Tinseltown jeans
A look at what's to come
2022.12.20 01:20 BOBULANCE A look at what's to come
The Cards Against Humanity card lab has been updated, and with it, a whopping 800+ new cards to try out. I've managed to compile many of them here, though there are no doubt a few lurking around that I missed.
Noticeably, there are no new black cards. Additionally, some of the cards appear to be slight updates of cards from past decks, or match themes from earlier packs. This, and the content of the cards, leads me to believe that there are a couple of possible scenarios for this batch of new cards, with more than one scenario being able to occur simultaneously:
In any event, don't expect all or even most of these cards to become reality. You'll notice a lot of cards share a premise or one or two words with one another, and usually these get narrowed down to the best of the batch during the testing process. There are also a fair amount of cards that aren't quite good yet, that will likely be cut or change.
The new cards are as follows:
10 guys who come to your house, disassemble you, and place you in an easy-to-carry pouch.
14,562 unread emails.
45 identical girls named Maddie.
7-11 brand synthetic marijuana.
A $2 handjob.
A 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom anus.
A 2 mph police chase.
A FOX News bimbo.
A Yankee Candle.
A balloon animal shaped like my dad.
A basketball-sized meatball.
A better-than-average McChicken.
A big wet kiss on the eyeball.
A big, ugly cow.
A blood-catnip count of .09.
A blood-curdling orgasm.
A bobblehead collection.
A bucket of guts.
A butthole with a monocle.
A centaur that’s half camel, half Ellen DeGeneres.
A clam that contains an ecstasy tablet instead of a pearl.
A cock vein that spells out ‘FedEx’.
A colostomy bag.
A complete success.
A completely incorrect celebrity impression.
A corny motherfucker.
A couple of dudes I graduated with.
A couple of old men.
A crazy night in Vegas with all the guys from Halliburton.
A dastardly ruse.
A dead chimpanzee wearing Green Bay Packers perch.
A degree from Harvard in Being A Hobo.
A detective that sits in his car honking his horn until the murderer climbs into his car on their own.
A disease you get by shaking hands with an ape.
A dramatic Vince Vaughn role.
A dreary Tuesday morning.
A fat stack of Benjamins.
A flight attendant frantically asking if anyone on the plane is a zookeeper.
A flock of ducks flying out of my pants.
A goat named Penis.
A gorgeous Spaniard with a rose between his teeth.
A guy in a baseball cap ranting in his truck.
A guy that is keen to meet a mule.
A hairy, stinky 36-year-old guy who bases his personality on Deadpool.
A hand-me-down catheter.
A heartfelt rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner.”
A highly flamboyant turkey.
A horse riding another horse.
A house divided.
A huge Family Guy tattoo.
A huge pride flag flying off a jacked-up diesel pickup truck.
A hybrid coding/fat camp.
A jar of teeth.
A kindly old watchmaker.
A land-speed record.
A little guy who eats only Slim Jims.
A lone gunman.
A long, silent walk to the gallows.
A luxurious abortion experience.
A major fuckin’ chump.
A masked man cresting the hill.
A mesmerizing zoetrope.
A mild case of ebola.
A moment of romance with an uncle.
A mouthful of mice.
A nest filled with baby birds, lizards, and kittens.
A never-ending supply of San Pellegrino.
A new type of snail.
A nubile young iguana.
A pack of wolves.
A passionate conjugal visit.
A pedicure, but for your dick.
A perfectly ordinary object, like a pen.
A permanent erection.
A pet name for a tumor.
A pile of meat for the family.
A pubic hair fade.
A pumpkin that can dream.
A ray of hope.
A real page-turner of a John Grisham novel.
A really, really bad drum solo.
A rejected marriage proposal.
A round of Mario Kart.
A sample platter of cum.
A sampler platter of cum.
A sexy sounding fart.
A shell of a man.
A shout-out to all the boys back home.
A simple, steady guitar riff that drives the whole song.
A sincere apology.
A six-pack ass.
A snail with the mind of an ape.
A soggy, limp handshake.
A stampede of the elderly.
A statue of the Virgin Mary weeping orange juice.
A stern British nanny.
A strong social support system.
A sun-faded calendar from 2004.
A super futuristic-looking pussy.
A syringe filled with poop.
A thrilling caper.
A tiny tanning bed for just your penis.
A tip of the fedora to m’lady.
A toast to love!
A toiny fookin’ baby, nasty liddle ‘fing, innit?
A variety of jams, jellies, and marmalades.
A vaudeville duo named Pervert & Helper.
A weekend of debauchery at the bakehouse.
A welcome mat that says, “Welbaum.”
A whoopie cushion that spews actual feces.
A wild weekend at Claire’s Boutique with the guys.
A wolf that turns into a different wolf during the full moon.
A world-class stamp collection.
AP Sex Education.
Acts of God.
Airdropping nudes to my priest.
Alien abduction.
All three branches of the U.S. government.
Amelia Bedelia’s luge medals from the Sochi Olympics.
An Applebee’s that’s 10x bigger on the inside than it is out on the outside.
An Arbor Day Miracle!
An IV drip of orange soda.
An Italian man who won’t stop screaming.
An X-ray of a Buzz Lightyear doll stuck in someone’s ass.
An acceptable amount of incest.
An ass tattoo that says “hello.”
An elderly polycule.
An indifferent battle with cancer.
An open-concept dungeon.
An opinion piece about how moss is just OK.
An unflattering photo of me getting eaten out by a possum wearing a tuxedo.
An unsuccessful face transplant.
Answering “what?” To every question on a test.
Apple-cheeked wenches.
Asking my parent/guardian to sign my permission slip for an orgy.
Ass dimples.
Ass meat.
Assassinating a specific sandhill crane.
Assembling all suspects in the parlor to reveal the killer.
Baking soda volcanoes.
Baptizing a baby in clam chowder.
Barreling down the highway.
Barstool Sports.
Becoming gay after seeing a billboard that says “Homosexuality: Try It Out.”
Being 1000 years old.
Being a Black man in America.
Being an absolute girlboss.
Being blinded by a super shiny penis head.
Being cringe.
Being down for whatever.
Being random xD.
Being so, so tired.
Being very boring.
Big business.
Bitch Awareness month.
Bleeps and bloops.
Blossoming sexuality.
Blowing into a vagina like it’s a Nintendo cartridge.
Body shaming.
Bold flavors.
Boris Yeltsin.
Boston.
Bottomless mimosas.
Bravery in battle.
Braving the storm.
Bravo’s Real Housewives Of Darfur.
Breaking a cock in half and sucking the juice out of it like a crawfish.
Breaking the Unabomber out of prison.
Bugle Boy jeans.
Building my brand.
Bushmeat.
Butt froth.
Buttery goodness.
Calling a 4-year-old child a fascist bimbo.
Capturing and killing an actual leprechaun.
Casual treason.
Cat and dog pelts.
Catcalling.
Chanting “Breasts! Breasts! Breasts!” At the strip club.
Chaperoning an orgy.
Charging a vibrating dildo in a Starbucks power outlet.
Cheating at a wet t-shirt contest.
Cheating on my wife with my clone.
Chilling in an MRI machine.
Christian Girl Autumn.
Churning a barrel of diarrhea down at the feces farm.
Clams, literally trillions of clams.
Clumps.
Communicating in grunts and whistles.
Compelling evidence.
Competitive shitting.
Computer troubles.
Conflicting but simultaneous truths.
Conjoined octuplets.
Consummating my marriage in a corn maze.
Contemplating someone else’s suicide.
Cookies.
Crab rangoon.
Crabs running amok.
Cries for help.
Crisis management.
Crooning and thrusting my hips and shimmying for all my fans.
Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young, and Kissinger.
Cruising.
Crust punks.
Crying on the toilet.
Crying “Yes, Father!” While getting spanked.
Cuddling with all your coworkers.
Curtseying before ordering at Chipotle.
Curtsying as I unload a gallon of diarrhea into the toilet.
Dad’s friend, Greg T.
Dad’s golf buddy, Gordon.
Dallas, Texas.
Dark family secrets.
Dating someone twice your age.
Death threats.
Deodorant stains.
Destiny.
Destroying evidence.
Developing tinnitus from a single, deafening fart.
Dice games.
Diet Coke.
Dipping into my savings.
Ditching my kids at the playground and going to Kohl’s!!!!!
Doing a cannonball into a mass grave.
Doing a cannonball into a volcano.
Doing a ropes course in a BDSM harness.
Doing it up right.
Doing just fine, thanks.
Doing my Donald Duck voice on the suicide hotline.
Doing the bidding of the Señora.
Doing time.
Dollar wings night.
Donkey Kong’s cousin Francis.
Doo woo a top dee doo be doo, bowwww!
Dracula and Friends.
Dredging the lake for bodies.
Drinking and watching TV.
Drivers ed.
Dropping a casket.
Drunkenly eating a whole box of uncooked spaghetti.
Dry cleaning Nancy Pelosi’s kente cloth.
Dumping my kids off at school.
Dunking.
Earning checks and breaking necks.
Eating a handful of toenails.
Eating a strip of turf like a steak.
Eating a whole jar of gherkins in one sitting.
Eating cysts like grapes.
Elegance.
Emailing the president to ask if you can use the toilet in your own home.
Emotional intelligence.
Emotional labor.
Ensure with a splash of Kahlúa.
Espresso martinis.
Experimenting with my sexuality.
Extra-thick condoms for those who are allergic to pussy.
Facial recognition technology.
Falling into a pit toilet.
Fanning the queen with palm fronds.
Feeling good as hell.
Feeling just peachy!
Feeling lithe and sensual.
Feeling your own tits.
Fellating my superiors.
Female troubles.
Fenway Park.
Financial support from Grandmama.
Finger banging.
Firing a NERF gun into the air.
Five Oprahs.
Flamenco music.
Flintstones erotic fan fiction.
Flirting with the doctor to score a free tongue depressor.
Flo from the Progressive ads.
Flushing a perfectly good piss down the toilet.
Fog.
Folk music.
Fondue.
Forgiveness.
Forsaking God.
Free restaurant mints.
Fresh ass meat.
Frowning all the time.
Fuckboys Without Borders.
Fucking my own asshole with my cock.
Gallons and gallons of blood.
Generational trauma.
Genitalia that’s just a hairy smiley face on a mound of skin.
Gentrifying the Arctic.
Getting Mardi Gras beads for flashing my tumor.
Getting cum on my khakis right before the big meeting!
Getting disassembled and placed in an easy-to-cary pouch.
Getting executed for no reason.
Getting fingered to the Iron & Wine cover of “Such Great Heights”.
Getting horny and googling “huGe boosbs pennis loudd kiSSiNg.”
Getting jiggly with it.
Getting mooned by a loved one.
Getting mummified in Skittles wrappers.
Getting my SAT score as a tramp stamp.
Getting my boobs surgically worsened.
Getting naked in front of your pets.
Getting nasty with it.
Getting ratio’d.
Getting ripped in half like a wishbone by a big pair of twin boys.
Getting struck by lightning nine or ten times.
Giggling and jiggling and wiggling and screaming.
Giving a thumbs up to democracy.
Giving up on the Heimlich maneuver after one thrust.
Glassblowing.
God’s ass slowly pushing through the clouds.
God’s boyfriend, Jeff The Liar.
Going bald in a major way.
Going bananas.
Going blonde.
Going camping for 15 minutes.
Going camping.
Going the extra mile.
Going to CVS for Monistat, Vagisil, UTI pills, Summer’s Eve vaginal wash, a box of tampons, a box of condoms, a pregnancy test, and a brand new Diva Cup.
Going upstate to complete a masterpiece.
Golden hour.
Goth dads.
Grandma’s jewels.
Grandpa smell.
Grasshopper stew.
Grindr.
Gruel.
Hair of the dog.
Hanging myself on the clothesline to dry after a shower.
Hangin’ out in the sewer.
Hanukkah, Pride Month, Etc.
Harkening to the sound of the bells.
Having a literal human foot where your genitals should be.
Having a piss in the sunshine.
Having a second butt on the front of my body.
Having a ‘Her’ situation with Windows 98.
Having crab claws instead of tits.
Having regular sex for six minutes and thirty seconds.
Having sex against a hotel room window.
Having sex to “Hail To The Chief.”
Having sex, but like, BIGTIME having sex.
