete, eager for news of the Palace. He of course had none but did claim to have some other information he wished to share so they agreed to meet for coffee.

  Leaving the library, Oscar wandered deeper downtown in search of lunch. Entering Burger Majesty, he ordered the Super Duper Special: burger, fries and a drink. Oscar was hardly a fine diner. To him, a fancy restaurant was one where the ketchup and mustard came in plastic bottles rather than individual packs. Fat, sugar and salt were the triple pillars of his diet and he considered vegetables an unnecessary adornment. Anything green, in fact, he regarded with extreme suspicion. More satiated than satisfied, he took his tray to the trash and dumped his greasy wrappers into it.