Heavily discounted meat.
Hecate, Mother of the Night.
Helicopter parents.
Hiding in a pelican’s mouth.
High lead content.
Hippie stink.
Hiring a TaskRabbit to parallel park.
Hiring a midwife to help me shit.
Hitting a grand slam of Helen Mirren in the World Series.
Hofstra University.
Holding a seashell to my ear and hearing a man scream “FUCK OFF.”
Holding the door at Best Buy open for a bunch of squirrels.
Holing up in my bunker.
Homeopathic remedies.
Honking and squawking.
Honking when you’re horny.
Hooked On Phonics.
Hooking up with Big Bird for the third time.
Hopscotching with the best of ‘em.
Huffing Play Doh.
Hulu originals.
Humidity.
Hunter gatherers.
Imposter Syndrome.
Impressing my date by scanning the menu’s QR code.
Improvised surgery.
Incessant whining.
Indecent exposure.
Inexplicably shitting out of your belly button once and then never again.
Infidelity.
Inheriting a single shoe from your grandfather.
Instagram Creators.
Internal sloshing.
Japanophiles.
Jeb Bush.
Jeffrey Dahmer’s refrigerator.
Jesus Christ himself.
Jesus’ Jew-fro.
Jizzing confetti.
Joey Tribiani, the pervert from “Friends.”
Junkyard dogs.
Junkyard serenades.
KFC.
Keto crumbles.
Kissing up to birds.
Kitsch.
Laughing while performing brain surgery.
Laxatives for the table.
Lead poisoning.
Leaving my girl for someone who looks more like Snoopy.
Lesser party games.
Letting your ass do its thing.
Licensed medical providers.
Licking a nickel clean.
Licking an envelope to completion.
Like a million alligators.
Limited edition flavors of Coca-Cola.
Living a quadruple life.
Looking fly with my new braces.
Looking sexy AF in my feather boa.
Loyal hoes.
Lubing up and rubbing down.
Lululemon.
Lurking about.
Madagascar (both the country and the movie).
Major no-nos.
Making babies.
Making history as the NFL’s first headless quarterback.
Making out with an iPad.
Mange.
Marauding teens.
Massholes.
Masturbating to A Wheat Thins box.
McMansions.
Meeting down at the docks.
Meeting the president.
Melanin.
Memeing a tragedy.
Mexican jumping beans.
Microwaving Grandpa to see what happens.
Military decorations.
Millennial woes.
Missing children.
Mixed nuts.
Mixing urine and diarrhea in a martini shakier.
Mobile banking.
Mom letting you lick raw ground pork off the beaters.
Mom’s friend, Norma.
Monday Night Football, sponsored by Bud Light.
Moping around the rectory.
Morphing into a fire extinguisher.
Movie night with bae.
Murdering and eating innocent people in a legal and celebrated way.
Mutual disdain.
My 12 butt ugly sons and my 15 rotten daughters.
My MILF friends.
My Youtube channel.
My best friend, Kelly Ripa.
My children’s smiling faces.
My convection oven, my chronic illness, and my cock.
My favorite canned cocktail brand.
My favorite poet, Baron Trump.
My flop era.
My husband’s body.
My live-in situationship.
My nemesis, James Cordon.
My one and only ass.
My own cum.
My posture.
My prehensile tail.
My rank, red puss.
My really, really groundbreaking art.
My repulsive chin, elbows, cock, etc.
My self-worth.
My sensei, Kevin-san.
My spam folder.
My summer of longing.
My toxic relationship.
My undying love for mega-corporations.
Myself.
Nerds rope.
Nicknaming your dorm room “Poontang Isle.”
Normcore.
Not being sure if it’s racist to say “Homie.”
Not knowing any better.
Nothing a fresh coat of paint and a new spark plug can’t fix.
Nude firefighters.
Numbness.
Obscene amounts of cleavage.
Offsetting my carbon emissions.
Old meat.
Old washcloth smell.
Our waitress for the evening.
Oversized labia.
Pantsing a world leader.
Parallel parking.
Passing as gay.
Passing judgement on all the losers I know.
Paywalls.
Peaches.
Peacocking.
Peasants.
Peeing defiantly.
Peeping Toms.
Penis-shaped bachelorette decorations.
Perfectly shaved tits.
Performance enhancing diapers.
Petting a fire hydrant like a dog.
Pilots who look like their planes.
Pissing into a bong.
Pissing while smiling.
Placing 29th in a “best anus” contest.
Planetary dioramas.
Plowing the fields, etc!
Plucking a bald eagle.
Podcasters.
Pointing at my diaper and going, “Uhhhh ohhhhh!”
Popping a Capri Sun straw into an ice cold kitty.
Posers.
Posing nude on the hood of a Bugatti.
Practicing eating ass on a bagel.
Pretending to be Native American.
Pretending to be busy.
Prison food.
Problematic language.
Proceeding with caution.
Professional Skee-ball.
Proficiency in conversational Korean.
Project managers.
Puff puff puff puff puff puff puff puff pass.
Puffing on a pregnancy test like it’s a vape.
Puffing up like a blowfish.
Punting a penguin like a football.
Purity.
Putting in my finest tampon.
Putting my dick on a bed of shredded lettuce.
Putting peanut butter on my dog’s dick so I suck it.
Putting your heart and soul into a creative project no one will ever care about.
Quarterly performance reviews.
Quirky girls with ukuleles.
Raccoon attacks.
Raising Jesus’ cross up and down like a barber’s chair.
Raising all sorts of hell.
Raising hell with grandmama.
Ranking my exes by foot size.
Rastafarian-Italian fusion restaurants.
Rat lips.
Reaching for a cop’s gun.
Reaching that age where yogurt’s a treat.
Reading a 9000-page book about my father’s penis.
Reading the Wikipedia article for “Beer” while driving.
Realizing your life is already half over.
Reasonable doubt.
Rebooting the ol’ desktop computer.
Receiving a trophy for drunk driving.
Reeling in a big one.
Referring to the Bible as “the Judas Iscariot Cinematic Universe.”
Regretfully accepting my life’s circumstances.
Rejecting societal norms.
Releasing the hounds.
Repeated attacks on my character.
Resetting the goddamn router.
Rewarding myself after 22 minutes of work.
Riding Howie Mandell’s bald head like a sybian.
Riding a motorcycle for religious reasons.
Riding dirty.
Right wing talk show hosts.
Right-wing dog whistles.
Ringworms.
Rivers of blood.
Robbing a bank.
Rocking out HARD to the alphabet song.
Rolling a dead guy up in a carpet.
Roughing it.
Rounding up the other inches for a 5K.
Rugby hooligans.
Russel Wilson.
Sacrificing a cat to the Goddess Of Sunscreen.
Saluting a picture of a dog that kind of looks like Abe Lincoln.
Santa tossing his clothes down the chimney before jumping through nude and getting dressed in your living room.
Sashaying as a turd plops to the floor beneath me.
Saving kissing for marriage.
Saying good morning to all of your action figures.
Scared little white boys.
Scoping out a Chinese buffet with the Predator’s heat-seeking vision.
Scratching someone’s face and hissing.
Screaming during a mammogram.
Secretly living in a celebrity’s closet.
Self-honking horns.
Selling bootleg Scooby Doo merch for a living.
Selling my earwax on Facebook Marketplace.
Selling your soul to the devil for the ability to be kind of okay at Mario Kart.
Sending your pet snake to college.
Sentience.
Sex gifs.
Sex magic.
Sexting on an iPad.
Sexting on an ouija board.
Sexually transmitted pussy illness.
Sexy hunks with astigmatism.
Sharting.
Shaving my legs, pits, arms, face, ass, and feet.
Shaving off two or three of my pubes.
Sheer gumption.
Shitting with the door open.
Short Shorts!
Shoving something, anything, literally whatever, into my anus.
Shrinking down to the size of a raisin and getting swallowed by a sparrow.
Shrinking to the size of a pea to save money on sunscreen.
Sitting on a nest of eggs.
Sitting on the dock of the bay.
Skinny dipping.
Slapping handcuffs on two penises.
Sleeping with one eye open.
Slime.
Slipping into something a little more comfortable (i.e. nude).
Slipping into something a little more comfortable.
Slithering across the room.
Slurring my words.
Smoking a turd like a cigar.
Snail residue.
Snapping turtles.
Snarling and winking.
Snarling at a baby.
Sneaking a hot dog into the confessional booth.
Sniffing around the creek for toads.
Soaking wet panties.
Social climbing.
Soft launching my receding hairline.
Some kind of moose-lobster hybrid.
Some sort of boring realm of eternal bliss.
Something… brown…
Spanking my children to the beat of the National Anthem.
Speaking with confidence and grace.
Special musical guest, Lizzo.
Specifying on your driver’s license that you will only donate your organs to a pig that can play the piano.
Spending 75 percent of my yearly salary on Halloween decor.
Spitting verses with my Nonna.
Splitting onion rings with my lover.
Spreading your legs.
Squirting the family sap.
Stale air.
Starting anew.
Stealing grandma’s cigarettes.
Sticking a flag in an old man to claim him for the US.
Storing dried nuts and berries in my pouch.
Straightening my pubes before a big meeting.
Straightening your pubes.
Stress fractures.
Stretch marks that form a treasure map.
Stripping for Dave and Buster’s tokens.
Stroopwafels.
Strutting my stuff at the pumpkin patch.
Sucking a penis so hard the guy’s skull collapses.
Sucking and fucking.
Suffering through the most boring piss of your life.
Summiting Mount Everest.
Sunning my pooch.
Swagger.
Sweet little Giuseppe, that wonderful boy who works so hard to support his mother and his sisters now that his no-good father has run off with a younger woman.
Taking 7 hours in the confessional booth.
Taking a break from my computer to look at my phone.
Taking an unbelievably small hit of marijuana and having a full-blown panic attack.
Taking catnip before a Mars Volta concert.
Taking off your shirt in order to send an email.
Taking sex lessons.
Taking the Hippocratic oath before putting on a bandaid.
Tan lines.
Taxes.
Taxidermy.
Teaching a baby how to pick locks.
Tending my listening pulsating eggs.
That time the Challenger blew up.
The 14th Annual McDougal Family Reunion.
The Beach Boys.
The Buffalo Wild Wings were Ernest Hemingway killed himself.
The Denver Nuggets.
The Electric Slide.
The Fab Four: Larry, Moe, and Curly.
The First Lady.
The Forbidden Grove.
The Ghost of Christmas Past.
The Golden Ratio.
The Grinch.
The Grinch’s spiral dick.
The Homecoming Queen.
The Jewish faith.
The Kansas City Masquerade Ball.
The Marvel Cinematic Universe.
The Metaverse.
The Organism.
The Secret Service agent tasked with shucking the President’s oysters.
The Semi-Annual Camel Toe Awareness 5K.
The Three Stooges: John, Paul, Ringo, and George.
The WNBA.
The War On Christmas.
The Whole Foods hot bar.
The adventure of a lifetime.
The anxiety you feel when checking your account balances.
The arts and humanities.
The blood of the weak.
The boogie.
The cast of HBO’s ‘The Wire.’
The collected works of Jake and Amir.
The convenience of email.
The crabbing industry.
The economic forecast for Q3 2024.
The enemy.
The ever-blurring line between truth and misinformation.
The fast rise and protracted fall of America as a global superpower.
The four dildos of the Scottish bagpipe.
The free-bleeding movement.
The great outdoors.
The guy inside the Barney suit.
The honk of a dying goose.
The horrors of war.
The incomparable thrill of falling asleep at the wheel.
The inevitable rise of the Dark Lord.
The inherent wickedness of mankind.
The last lick o’ juniper jelly in Mama’s Jam Jar.
The latest Star Wars film.
The local militia.
The local watering hole.
The man ogling you through your computer’s camera.
The manhole Charlie Brown crawled out of.
The patriarchal institution of bowling.
The powerful legs of a mule.
The railroad apartment I share with my 23 uncles.
The rank stench of my gaming chair.
The reaper.
The reason we exist.
The reason why doing a Jamaican accent isn’t considered all that racist.
The screams coming from next door.
The secrets of the owls.
The sex tourism industry in Minnesota.
The slut to my left.
The social justice message of the film White Chicks.
The sound of rats eating a doctor.
The spirit of adventure.
The tall guy in every barbershop quartet with a goofy low voice.
The terrible computer virus that put all this incest porn on my laptop.
The ultimate sacrifice.
The uncanny feeling that you’ve sucked this cock before.
The uncle who took my nose.
The unparalleled magic of diarrhea.
The village idiot.
The way dad looks at mom.
Thinking “raisins” are “crazy raisins.”
Those broke-ass amphibians Frog and Toad.
Three or four ladies, rubbing their tits together or something.
Three years of rain.
Throwing a Kindle into the ocean.
Tinnitus.
Tinseltown.
Toppling to death in a Porta Potty.
Tossing a duffel bag full of guns into a mall fountain.
Trader Joe’s.
Trading my hair for a piece of fake fruit.
Trading sexual favors for magic beans.
Trampoline injuries.
Traveling back in time to throw a pine cone at my past self.
Tripping on Robitussin.
Troubled teens.
Trusting myself.
Trying cocaine with Grandma.
Trying really, really hard.
Trying to click “Add To Cart” on a picture of Vladimir Putin.
Trying to commit suicide by sticking both hands in a pop-up toaster.
Turning a “rodent problem” into a “rodent triumph.”
Tusks.
Two anuses kissing.
Two clowns chariot racing on the Autobahn.Dismembering my victims.
Two lunatics and a weirdo.
Two men both named Jim Buckets.
Two really horny, really tan twin brothers.
Two ugly men who are in love with each other.
Un muchacho muy grande.
Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary Ann.
Undulating.
Unfaithful husbands.
Unionizing my seven poodles.
Unlimited breadsticks.
Urinating for political reasons.
Using SpongeBob to scrub a crime scene.
Using a breast implant as a paper weight.
Using a gun to kill a spider.
Verbal consent.
Vintage denim.
Waiting on the world to change.
Waking up during surgery.
Wandering into traffic.
Weak calves.
Weakness.
Wearing an ape costume to church.
Weird Al and his ruthless satire.
Wet hands.
Wetting the bed.
Whispering, “Don’t have a cow, man!” In your wife’s ear as your final words on your deathbed.
Wife-swapping.
Wii cockfighting.
Winning $2 in a game of Russian roulette.
Winning a bronze medal in a belching contest.
Winning “ugliest dick” at the county fair.
Wishing upon a star.
Women.
Wondering when it’s all going to change.
Working on my dougie on my day off.
Worms being all slutty in the garden.
Worshipping idols.
Wrapping a present in porno mags.
Wringing a filthy, wet mop into my mouth.
Writing lyrics on my Converse.
Writing something very naughty on my calculator.
Yelling “Scrumptious!” While giving head.
Yelling “What the fuck is happening?!” As you cum.
Yet another failed marriage.
Yodeling for political gain.
Your eyes rolling back into your head as a storm forms in the sky above you.
Your own personal 9/11.
Your pelvic floor.
iPad time.
Getting FUCKED UP on Peronis.
Getting a happy ending at the car wash.
Welfare.
submitted by BOBULANCE to cardsagainsthumanity [link] [comments]
Noticeably, there are no new black cards. Additionally, some of the cards appear to be slight updates of cards from past decks, or match themes from earlier packs. This, and the content of the cards, leads me to believe that there are a couple of possible scenarios for this batch of new cards, with more than one scenario being able to occur simultaneously:
- Existing sets are about to get a massive white card card update.
- An all-new white card box is on the way.
- An all-new absurd box is on the way.
- A Catholicism or Christianity pack may be in the works.
- A prison/crime pack may be in the works.
- Another America/politics pack may be in the works.
- There are new black cards, but they haven't been added to the card lab yet in order to reduce testing variables.
In any event, don't expect all or even most of these cards to become reality. You'll notice a lot of cards share a premise or one or two words with one another, and usually these get narrowed down to the best of the batch during the testing process. There are also a fair amount of cards that aren't quite good yet, that will likely be cut or change.
The new cards are as follows:
10 guys who come to your house, disassemble you, and place you in an easy-to-carry pouch.
14,562 unread emails.
45 identical girls named Maddie.
7-11 brand synthetic marijuana.
A $2 handjob.
A 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom anus.
A 2 mph police chase.
A FOX News bimbo.
A Yankee Candle.
A balloon animal shaped like my dad.
A basketball-sized meatball.
A better-than-average McChicken.
A big wet kiss on the eyeball.
A big, ugly cow.
A blood-catnip count of .09.
A blood-curdling orgasm.
A bobblehead collection.
A bucket of guts.
A butthole with a monocle.
A centaur that’s half camel, half Ellen DeGeneres.
A clam that contains an ecstasy tablet instead of a pearl.
A cock vein that spells out ‘FedEx’.
A colostomy bag.
A complete success.
A completely incorrect celebrity impression.
A corny motherfucker.
A couple of dudes I graduated with.
A couple of old men.
A crazy night in Vegas with all the guys from Halliburton.
A dastardly ruse.
A dead chimpanzee wearing Green Bay Packers perch.
A degree from Harvard in Being A Hobo.
A detective that sits in his car honking his horn until the murderer climbs into his car on their own.
A disease you get by shaking hands with an ape.
A dramatic Vince Vaughn role.
A dreary Tuesday morning.
A fat stack of Benjamins.
A flight attendant frantically asking if anyone on the plane is a zookeeper.
A flock of ducks flying out of my pants.
A goat named Penis.
A gorgeous Spaniard with a rose between his teeth.
A guy in a baseball cap ranting in his truck.
A guy that is keen to meet a mule.
A hairy, stinky 36-year-old guy who bases his personality on Deadpool.
A hand-me-down catheter.
A heartfelt rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner.”
A highly flamboyant turkey.
A horse riding another horse.
A house divided.
A huge Family Guy tattoo.
A huge pride flag flying off a jacked-up diesel pickup truck.
A hybrid coding/fat camp.
A jar of teeth.
A kindly old watchmaker.
A land-speed record.
A little guy who eats only Slim Jims.
A lone gunman.
A long, silent walk to the gallows.
A luxurious abortion experience.
A major fuckin’ chump.
A masked man cresting the hill.
A mesmerizing zoetrope.
A mild case of ebola.
A moment of romance with an uncle.
A mouthful of mice.
A nest filled with baby birds, lizards, and kittens.
A never-ending supply of San Pellegrino.
A new type of snail.
A nubile young iguana.
A pack of wolves.
A passionate conjugal visit.
A pedicure, but for your dick.
A perfectly ordinary object, like a pen.
A permanent erection.
A pet name for a tumor.
A pile of meat for the family.
A pubic hair fade.
A pumpkin that can dream.
A ray of hope.
A real page-turner of a John Grisham novel.
A really, really bad drum solo.
A rejected marriage proposal.
A round of Mario Kart.
A sample platter of cum.
A sampler platter of cum.
A sexy sounding fart.
A shell of a man.
A shout-out to all the boys back home.
A simple, steady guitar riff that drives the whole song.
A sincere apology.
A six-pack ass.
A snail with the mind of an ape.
A soggy, limp handshake.
A stampede of the elderly.
A statue of the Virgin Mary weeping orange juice.
A stern British nanny.
A strong social support system.
A sun-faded calendar from 2004.
A super futuristic-looking pussy.
A syringe filled with poop.
A thrilling caper.
A tiny tanning bed for just your penis.
A tip of the fedora to m’lady.
A toast to love!
A toiny fookin’ baby, nasty liddle ‘fing, innit?
A variety of jams, jellies, and marmalades.
A vaudeville duo named Pervert & Helper.
A weekend of debauchery at the bakehouse.
A welcome mat that says, “Welbaum.”
A whoopie cushion that spews actual feces.
A wild weekend at Claire’s Boutique with the guys.
A wolf that turns into a different wolf during the full moon.
A world-class stamp collection.
AP Sex Education.
Acts of God.
Airdropping nudes to my priest.
Alien abduction.
All three branches of the U.S. government.
Amelia Bedelia’s luge medals from the Sochi Olympics.
An Applebee’s that’s 10x bigger on the inside than it is out on the outside.
An Arbor Day Miracle!
An IV drip of orange soda.
An Italian man who won’t stop screaming.
An X-ray of a Buzz Lightyear doll stuck in someone’s ass.
An acceptable amount of incest.
An ass tattoo that says “hello.”
An elderly polycule.
An indifferent battle with cancer.
An open-concept dungeon.
An opinion piece about how moss is just OK.
An unflattering photo of me getting eaten out by a possum wearing a tuxedo.
An unsuccessful face transplant.
Answering “what?” To every question on a test.
Apple-cheeked wenches.
Asking my parent/guardian to sign my permission slip for an orgy.
Ass dimples.
Ass meat.
Assassinating a specific sandhill crane.
Assembling all suspects in the parlor to reveal the killer.
Baking soda volcanoes.
Baptizing a baby in clam chowder.
Barreling down the highway.
Barstool Sports.
Becoming gay after seeing a billboard that says “Homosexuality: Try It Out.”
Being 1000 years old.
Being a Black man in America.
Being an absolute girlboss.
Being blinded by a super shiny penis head.
Being cringe.
Being down for whatever.
Being random xD.
Being so, so tired.
Being very boring.
Big business.
Bitch Awareness month.
Bleeps and bloops.
Blossoming sexuality.
Blowing into a vagina like it’s a Nintendo cartridge.
Body shaming.
Bold flavors.
Boris Yeltsin.
Boston.
Bottomless mimosas.
Bravery in battle.
Braving the storm.
Bravo’s Real Housewives Of Darfur.
Breaking a cock in half and sucking the juice out of it like a crawfish.
Breaking the Unabomber out of prison.
Bugle Boy jeans.
Building my brand.
Bushmeat.
Butt froth.
Buttery goodness.
Calling a 4-year-old child a fascist bimbo.
Capturing and killing an actual leprechaun.
Casual treason.
Cat and dog pelts.
Catcalling.
Chanting “Breasts! Breasts! Breasts!” At the strip club.
Chaperoning an orgy.
Charging a vibrating dildo in a Starbucks power outlet.
Cheating at a wet t-shirt contest.
Cheating on my wife with my clone.
Chilling in an MRI machine.
Christian Girl Autumn.
Churning a barrel of diarrhea down at the feces farm.
Clams, literally trillions of clams.
Clumps.
Communicating in grunts and whistles.
Compelling evidence.
Competitive shitting.
Computer troubles.
Conflicting but simultaneous truths.
Conjoined octuplets.
Consummating my marriage in a corn maze.
Contemplating someone else’s suicide.
Cookies.
Crab rangoon.
Crabs running amok.
Cries for help.
Crisis management.
Crooning and thrusting my hips and shimmying for all my fans.
Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young, and Kissinger.
Cruising.
Crust punks.
Crying on the toilet.
Crying “Yes, Father!” While getting spanked.
Cuddling with all your coworkers.
Curtseying before ordering at Chipotle.
Curtsying as I unload a gallon of diarrhea into the toilet.
Dad’s friend, Greg T.
Dad’s golf buddy, Gordon.
Dallas, Texas.
Dark family secrets.
Dating someone twice your age.
Death threats.
Deodorant stains.
Destiny.
Destroying evidence.
Developing tinnitus from a single, deafening fart.
Dice games.
Diet Coke.
Dipping into my savings.
Ditching my kids at the playground and going to Kohl’s!!!!!
Doing a cannonball into a mass grave.
Doing a cannonball into a volcano.
Doing a ropes course in a BDSM harness.
Doing it up right.
Doing just fine, thanks.
Doing my Donald Duck voice on the suicide hotline.
Doing the bidding of the Señora.
Doing time.
Dollar wings night.
Donkey Kong’s cousin Francis.
Doo woo a top dee doo be doo, bowwww!
Dracula and Friends.
Dredging the lake for bodies.
Drinking and watching TV.
Drivers ed.
Dropping a casket.
Drunkenly eating a whole box of uncooked spaghetti.
Dry cleaning Nancy Pelosi’s kente cloth.
Dumping my kids off at school.
Dunking.
Earning checks and breaking necks.
Eating a handful of toenails.
Eating a strip of turf like a steak.
Eating a whole jar of gherkins in one sitting.
Eating cysts like grapes.
Elegance.
Emailing the president to ask if you can use the toilet in your own home.
Emotional intelligence.
Emotional labor.
Ensure with a splash of Kahlúa.
Espresso martinis.
Experimenting with my sexuality.
Extra-thick condoms for those who are allergic to pussy.
Facial recognition technology.
Falling into a pit toilet.
Fanning the queen with palm fronds.
Feeling good as hell.
Feeling just peachy!
Feeling lithe and sensual.
Feeling your own tits.
Fellating my superiors.
Female troubles.
Fenway Park.
Financial support from Grandmama.
Finger banging.
Firing a NERF gun into the air.
Five Oprahs.
Flamenco music.
Flintstones erotic fan fiction.
Flirting with the doctor to score a free tongue depressor.
Flo from the Progressive ads.
Flushing a perfectly good piss down the toilet.
Fog.
Folk music.
Fondue.
Forgiveness.
Forsaking God.
Free restaurant mints.
Fresh ass meat.
Frowning all the time.
Fuckboys Without Borders.
Fucking my own asshole with my cock.
Gallons and gallons of blood.
Generational trauma.
Genitalia that’s just a hairy smiley face on a mound of skin.
Gentrifying the Arctic.
Getting Mardi Gras beads for flashing my tumor.
Getting cum on my khakis right before the big meeting!
Getting disassembled and placed in an easy-to-cary pouch.
Getting executed for no reason.
Getting fingered to the Iron & Wine cover of “Such Great Heights”.
Getting horny and googling “huGe boosbs pennis loudd kiSSiNg.”
Getting jiggly with it.
Getting mooned by a loved one.
Getting mummified in Skittles wrappers.
Getting my SAT score as a tramp stamp.
Getting my boobs surgically worsened.
Getting naked in front of your pets.
Getting nasty with it.
Getting ratio’d.
Getting ripped in half like a wishbone by a big pair of twin boys.
Getting struck by lightning nine or ten times.
Giggling and jiggling and wiggling and screaming.
Giving a thumbs up to democracy.
Giving up on the Heimlich maneuver after one thrust.
Glassblowing.
God’s ass slowly pushing through the clouds.
God’s boyfriend, Jeff The Liar.
Going bald in a major way.
Going bananas.
Going blonde.
Going camping for 15 minutes.
Going camping.
Going the extra mile.
Going to CVS for Monistat, Vagisil, UTI pills, Summer’s Eve vaginal wash, a box of tampons, a box of condoms, a pregnancy test, and a brand new Diva Cup.
Going upstate to complete a masterpiece.
Golden hour.
Goth dads.
Grandma’s jewels.
Grandpa smell.
Grasshopper stew.
Grindr.
Gruel.
Hair of the dog.
Hanging myself on the clothesline to dry after a shower.
Hangin’ out in the sewer.
Hanukkah, Pride Month, Etc.
Harkening to the sound of the bells.
Having a literal human foot where your genitals should be.
Having a piss in the sunshine.
Having a second butt on the front of my body.
Having a ‘Her’ situation with Windows 98.
Having crab claws instead of tits.
Having regular sex for six minutes and thirty seconds.
Having sex against a hotel room window.
Having sex to “Hail To The Chief.”
Having sex, but like, BIGTIME having sex.
Heavily discounted meat.
Hecate, Mother of the Night.
Helicopter parents.
Hiding in a pelican’s mouth.
High lead content.
Hippie stink.
Hiring a TaskRabbit to parallel park.
Hiring a midwife to help me shit.
Hitting a grand slam of Helen Mirren in the World Series.
Hofstra University.
Holding a seashell to my ear and hearing a man scream “FUCK OFF.”
Holding the door at Best Buy open for a bunch of squirrels.
Holing up in my bunker.
Homeopathic remedies.
Honking and squawking.
Honking when you’re horny.
Hooked On Phonics.
Hooking up with Big Bird for the third time.
Hopscotching with the best of ‘em.
Huffing Play Doh.
Hulu originals.
Humidity.
Hunter gatherers.
Imposter Syndrome.
Impressing my date by scanning the menu’s QR code.
Improvised surgery.
Incessant whining.
Indecent exposure.
Inexplicably shitting out of your belly button once and then never again.
Infidelity.
Inheriting a single shoe from your grandfather.
Instagram Creators.
Internal sloshing.
Japanophiles.
Jeb Bush.
Jeffrey Dahmer’s refrigerator.
Jesus Christ himself.
Jesus’ Jew-fro.
Jizzing confetti.
Joey Tribiani, the pervert from “Friends.”
Junkyard dogs.
Junkyard serenades.
KFC.
Keto crumbles.
Kissing up to birds.
Kitsch.
Laughing while performing brain surgery.
Laxatives for the table.
Lead poisoning.
Leaving my girl for someone who looks more like Snoopy.
Lesser party games.
Letting your ass do its thing.
Licensed medical providers.
Licking a nickel clean.
Licking an envelope to completion.
Like a million alligators.
Limited edition flavors of Coca-Cola.
Living a quadruple life.
Looking fly with my new braces.
Looking sexy AF in my feather boa.
Loyal hoes.
Lubing up and rubbing down.
Lululemon.
Lurking about.
Madagascar (both the country and the movie).
Major no-nos.
Making babies.
Making history as the NFL’s first headless quarterback.
Making out with an iPad.
Mange.
Marauding teens.
Massholes.
Masturbating to A Wheat Thins box.
McMansions.
Meeting down at the docks.
Meeting the president.
Melanin.
Memeing a tragedy.
Mexican jumping beans.
Microwaving Grandpa to see what happens.
Military decorations.
Millennial woes.
Missing children.
Mixed nuts.
Mixing urine and diarrhea in a martini shakier.
Mobile banking.
Mom letting you lick raw ground pork off the beaters.
Mom’s friend, Norma.
Monday Night Football, sponsored by Bud Light.
Moping around the rectory.
Morphing into a fire extinguisher.
Movie night with bae.
Murdering and eating innocent people in a legal and celebrated way.
Mutual disdain.
My 12 butt ugly sons and my 15 rotten daughters.
My MILF friends.
My Youtube channel.
My best friend, Kelly Ripa.
My children’s smiling faces.
My convection oven, my chronic illness, and my cock.
My favorite canned cocktail brand.
My favorite poet, Baron Trump.
My flop era.
My husband’s body.
My live-in situationship.
My nemesis, James Cordon.
My one and only ass.
My own cum.
My posture.
My prehensile tail.
My rank, red puss.
My really, really groundbreaking art.
My repulsive chin, elbows, cock, etc.
My self-worth.
My sensei, Kevin-san.
My spam folder.
My summer of longing.
My toxic relationship.
My undying love for mega-corporations.
Myself.
Nerds rope.
Nicknaming your dorm room “Poontang Isle.”
Normcore.
Not being sure if it’s racist to say “Homie.”
Not knowing any better.
Nothing a fresh coat of paint and a new spark plug can’t fix.
Nude firefighters.
Numbness.
Obscene amounts of cleavage.
Offsetting my carbon emissions.
Old meat.
Old washcloth smell.
Our waitress for the evening.
Oversized labia.
Pantsing a world leader.
Parallel parking.
Passing as gay.
Passing judgement on all the losers I know.
Paywalls.
Peaches.
Peacocking.
Peasants.
Peeing defiantly.
Peeping Toms.
Penis-shaped bachelorette decorations.
Perfectly shaved tits.
Performance enhancing diapers.
Petting a fire hydrant like a dog.
Pilots who look like their planes.
Pissing into a bong.
Pissing while smiling.
Placing 29th in a “best anus” contest.
Planetary dioramas.
Plowing the fields, etc!
Plucking a bald eagle.
Podcasters.
Pointing at my diaper and going, “Uhhhh ohhhhh!”
Popping a Capri Sun straw into an ice cold kitty.
Posers.
Posing nude on the hood of a Bugatti.
Practicing eating ass on a bagel.
Pretending to be Native American.
Pretending to be busy.
Prison food.
Problematic language.
Proceeding with caution.
Professional Skee-ball.
Proficiency in conversational Korean.
Project managers.
Puff puff puff puff puff puff puff puff pass.
Puffing on a pregnancy test like it’s a vape.
Puffing up like a blowfish.
Punting a penguin like a football.
Purity.
Putting in my finest tampon.
Putting my dick on a bed of shredded lettuce.
Putting peanut butter on my dog’s dick so I suck it.
Putting your heart and soul into a creative project no one will ever care about.
Quarterly performance reviews.
Quirky girls with ukuleles.
Raccoon attacks.
Raising Jesus’ cross up and down like a barber’s chair.
Raising all sorts of hell.
Raising hell with grandmama.
Ranking my exes by foot size.
Rastafarian-Italian fusion restaurants.
Rat lips.
Reaching for a cop’s gun.
Reaching that age where yogurt’s a treat.
Reading a 9000-page book about my father’s penis.
Reading the Wikipedia article for “Beer” while driving.
Realizing your life is already half over.
Reasonable doubt.
Rebooting the ol’ desktop computer.
Receiving a trophy for drunk driving.
Reeling in a big one.
Referring to the Bible as “the Judas Iscariot Cinematic Universe.”
Regretfully accepting my life’s circumstances.
Rejecting societal norms.
Releasing the hounds.
Repeated attacks on my character.
Resetting the goddamn router.
Rewarding myself after 22 minutes of work.
Riding Howie Mandell’s bald head like a sybian.
Riding a motorcycle for religious reasons.
Riding dirty.
Right wing talk show hosts.
Right-wing dog whistles.
Ringworms.
Rivers of blood.
Robbing a bank.
Rocking out HARD to the alphabet song.
Rolling a dead guy up in a carpet.
Roughing it.
Rounding up the other inches for a 5K.
Rugby hooligans.
Russel Wilson.
Sacrificing a cat to the Goddess Of Sunscreen.
Saluting a picture of a dog that kind of looks like Abe Lincoln.
Santa tossing his clothes down the chimney before jumping through nude and getting dressed in your living room.
Sashaying as a turd plops to the floor beneath me.
Saving kissing for marriage.
Saying good morning to all of your action figures.
Scared little white boys.
Scoping out a Chinese buffet with the Predator’s heat-seeking vision.
Scratching someone’s face and hissing.
Screaming during a mammogram.
Secretly living in a celebrity’s closet.
Self-honking horns.
Selling bootleg Scooby Doo merch for a living.
Selling my earwax on Facebook Marketplace.
Selling your soul to the devil for the ability to be kind of okay at Mario Kart.
Sending your pet snake to college.
Sentience.
Sex gifs.
Sex magic.
Sexting on an iPad.
Sexting on an ouija board.
Sexually transmitted pussy illness.
Sexy hunks with astigmatism.
Sharting.
Shaving my legs, pits, arms, face, ass, and feet.
Shaving off two or three of my pubes.
Sheer gumption.
Shitting with the door open.
Short Shorts!
Shoving something, anything, literally whatever, into my anus.
Shrinking down to the size of a raisin and getting swallowed by a sparrow.
Shrinking to the size of a pea to save money on sunscreen.
Sitting on a nest of eggs.
Sitting on the dock of the bay.
Skinny dipping.
Slapping handcuffs on two penises.
Sleeping with one eye open.
Slime.
Slipping into something a little more comfortable (i.e. nude).
Slipping into something a little more comfortable.
Slithering across the room.
Slurring my words.
Smoking a turd like a cigar.
Snail residue.
Snapping turtles.
Snarling and winking.
Snarling at a baby.
Sneaking a hot dog into the confessional booth.
Sniffing around the creek for toads.
Soaking wet panties.
Social climbing.
Soft launching my receding hairline.
Some kind of moose-lobster hybrid.
Some sort of boring realm of eternal bliss.
Something… brown…
Spanking my children to the beat of the National Anthem.
Speaking with confidence and grace.
Special musical guest, Lizzo.
Specifying on your driver’s license that you will only donate your organs to a pig that can play the piano.
Spending 75 percent of my yearly salary on Halloween decor.
Spitting verses with my Nonna.
Splitting onion rings with my lover.
Spreading your legs.
Squirting the family sap.
Stale air.
Starting anew.
Stealing grandma’s cigarettes.
Sticking a flag in an old man to claim him for the US.
Storing dried nuts and berries in my pouch.
Straightening my pubes before a big meeting.
Straightening your pubes.
Stress fractures.
Stretch marks that form a treasure map.
Stripping for Dave and Buster’s tokens.
Stroopwafels.
Strutting my stuff at the pumpkin patch.
Sucking a penis so hard the guy’s skull collapses.
Sucking and fucking.
Suffering through the most boring piss of your life.
Summiting Mount Everest.
Sunning my pooch.
Swagger.
Sweet little Giuseppe, that wonderful boy who works so hard to support his mother and his sisters now that his no-good father has run off with a younger woman.
Taking 7 hours in the confessional booth.
Taking a break from my computer to look at my phone.
Taking an unbelievably small hit of marijuana and having a full-blown panic attack.
Taking catnip before a Mars Volta concert.
Taking off your shirt in order to send an email.
Taking sex lessons.
Taking the Hippocratic oath before putting on a bandaid.
Tan lines.
Taxes.
Taxidermy.
Teaching a baby how to pick locks.
Tending my listening pulsating eggs.
That time the Challenger blew up.
The 14th Annual McDougal Family Reunion.
The Beach Boys.
The Buffalo Wild Wings were Ernest Hemingway killed himself.
The Denver Nuggets.
The Electric Slide.
The Fab Four: Larry, Moe, and Curly.
The First Lady.
The Forbidden Grove.
The Ghost of Christmas Past.
The Golden Ratio.
The Grinch.
The Grinch’s spiral dick.
The Homecoming Queen.
The Jewish faith.
The Kansas City Masquerade Ball.
The Marvel Cinematic Universe.
The Metaverse.
The Organism.
The Secret Service agent tasked with shucking the President’s oysters.
The Semi-Annual Camel Toe Awareness 5K.
The Three Stooges: John, Paul, Ringo, and George.
The WNBA.
The War On Christmas.
The Whole Foods hot bar.
The adventure of a lifetime.
The anxiety you feel when checking your account balances.
The arts and humanities.
The blood of the weak.
The boogie.
The cast of HBO’s ‘The Wire.’
The collected works of Jake and Amir.
The convenience of email.
The crabbing industry.
The economic forecast for Q3 2024.
The enemy.
The ever-blurring line between truth and misinformation.
The fast rise and protracted fall of America as a global superpower.
The four dildos of the Scottish bagpipe.
The free-bleeding movement.
The great outdoors.
The guy inside the Barney suit.
The honk of a dying goose.
The horrors of war.
The incomparable thrill of falling asleep at the wheel.
The inevitable rise of the Dark Lord.
The inherent wickedness of mankind.
The last lick o’ juniper jelly in Mama’s Jam Jar.
The latest Star Wars film.
The local militia.
The local watering hole.
The man ogling you through your computer’s camera.
The manhole Charlie Brown crawled out of.
The patriarchal institution of bowling.
The powerful legs of a mule.
The railroad apartment I share with my 23 uncles.
The rank stench of my gaming chair.
The reaper.
The reason we exist.
The reason why doing a Jamaican accent isn’t considered all that racist.
The screams coming from next door.
The secrets of the owls.
The sex tourism industry in Minnesota.
The slut to my left.
The social justice message of the film White Chicks.
The sound of rats eating a doctor.
The spirit of adventure.
The tall guy in every barbershop quartet with a goofy low voice.
The terrible computer virus that put all this incest porn on my laptop.
The ultimate sacrifice.
The uncanny feeling that you’ve sucked this cock before.
The uncle who took my nose.
The unparalleled magic of diarrhea.
The village idiot.
The way dad looks at mom.
Thinking “raisins” are “crazy raisins.”
Those broke-ass amphibians Frog and Toad.
Three or four ladies, rubbing their tits together or something.
Three years of rain.
Throwing a Kindle into the ocean.
Tinnitus.
Tinseltown.
Toppling to death in a Porta Potty.
Tossing a duffel bag full of guns into a mall fountain.
Trader Joe’s.
Trading my hair for a piece of fake fruit.
Trading sexual favors for magic beans.
Trampoline injuries.
Traveling back in time to throw a pine cone at my past self.
Tripping on Robitussin.
Troubled teens.
Trusting myself.
Trying cocaine with Grandma.
Trying really, really hard.
Trying to click “Add To Cart” on a picture of Vladimir Putin.
Trying to commit suicide by sticking both hands in a pop-up toaster.
Turning a “rodent problem” into a “rodent triumph.”
Tusks.
Two anuses kissing.
Two clowns chariot racing on the Autobahn.Dismembering my victims.
Two lunatics and a weirdo.
Two men both named Jim Buckets.
Two really horny, really tan twin brothers.
Two ugly men who are in love with each other.
Un muchacho muy grande.
Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary Ann.
Undulating.
Unfaithful husbands.
Unionizing my seven poodles.
Unlimited breadsticks.
Urinating for political reasons.
Using SpongeBob to scrub a crime scene.
Using a breast implant as a paper weight.
Using a gun to kill a spider.
Verbal consent.
Vintage denim.
Waiting on the world to change.
Waking up during surgery.
Wandering into traffic.
Weak calves.
Weakness.
Wearing an ape costume to church.
Weird Al and his ruthless satire.
Wet hands.
Wetting the bed.
Whispering, “Don’t have a cow, man!” In your wife’s ear as your final words on your deathbed.
Wife-swapping.
Wii cockfighting.
Winning $2 in a game of Russian roulette.
Winning a bronze medal in a belching contest.
Winning “ugliest dick” at the county fair.
Wishing upon a star.
Women.
Wondering when it’s all going to change.
Working on my dougie on my day off.
Worms being all slutty in the garden.
Worshipping idols.
Wrapping a present in porno mags.
Wringing a filthy, wet mop into my mouth.
Writing lyrics on my Converse.
Writing something very naughty on my calculator.
Yelling “Scrumptious!” While giving head.
Yelling “What the fuck is happening?!” As you cum.
Yet another failed marriage.
Yodeling for political gain.
Your eyes rolling back into your head as a storm forms in the sky above you.
Your own personal 9/11.
Your pelvic floor.
iPad time.
Getting FUCKED UP on Peronis.
Getting a happy ending at the car wash.
Welfare.
2022.07.20 22:53 kntathuufng88 Chapter IV: one of those nights
"196… 197… 198… 199… 200. Alright, chill out for a bit."
STEEZ obliges, letting go of the pull up bar and landing on his feet. Travis hands him a bottle of Powerade and a towel, black teashades covering his eyes.
TC: Are you ready for tonight?
CS: That nigga Inferno a bitch.
TC: True.
CS: I'm gonna beat him tonight. Then we take out his whole crew at WarGames. Then… it's BTE season.
Travis nods at the game plan, sitting with STEEZ on the locker room bench as Ethan and Ape file in.
CS: Speaking of, are we gonna see you there?
TC: Where?
CS: BTE.
TC: Of course.
CS: You know… competing. You've always been gone for Being The Elite, for some reason or other.
Travis nods, realizing his concerns. He runs his hand through his hair, having been thinking about this for a bit. He daps up Ethan and Ape, before turning his attention back to STEEZ.
TC: You'll see.
Later that Night
Tony Schiavone stands backstage, the Lights Out festivities in full effect. Backstage Access fans sit in rows in front of Schiavone as he stands behind a table.
TS: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me as Lights Out begins! We're kicking off with none other than someone who has got A LOT to say. He's FBE Television Heavyweight Champion. Travis Crowley!
Soundtrack: One of Those Nights by Juicy J featuring The Weeknd
Travis Crowley appears on set, smiling as he sees his old pal Tony. All black vans on, complete with black jeans and a black leather jacket. Crowley peeks over his teashades as he shakes Tony's hand, Television Championship folded up in his arm.
The fans in attendance are chanting DeadStar at the two as they share pleasantries, glad to see each other once again. Travis places the title on the table in front of them, smiling at the reception he's getting from the crowd.
TS: Well, Travis, it's been a while! But I see the fans are still happy to see the King of The Fall, and you're still our Television Champion.
TC: Happy to see you, Tony. Very glad you could make it to Scotland! It's my first time here, and we're turning up, because tonight is a very big night.
TS: Indeed it is. The main event of Lights Out will be to determine who goes to the Heyman Classic Finals. Yet another battle in the saga between REVOLT and Infinite POWER. Your best friend Capital STEEZ against Inferno. What is on your mind thinking about this match? And what are your thoughts on WarGames, which comes up soon as well?
TC: Tony, I'm going to address that in a second, but I just need to do something really quick. Ayo FOLKS! Why don't you give it to them, ONE MORE TIME!
The crowd obliges, chanting out "DEAD- STAR", Travis smiling bright as he hears them yell out. He puts his hand to his ear, leaning out to the crowd.
TC: ONE MORE TIME FOR THE NOSEBLEEDS!
"DEAD- STAR!"
TC: YESSIR! That's who I am. The FBE Television Champion. Mr Friday Nights. The Face of Firestorm. The one and only-
"DEAD- STAR!"
TC: Aw folks, you're driving me nuts! Now y'all gonna have to calm down, I gotta speak! And trust, when I have to say, you'll need to hear. Trust.
The audience agrees, calming down as claps his hands, laughing a little bit as he fixes his jacket. He stares down the hard camera, eyes hidden by the teashades.
TC: Infinite POWER… we've only just begun. That is the end of it.
Tony nods as Travis puts a stop to the topic, the audience clapping, knowing the history between both groups is too much to put into words.
TC: Other than that, I been hearing a lot of talk, about whether or not Travis Fucking Crowley is going to be at Being The Elite.
Hushed whispers among the crowd. Travis looks over at Tony, who's anticipating an answer.
TC: I know over the years, many things have prevented me from competing at the biggest event in all of FBE history. The biggest event any of the federations in this industry have ever seen. The event I named while FBE was still in the womb.
From having to take a leave of absence. To a crushed wrist that also forced me to vacate this Television Championship during my first reign. To simply not being in this company at all. I've missed out on the biggest stage of them all. And to that I say… no longer.
Big pop from the crowd. Travis smiles as he takes it in, just waiting to get the rest of his thoughts out.
TC: I will be at Being The Elite IV. It doesn't matter if it's in the Garden. Or the Staples Center. Or the Forum. Or the United Center. I don't care if it's being held in a third world country, in the middle of a warzone, in a jailhouse, or in the deepest pit of Hell. I'm all in.
Now, I was thinking to myself, who could I defend this Television Championship against at Being The Elite? What are my options, really? Are there any? My initial thoughts were all pointing fingers to Ultimate X. Defending against three, four, maybe even five men all at the same time. But then, a couple things happened that changed my perspective. And one of those things is named Brian Hill.
Boos rain down. Nothing but boos. Boos, boos, boos galore.
TC: Ah yes, Blu Ray Brian Hill. The DVD God himself! The king of the movie clearance bin at Walmart. Brian seems to think that escaping me in a Pure Rules match on Blitz of all places, gives him the right to skip the rest of the line for a non Pure Championship.
Visible confusion from the crowd. Tony shoots Travis a quizzical look, but all the DeadStar can do is shrug.
TC: So, I naturally slammed the door in his face. Just like I do with the rest of the delusional fuckwads I've had to deal with in life. And I continued to ponder, who could step up and face me for the gold.
But then, I realized. Once again, Blu Ray Brian has contradicted himself by acting like a big man, so tough, challenging me like the hero he thinks he is. Because on one hand, he says I do not deserve this Television Championship. Despite the fact that I've better represented television than he ever had, he says that he will do whatever it takes to make sure this title leaves my grasp. But then he says he's here to wipe out the corruption and bias in FBE management. Huh. Okay. Sure.
Travis takes out a joint, lighting it absentmindedly as he collects his thoughts.
TC: Blu Ray Brian has claimed he is a locker room leader. A fitting role model for the boys in the back to look up to. Someone who believes in the new generation of stars who are getting ready to shine. One of those stars is Kaze Tanaka. Kaze Tanaka is next up in my defences, and I know he'll be a tough challenge to put away.
The fans clap at the mention of Kaze, the upcoming competitor having made his name well known during his time in FBE.
TC: But it seems to me that Blu Ray Brian, as much as he claims to believe in guys like Kaze, doesn't feel the same way. He must not think Kaze is a real challenge. Because while on that daytime talk show, he decided to stake claim to the Television Championship. He thought to himself "time to make this about ME," which isn't something a locker room leader does. It's not something Brian would do if he really was the man he claimed to be.
You must be itching if you can't let Tanaka have his shot before you go running your mouth. That is crazy to me. What happened, Blu Ray? You don't have faith in the new era? You feel the need to hold your undeserved place in line now, before Kaze's even stepped into the ring with me? Or… maybe you don't care about the new era.
Travis leans against the table, staring dead into the camera yet again, the atmosphere intensifying.
TC: Maybe you don't believe in the new generation like you claim. Maybe, you don't give a shit about them. Maybe, you have no care for the up and comers you champion on the surface. Because you couldn't even hold your tongue until after the Heyman Finals, after Kaze's shot to slither into the title picture like the snake you are. It definitely fits the description. Brian Hill, slimy like a snake, but too dumb to think like one. You claim you want to prop the rookies up, but you can't get past your own ego, your own greed, your own selfishness to make your facade seem a little bit more real.
You claimed I was in a place of desperation. Ah yes. So interesting. Funny how the man who lost both his titles within the span of a couple weeks is calling ME desperate. Brian, I don't think you realize how obvious it is that you're projecting. EVERYONE knows, your back is up against the wall and you can't do NOTHING ABOUT IT. But since you wanna talk? Well fuck it, we'll talk. We're gonna talk about who's REALLY desperate.
Travis runs his hands through his hair, blonde dreads having crowded his face for a moment. He pulls off the joint and shakes his head, ready to continue.
TC: You took a fall in the Heyman Classic and counted yourself out from the jump, because YOU KNEW you didn't have a chance of getting past Ethan or STEEZ. YOU KNEW you didn't stand a chance against Nate Matthews, who despite my dislike of, is STILL miles better than you. You got STRIPPED of whatever meaning you had in this place, by the Drywall Muncher and Sol Ace, whatever the fuck his name is. You ran away to promote your crappy movie because you know you need to have another source of income just in case FBE kicks your bum ass to the curb.
You tainted Blitz's history by naming its first PPV something horrid. Something so obviously Brian Hill in spirit, in an attempt to make sure no one ever forgets who Blu Ray Brian Hill is. A name reminiscent of the many generic action movie trainwrecks you've starred in and signed your name to in the past.
And at that very same PPV, you are blatantly ripping a page out of Ape's book, one of the GREATEST TO EVER DO IT. Doing your own sad excuse for the Stardom Gauntlet. As if that's what's going to get you in the same conversations of who's the best, who's the greatest. The very conversations that Ape is in. That STEEZ is in. That Ethan is in. That I AM IN. And to top it all off, YOU KNOW you ain't got a good chance of making it onto the CARD of Being The Elite. So like the parasite you are, you decide to feed off others so you can steal the spotlight and feel like the hero of this story. DON'T WRAP ME UP!
Travis has ripped off the teashades, pointing to someone off frame, a backstage producer signalling they should be closing out. Tony looks at Travis, and after some urging from the crowd, hands him the microphone outright. Travis thanks Tony, and steps out further on the platform in front of the fans, pacing back and forth as he gets more worked up.
TC: YOU KNOW you ain't have a good chance of making it off your own name. No championships, no incentives, no hot commodity status no more. So in a last ditch effort, you wildly throw a challenge at ME for MY Television Championship. Hoping you'll throw a Hail Mary and see yourself get a check for having your ass get kicked at the biggest show of the year.
A check bigger than any other check you've seen. A check that's the size of your ego and catalogue of bad movies, only that size because a lot of people will be paying to see you get WHIPPED, all up and down the aisle, all round ringside, and in the middle of that ring. So we ain't gonna talk about who's desperate Brian. I can ignore you all the way up to late August and let management pick someone to face me at Being The Elite. You? You'll be stuck selling popcorn in the stands, shining the main event's shoes, and promoting the FBE Network since you're so used to being a mindless acting monkey.
Travis pulls on the joint, ashing it as the crowd cheers him on, getting rowdy as he turns up the heat.
TC: Now, Schiavone, it's so hard, sitting back here, listening to a guy like Blu Ray Brian, HOLLERING MY NAME… when last month, I spent more money on bubblegum and peppermints, than he EVER spent on that whore he found in the backrooms, strip clubs, and dark alleys of Tinseltown. Blu Ray Brian is HOLLERING MY NAME… when last month, I had more money in my Cashapp than any of his whack ass movies had in their BUDGET!
Now as you can guess, it costs A LOT of money, as well as incentive, to get me hyped for a match. Especially when it's with a nigga who don't deserve it. But in the process of rolling my eyes and walking out the door, I overheard something that changed everything.
"Oohs" from the crowd. Travis, fixing his leather jacket yet again, takes a deep breath as the crowd speculates.
TC: I overheard that at Being The Elite IV, there's going to be a match with a certain briefcase on the line. And it goes to the biggest opportunist available. The biggest wildcard of the night takes that briefcase, and holds onto it for up to a YEAR… and whenever he feels like it, crashes that bad boy in for a championship match on the spot. Four letters, say it with me.
B. I. T. B.
TC: I heard those four letters and I was immediately hooked. So I inserted myself into that conversation, and suggested this. If they want this match to happen, we gotta kick it up a notch. Television Championship… meets BITB briefcase. Winner. Take. All.
The crowd is getting hyped, absolutely ecstatic where Travis is going with this.
TC: And off rip, they loved it. Five star idea. Now, it's time to make things official. I'm throwing out an open challenge… a DeadStar open challenge… and it's exclusive to punk ass niggas named Brian Hill. Television Championship on the line. BITB briefcase on the line. Winner is the Face of Television, and has the golden ticket in their back pocket, free to use whenever they want.
It's going to be one of those nights in August. One filled with magic. One filled with wonder. One filled with all the blood, Hellfire, and brimstone you can imagine! BLU RAY BRIAN… there's no doubt you're desperate enough to take this challenge. But the question is… are you man enough? If you are… then Welcome to the Fall…
Travis drops the microphone, clapping Tony on the shoulder and walking off, Television Championship in hand. The crowd is going crazy as Tony Schiavone recaps what just happened, and thanks everyone for watching.
submitted by kntathuufng88 to FantasyBookingElite [link] [comments]
STEEZ obliges, letting go of the pull up bar and landing on his feet. Travis hands him a bottle of Powerade and a towel, black teashades covering his eyes.
TC: Are you ready for tonight?
CS: That nigga Inferno a bitch.
TC: True.
CS: I'm gonna beat him tonight. Then we take out his whole crew at WarGames. Then… it's BTE season.
Travis nods at the game plan, sitting with STEEZ on the locker room bench as Ethan and Ape file in.
CS: Speaking of, are we gonna see you there?
TC: Where?
CS: BTE.
TC: Of course.
CS: You know… competing. You've always been gone for Being The Elite, for some reason or other.
Travis nods, realizing his concerns. He runs his hand through his hair, having been thinking about this for a bit. He daps up Ethan and Ape, before turning his attention back to STEEZ.
TC: You'll see.
Later that Night
Tony Schiavone stands backstage, the Lights Out festivities in full effect. Backstage Access fans sit in rows in front of Schiavone as he stands behind a table.
TS: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me as Lights Out begins! We're kicking off with none other than someone who has got A LOT to say. He's FBE Television Heavyweight Champion. Travis Crowley!
Soundtrack: One of Those Nights by Juicy J featuring The Weeknd
Travis Crowley appears on set, smiling as he sees his old pal Tony. All black vans on, complete with black jeans and a black leather jacket. Crowley peeks over his teashades as he shakes Tony's hand, Television Championship folded up in his arm.
The fans in attendance are chanting DeadStar at the two as they share pleasantries, glad to see each other once again. Travis places the title on the table in front of them, smiling at the reception he's getting from the crowd.
TS: Well, Travis, it's been a while! But I see the fans are still happy to see the King of The Fall, and you're still our Television Champion.
TC: Happy to see you, Tony. Very glad you could make it to Scotland! It's my first time here, and we're turning up, because tonight is a very big night.
TS: Indeed it is. The main event of Lights Out will be to determine who goes to the Heyman Classic Finals. Yet another battle in the saga between REVOLT and Infinite POWER. Your best friend Capital STEEZ against Inferno. What is on your mind thinking about this match? And what are your thoughts on WarGames, which comes up soon as well?
TC: Tony, I'm going to address that in a second, but I just need to do something really quick. Ayo FOLKS! Why don't you give it to them, ONE MORE TIME!
The crowd obliges, chanting out "DEAD- STAR", Travis smiling bright as he hears them yell out. He puts his hand to his ear, leaning out to the crowd.
TC: ONE MORE TIME FOR THE NOSEBLEEDS!
"DEAD- STAR!"
TC: YESSIR! That's who I am. The FBE Television Champion. Mr Friday Nights. The Face of Firestorm. The one and only-
"DEAD- STAR!"
TC: Aw folks, you're driving me nuts! Now y'all gonna have to calm down, I gotta speak! And trust, when I have to say, you'll need to hear. Trust.
The audience agrees, calming down as claps his hands, laughing a little bit as he fixes his jacket. He stares down the hard camera, eyes hidden by the teashades.
TC: Infinite POWER… we've only just begun. That is the end of it.
Tony nods as Travis puts a stop to the topic, the audience clapping, knowing the history between both groups is too much to put into words.
TC: Other than that, I been hearing a lot of talk, about whether or not Travis Fucking Crowley is going to be at Being The Elite.
Hushed whispers among the crowd. Travis looks over at Tony, who's anticipating an answer.
TC: I know over the years, many things have prevented me from competing at the biggest event in all of FBE history. The biggest event any of the federations in this industry have ever seen. The event I named while FBE was still in the womb.
From having to take a leave of absence. To a crushed wrist that also forced me to vacate this Television Championship during my first reign. To simply not being in this company at all. I've missed out on the biggest stage of them all. And to that I say… no longer.
Big pop from the crowd. Travis smiles as he takes it in, just waiting to get the rest of his thoughts out.
TC: I will be at Being The Elite IV. It doesn't matter if it's in the Garden. Or the Staples Center. Or the Forum. Or the United Center. I don't care if it's being held in a third world country, in the middle of a warzone, in a jailhouse, or in the deepest pit of Hell. I'm all in.
Now, I was thinking to myself, who could I defend this Television Championship against at Being The Elite? What are my options, really? Are there any? My initial thoughts were all pointing fingers to Ultimate X. Defending against three, four, maybe even five men all at the same time. But then, a couple things happened that changed my perspective. And one of those things is named Brian Hill.
Boos rain down. Nothing but boos. Boos, boos, boos galore.
TC: Ah yes, Blu Ray Brian Hill. The DVD God himself! The king of the movie clearance bin at Walmart. Brian seems to think that escaping me in a Pure Rules match on Blitz of all places, gives him the right to skip the rest of the line for a non Pure Championship.
Visible confusion from the crowd. Tony shoots Travis a quizzical look, but all the DeadStar can do is shrug.
TC: So, I naturally slammed the door in his face. Just like I do with the rest of the delusional fuckwads I've had to deal with in life. And I continued to ponder, who could step up and face me for the gold.
But then, I realized. Once again, Blu Ray Brian has contradicted himself by acting like a big man, so tough, challenging me like the hero he thinks he is. Because on one hand, he says I do not deserve this Television Championship. Despite the fact that I've better represented television than he ever had, he says that he will do whatever it takes to make sure this title leaves my grasp. But then he says he's here to wipe out the corruption and bias in FBE management. Huh. Okay. Sure.
Travis takes out a joint, lighting it absentmindedly as he collects his thoughts.
TC: Blu Ray Brian has claimed he is a locker room leader. A fitting role model for the boys in the back to look up to. Someone who believes in the new generation of stars who are getting ready to shine. One of those stars is Kaze Tanaka. Kaze Tanaka is next up in my defences, and I know he'll be a tough challenge to put away.
The fans clap at the mention of Kaze, the upcoming competitor having made his name well known during his time in FBE.
TC: But it seems to me that Blu Ray Brian, as much as he claims to believe in guys like Kaze, doesn't feel the same way. He must not think Kaze is a real challenge. Because while on that daytime talk show, he decided to stake claim to the Television Championship. He thought to himself "time to make this about ME," which isn't something a locker room leader does. It's not something Brian would do if he really was the man he claimed to be.
You must be itching if you can't let Tanaka have his shot before you go running your mouth. That is crazy to me. What happened, Blu Ray? You don't have faith in the new era? You feel the need to hold your undeserved place in line now, before Kaze's even stepped into the ring with me? Or… maybe you don't care about the new era.
Travis leans against the table, staring dead into the camera yet again, the atmosphere intensifying.
TC: Maybe you don't believe in the new generation like you claim. Maybe, you don't give a shit about them. Maybe, you have no care for the up and comers you champion on the surface. Because you couldn't even hold your tongue until after the Heyman Finals, after Kaze's shot to slither into the title picture like the snake you are. It definitely fits the description. Brian Hill, slimy like a snake, but too dumb to think like one. You claim you want to prop the rookies up, but you can't get past your own ego, your own greed, your own selfishness to make your facade seem a little bit more real.
You claimed I was in a place of desperation. Ah yes. So interesting. Funny how the man who lost both his titles within the span of a couple weeks is calling ME desperate. Brian, I don't think you realize how obvious it is that you're projecting. EVERYONE knows, your back is up against the wall and you can't do NOTHING ABOUT IT. But since you wanna talk? Well fuck it, we'll talk. We're gonna talk about who's REALLY desperate.
Travis runs his hands through his hair, blonde dreads having crowded his face for a moment. He pulls off the joint and shakes his head, ready to continue.
TC: You took a fall in the Heyman Classic and counted yourself out from the jump, because YOU KNEW you didn't have a chance of getting past Ethan or STEEZ. YOU KNEW you didn't stand a chance against Nate Matthews, who despite my dislike of, is STILL miles better than you. You got STRIPPED of whatever meaning you had in this place, by the Drywall Muncher and Sol Ace, whatever the fuck his name is. You ran away to promote your crappy movie because you know you need to have another source of income just in case FBE kicks your bum ass to the curb.
You tainted Blitz's history by naming its first PPV something horrid. Something so obviously Brian Hill in spirit, in an attempt to make sure no one ever forgets who Blu Ray Brian Hill is. A name reminiscent of the many generic action movie trainwrecks you've starred in and signed your name to in the past.
And at that very same PPV, you are blatantly ripping a page out of Ape's book, one of the GREATEST TO EVER DO IT. Doing your own sad excuse for the Stardom Gauntlet. As if that's what's going to get you in the same conversations of who's the best, who's the greatest. The very conversations that Ape is in. That STEEZ is in. That Ethan is in. That I AM IN. And to top it all off, YOU KNOW you ain't got a good chance of making it onto the CARD of Being The Elite. So like the parasite you are, you decide to feed off others so you can steal the spotlight and feel like the hero of this story. DON'T WRAP ME UP!
Travis has ripped off the teashades, pointing to someone off frame, a backstage producer signalling they should be closing out. Tony looks at Travis, and after some urging from the crowd, hands him the microphone outright. Travis thanks Tony, and steps out further on the platform in front of the fans, pacing back and forth as he gets more worked up.
TC: YOU KNOW you ain't have a good chance of making it off your own name. No championships, no incentives, no hot commodity status no more. So in a last ditch effort, you wildly throw a challenge at ME for MY Television Championship. Hoping you'll throw a Hail Mary and see yourself get a check for having your ass get kicked at the biggest show of the year.
A check bigger than any other check you've seen. A check that's the size of your ego and catalogue of bad movies, only that size because a lot of people will be paying to see you get WHIPPED, all up and down the aisle, all round ringside, and in the middle of that ring. So we ain't gonna talk about who's desperate Brian. I can ignore you all the way up to late August and let management pick someone to face me at Being The Elite. You? You'll be stuck selling popcorn in the stands, shining the main event's shoes, and promoting the FBE Network since you're so used to being a mindless acting monkey.
Travis pulls on the joint, ashing it as the crowd cheers him on, getting rowdy as he turns up the heat.
TC: Now, Schiavone, it's so hard, sitting back here, listening to a guy like Blu Ray Brian, HOLLERING MY NAME… when last month, I spent more money on bubblegum and peppermints, than he EVER spent on that whore he found in the backrooms, strip clubs, and dark alleys of Tinseltown. Blu Ray Brian is HOLLERING MY NAME… when last month, I had more money in my Cashapp than any of his whack ass movies had in their BUDGET!
Now as you can guess, it costs A LOT of money, as well as incentive, to get me hyped for a match. Especially when it's with a nigga who don't deserve it. But in the process of rolling my eyes and walking out the door, I overheard something that changed everything.
"Oohs" from the crowd. Travis, fixing his leather jacket yet again, takes a deep breath as the crowd speculates.
TC: I overheard that at Being The Elite IV, there's going to be a match with a certain briefcase on the line. And it goes to the biggest opportunist available. The biggest wildcard of the night takes that briefcase, and holds onto it for up to a YEAR… and whenever he feels like it, crashes that bad boy in for a championship match on the spot. Four letters, say it with me.
B. I. T. B.
TC: I heard those four letters and I was immediately hooked. So I inserted myself into that conversation, and suggested this. If they want this match to happen, we gotta kick it up a notch. Television Championship… meets BITB briefcase. Winner. Take. All.
The crowd is getting hyped, absolutely ecstatic where Travis is going with this.
TC: And off rip, they loved it. Five star idea. Now, it's time to make things official. I'm throwing out an open challenge… a DeadStar open challenge… and it's exclusive to punk ass niggas named Brian Hill. Television Championship on the line. BITB briefcase on the line. Winner is the Face of Television, and has the golden ticket in their back pocket, free to use whenever they want.
It's going to be one of those nights in August. One filled with magic. One filled with wonder. One filled with all the blood, Hellfire, and brimstone you can imagine! BLU RAY BRIAN… there's no doubt you're desperate enough to take this challenge. But the question is… are you man enough? If you are… then Welcome to the Fall…
Travis drops the microphone, clapping Tony on the shoulder and walking off, Television Championship in hand. The crowd is going crazy as Tony Schiavone recaps what just happened, and thanks everyone for watching.
2022.06.14 18:22 Benjamin994 I watch movies here ..
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2021.12.29 22:48 TheThunderousSilence Songs for driving at night
Making a playlist. So far I’ve got
Midnight City- M83
Stylo- Gorillaz
You’ve Got a Woman- Lion
Tinseltown Swimming in Blood- Destroyer
Bang Bang Bang- Sohodolls
Another Weekend- Ariel Pink
Baby In Blue Jeans- LA WITCH
Wave of Mutilation UK Surf- Pixies
submitted by TheThunderousSilence to musicsuggestions [link] [comments]
Midnight City- M83
Stylo- Gorillaz
You’ve Got a Woman- Lion
Tinseltown Swimming in Blood- Destroyer
Bang Bang Bang- Sohodolls
Another Weekend- Ariel Pink
Baby In Blue Jeans- LA WITCH
Wave of Mutilation UK Surf- Pixies
2021.12.29 07:35 SirAlexH Doctor Who: Big Finish, BBC Audio, BBC Media Releases for 2022 (and Beyond!)
Big Finish Releases 2
Whilst we don't know the details, we know Lauren Cornelius has been recording more First Doctor Adventures. Assumably the AAISAT crew have been as well, and potentially Carole Ann Ford. And one assumes Peter Purves. Sadly, I doubt William Russell has, Jean Marsh even less so. Maureen O'Brien has possibly done recording, but it's difficult to say as she's someone who can't really travel far, and obviously pandemics makes things worse.
After being delayed many times, with still no confirmed release date, the fact that remote recording has occurred seems that whatever issues that plagued the release have potentially been solved, and we may get news soon. Otherwise we do know there's a George Mann penned Dalek story, read by Frazer Hines, that at this point logically couldn't be anything but a Companion Chronicle.
There are numerous Fourth Doctor Adventures that aren't announced, one featuring Cleopatra and Mark Antony, one possibly written by Louise Jameson.
It was hinted that we'll get a set that'll explore The Seventh Doctor's last days (which could be Volume 2 out next year).
Whilst we don't know what Vol. 1 and 2 of the 8DA's are, we can also assume that there will be more Time War content (though not confirmed). And whilst this may not be the most relevant section, we do still have Charlotte Pollard Series 3, script edited by Briggs, and will reunite with the Eighth Doctor.
Whilst this is no way official information, there have been suggestions that Big Finish aren't against doing more earlier draft Lost Stories, such as The Three Doctors (and I know Nick Briggs says "Just Imagine", but I found his hints to be a bit more....we're leaning this way.)
The Audio Novels
Jane Slavin has recorded an Audio Novella (assumably as of this range), called "Prisoners of Nerva".
This seems as good a place as anything to mention other projects: we know there's a release planned for the 60th anniversary that started work as of a couple years ago. And considering the presence of Lockdown recordings with Tennant, Eccleston, a new War Doctor....who knows. We also still have confirmation (both off and on the record) that there is a Classic Doctors, New Monsters release to come out, most likely to feature the 12th Doctor monsters.
I think we can safely assume that there's always plans for more Master boxsets in the works. And again, Dhawan says he'd gladly return to Big Finish the moment they ask. So not any time in the next year....but in two years time who knows?
Completely guessing here, but I wouldn't be surprised if after this series, there comes a UNIT series set during the events of The Chibnall era.
Assumbly there will also be the Paul Spragg Short Trip competition at the end of the year.
Whilst there's nothing announced at the moment, it can be safely assumed there is some more full-cast Bernice stuff planned.
We know there's more stories recorded with Kai Owen, and will be with James Marsters. Still no sign of Absent Friends. Or Series 7. Goddammit Barrowman.
In General:
DOCTOR WHO BOOKS (of the BBC Kind anyway)
Whilst there's no listings, it can be presumed that the above Target books will have accompanying audiobooks. And it may not have been the best category to put the vinyls, but we have Vinyl collections of the first of Tom Baker's return boxsets, Hornet's Nest.
COMICS:
The above comic series by Dan Slott is a series of three one-shots, the first containing The Tenth Doctor and Martha Jones. After that, who nose.
BLU-RAYS, STEELBOOKS, FOR THE VISUALOFILES OUT THERE
We can very, very safely say Season 22 is getting made right now, and we know that Season 20 has been in the works for a couple years now though COVID has created issues. Animation wise....no idea. Gary Russell said Galaxy 4 is the start of First Doctor animations, but I wouldn't take that as a literal statement that we've got 1st Doctor animations coming. And steelbook wise, no idea. I want to say that we perhaps won't get a Series 9 re-release, and I'd say Torchwood may have been on the cards for Steelbooks (pure speculation I must add), though actor issues may have scrapped them.
submitted by SirAlexH to gallifrey [link] [comments]
Big Finish Releases 2022 (and Beyond!)
The First Doctor Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| The First Doctor 2022 Title TBA | ?? | ?? |
The Second Doctor Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| 1. Beyond the War Games | Nicholas Briggs; Mark Wright; ?? | ?? |
| 14. The Companion Chronicles: The Second Doctor Vol. 3 | George Mann; ?? | ?? |
The Third Doctor Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| The Third Doctor Adventures: The Annihilators | Nicholas Briggs | - |
| The Third Doctor Adventures 2022B | ?? | ?? |
The Fourth Doctor Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| 11. The Fourth Doctor Adventures - Solo | Timothy X Atack; David Llewllyn | Blood of the Timelords; The Ravencliff Witch |
| 11B. The Fourth Doctor Adventures - ?? | Guy Adams; Simon Barnard; Paul Morris; Lizbeth Myles | The Dreams of Avarice; Shellshock; Peake Season |
| 12. A - ?? (IN 2023) | Guy Adams; Phil Mulryne | Ice Heist!; Antillia the Lost |
| 12. B - ?? (IN 2023) | Roy Gill; Chris Chapman; Roland Moore; Tim Foley | The Wizard of Time; The Friendly Invasion; Stone Cold; The Ghost of Margaret |
| 13. A - ?? (IN 2023) | David K Barnes; Robert Kahn; Tom Salinsky | The Storm of the Sea Devils; Worlds Beyond |
| 13. B - ?? (IN 2023) | Aurora Fearnley; Matthew Sweet; Lisa McMullin | Matryoshka; The Caged Assassin; Metamorphosis |
| 13. C - ?? (IN 2023) | Sarah Grochala; John Dorney | The Face in the Storm; Dominant Species |
The Fifth Doctor Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| Forty Vol. 1 | Matt Fitton; Sarah Grochala | Secrets of Telos; God of War |
| Forty Vol. 2 | Tim Foley | The Auton Infinity |
The Sixth Doctor Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| The Sixth Doctor Adventures 2022A Title TBA | ?? | ?? |
| The Sixth Doctor Adventure 2022B Title TBA | ?? | ?? |
The Seventh Doctor Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| Silver and Ice | Dan Starkey; Jonathan Barnes | Bad Day in Tinseltown; The Ribos Inheritance |
| The Seventh Doctor Adventures Vol. 2 | ?? | ?? |
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| Charlotte Pollard: The Further Adventuress | Alan Barnes; Lisa McMullin; Eddie Robson; Nicholas Briggs | The Mummy Speaks!; Eclipse; The Slaying of the Writhing Mass; Heart of Orion |
| Stranded Vol. 4 | ?? | ?? |
| The Eighth Doctor Adventures Vol. 1 | ?? | ?? |
| The Eighth Doctor Adventures Vol. 2 | ?? | ?? |
The War Doctor Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| The War Doctor Begins Vol. 3: Battlegrounds | Phil Mulryne; Rossa McPhilips; Timothy X Atack | The Keeper of Light; Temmosus; Rewind |
| The War Doctor Begins Vol. 4 | ?? | ?? |
The Ninth Doctor Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| 4. Old Friends; Vinyl Release | David K. Barnes; Roy Gill | Fond Farewell; Way of the Burryman; The Forth Generation |
| 2.1 - ??; Vinyl | ?? | ?? |
| 2.2 - ??; Vinyl | ?? | ?? |
| 2.3 - ??; Vinyl | ?? | ?? |
| 2.4 - ?? (IN 2023); Vinyl | ?? | ?? |
The Lost Stories
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| Mind of the Hodiac | Russell T. Davies; adapted by Scott Handcock | - |
| 7.1 Doctor Who and the Ark (IN 2023) | John Lucarotti; adapted by Jonathan Morris | - |
| 7.2 Doctor Who: Daleks! Genesis of Terror (IN 2023) | Terry Nation; adapted by Simon Guerrier | - |
The Audio Novels
| TITLE | WRITERS | READER | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|---|
| 2. Watchers | Matthew Waterhouse | Matthew Waterhouse; Nicholas Briggs | - |
| 3. ?? | ?? | ?? | - |
| 4. ?? (IN 2023) | ?? | ?? | - |
| 5. ?? (IN 2023) | ?? | ?? | - |
| 6. ??(IN 2024) | ?? | ?? | - |
Classic Series Special Releases
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| Peladon | Jonathan Barnes; Robert Valentine; Lizzey Hopley; Mark Wright; Tim Foley | The Ordeal of Peladon; The Poison of Peladon; The Death of Peladon; The Truth of Peladon |
| Out of Time 3 - Wink | Lisa McMullin | - |
| Tenth Doctor; Classic Companions | John Dorney; Lizzie Hopley; Roy Gill | Splinters; The Stuntman; The Quantum of Axos |
Worlds of Doctor Who
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| 2. The Lone Centurion - Camelot | Alfie Shaw; Tim Foley; Kate Thorman | The Once and Future Nurse; The Glowing Warrior; The Last King of Camelot |
| The Robots Vol. 5 | ?? | ?? |
| The Robots Vol. 6 (IN 2023) | ?? | ?? |
The Master
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| War Master Vol. 7 - Self-Defence | Lou Morgan; Una McCormack; Lizbeth Myles; Lizzie Hopley | The Forest of Penitence; The Players; Boundaries; The Last Line |
| The War Master Vol. 8 - ?? | ?? | ?? |
UNIT
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| UNIT: Nemesis Vol. 2 | ?? | ?? |
| UNIT: Nemesis Vol. 3 | ?? | ?? |
| UNIT: Nemesis Vol. 4 (IN 2023) | ?? | ?? |
Short Trips
| TITLE | WRITERS | READER | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|---|
| Vol. 11 | Alfie Shaw; Rochana Patel; Felicia Barker; Paul F Verhoeven; Ben Tedds | Dan Starkey; Jacob Dudman; Matthew Waterhouse; Jon Culshaw; Adele Andersen; Ayesha Antoine; Sophie Aldred | Rearguard; Messages From the Dead; The Threshold; Death Will Not Part Us; Fear of Flying; Inside Story |
Interludes
| TITLE | WRITERS | READER |
|---|---|---|
| 1. I, Kamelion | Dominic G. Martin | Dan Starkey |
| 2. ?? | ?? | ?? |
| 3. ?? | ?? | ?? |
Bernice Summerfield Audiobooks
| TITLE | WRITERS | READER | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|---|
| 25. The Weather on Versimmon | Matthew Griffiths | Lisa Bowerman | - |
| 26. The Slender-Fingered Cats of Bubastis | Xanna Eve Chown | Lisa Bowerman |
Iris Wildthyme Audiobooks
| TITLE | WRITERS | READER | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1. Enter Wildthyme | Paul Magrs | Katy Manning | - |
| 2. Wildthyme Beyond | Paul Magrs | Katy Manning | - |
| 3. The Polythene Terror | Paul Magrs | Katy Manning | - |
Torchwood Monthly Adventures
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| 58. TBA | X | X |
| 59. TBA | ?? | ?? |
| 60. TBA | ?? | ?? |
In General:
NON-DOCTOR WHO STUFF (Ya know,for those few nerds who have interests outside Doctor Who)
The World's of Blake's 7
| TITLE | WRITERS | READER | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|---|
| The Terra Nostra | James Kettle; Robert Valentine; Peter Angehilides | - | Stimulus/Response; Entrapment; The Offer |
| The Terra Nostra: Zero Point (tie-in audiobook) | Scott Harrison | ?? | - |
| Bayban the Buther: Bayban Ascending | Nigel Fairs | ||
Space: 1999
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| Vol. 2 - Earthbound | Marc Platt; Iain Meadows; Nicholas Briggs | Mooncatcher; Earthbound; Journey's End |
Survivors
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| New Dawn Vol. 2 | Lizbeth Myles; Andrew Smith; Roland Moore | Bad Blood; When First We Practice; Last Stand |
Big Finish Originals
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| The Human Frontier Series 2 | Nicholas Briggs | Dendrick; Planet 5; Human War; Cataclysm |
Sherlock Holmes
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| 7.2 The Fiends of New York | Jonathan Barnes | - |
Big Finish Classics
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| Jekyll & Hyde | Robert Louis Stephenson; adapted by Nicholas Briggs | - |
The Avengers
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| The Comic Strip Adaptations Vol. 6: Steed & Mrs Peel | Roland Moore; Sarah Grochala; John Dorney | Seven Deadly...Assasins; Stand and Deliver; You Won't Believe Your Eyes |
| The Comic Strip Adaptations Vol. 7: Steed & Tara King | ?? | ?? |
Novelisation Audiobooks
| TITLE | WRITERS | READERS |
|---|---|---|
| Doctor Who: Time and the Rani | Pip and Jane Baker | Bonnie Langford |
| Doctor Who and the Revenge of the Cybermen | Gerry Davis; adapted by Terrance Dicks | Nicholas Briggs |
| Timelash | Glen McCoy | Colin Baker |
| Doctor Who and the Face of Evil | Chris Boucher; adapted by Terrance Dicks | Louise Jameson |
| Battlefield | Ben Aaronovitch; adapted by Marc Platt | Toby Longworth |
| The Reign of Terror | Dennis Spooner; adapted by Ian Marter | Jamie Glover |
| Doctor Who and the Android Invasion | Terry Nation; adapted by Terrance Dicks | Geoffrey Beevers |
| Doctor Who and the Keys of Marinus | Terry Nation; adapted by Philip Hinchcliffe | ?? |
| Doctor Who and the Nightmare of Eden | Bob Baker; adapted by Terrance Dicks | ?? |
Digital Collections
| TITLE | INDIVIDUAL STORIES | WRITERS | READERS |
|---|---|---|---|
| The Space Travel Collection | The Edge of Destruction; The Space Pirates; The Ark in Space; The Invasion of Time; Four to Doomsday | David Whitaker (adapted by Nigel Robinson); Robert Holmes (adapted by Terrance Dicks); Robert Holmes (adapted by Ian Marter); David Agnew (adapted by Terrance Dicks); Terence Dudley (adapted by Terrance Dicks) | William Russell; Terry Molloy; Jon Culshaw; John Leeson; Matthew Waterhouse |
| Tales of Time and Space | Men of War; Horrors of War; Fortunes of War; The Thing From the Sea; The Elysian Blade; The Flight of the Sun God; The Scent of Blood; Paradise Lost; The Winged Coven | Justin Richards; Paul Magrs; David Bishop; Nev Fountain; Andy Lane; Darren Jones | Peter Purves; Katy Manning; Colin Baker; Susan Jameson; Frazer Hines; Nicola Bryant; Dan Starkey; Jacob Dudman |
| The BBC Radio Collection | The Paradise of Death; The Ghosts of N-Space; Doctor Who and the Pescatons; Exploration Earth: The Time Machine; Slipback; Whatever Happened to...Susan? | Barry Letts; Victor Pemberton; Bernard Venables; Adrian Mourby; Eric Saward | Jon Pertwee; Nicholas Courtney; Elisabeth Sladen; Tom Baker; Colin Baker; Nicola Bryant |
| The Second Earth Adventures Collection | Planet of the Giants; The Massacre; The Invasion Doctor Who and The Horror of Fang Rock; Delta and the Bannerman | Louis Marks (adapted by Terrance Dicks); John Lucarotti; Donald Tosh; Derrick Sherwin (adapted by Ian Marter); Terrance Dicks; Malcolm Kohll | Carole Ann Ford; Peter Purves; David Troughton; Nicholas Briggs; Louise Jameson; Bonnie Langford |
Audio Originals
| TITLE | WRITERS | READERS |
|---|---|---|
| Beyond the Doctor: London, 1965 | Paul Magrs | Jamie Glover |
| Beyond the Doctor: Sleeper Agents | Paul Magrs | Anneke Wills |
| Beyond the Doctor: The Penumbra Affair | Paul Magrs | Susan Jameson |
| The Resurrection Plant | Will Hadcroft | Frazer Hines |
| The Code of Flesh | Andy Lane | ?? |
Annual Audiobooks
| TITLE | INDIVIDUAL STORIES | READERS |
|---|---|---|
| Time Wake & Other Stories | The Sons of the Crab; Only a Matter of Time; War in the Abyss; Famine of Planet X; Night Flight to Nowhere; Time Wake; Secrets of the TARDIS; One Doctor-Five Men | Dan Starkey; Geoffrey Beevers; Anneke Wills; Jon Culshaw; Louise Jameson; Colin Baker |
BBC Books
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| Treasure Island | Paul Magrs(?); confirmed Not Jacqueline Rayner | - |
| The Return of Robin Hood | Paul Magrs | - |
| Doctor Who: Origin Stories | ?? | ?? |
| A Short History of Everyone | ?? | ?? |
| Target: V | ?? | - |
| Target: F | ?? | - |
| Target: JM | ?? | - |
| Target: P | ?? | - |
| Target: R | ?? | - |
| Doctor Who Annual: 2023 | ?? | - |
BBC Audiobooks
| TITLE | WRITERS | READERS |
|---|---|---|
| Doctor Who: Hornet's Nest Vinyl LP | Paul Magrs | Tom Baker; Richard Franklin; Susan Jameson; Others |
COMICS:
| TITLE | WRITERS | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| Titan Comics: Doctor Who Comics - Empire of the Wolf #3 | Jody Houser | - |
| Titan Comics: Doctor Who Comics - Empire of the Wolf #4 | Jody Houser | - |
| Titan Comics: Doctor Who Special | Dan Slott | - |
BLU-RAYS, STEELBOOKS, FOR THE VISUALOFILES OUT THERE
| TITLE | ERA | INDIVIDUAL STORIES (If Applicable) |
|---|---|---|
| The Collection: Season 17 | Douglas Adams Era | Destiny of the Daleks; City of Death; The Creature From the Pit; Nightmare of Eden; The Horns of Nimon; (Shada) |
| The Abominable Snowmen | Second Doctor Era | - |
| Series 13: DVD; Blu-Ray; STEELBOOK! | Chibnall Era | Flux Chapters 1-6 :) |
2021.03.05 20:18 _jaxel_ The Album Years - Episode 13- 1981
 | https://anchor.fm/the-album-years/episodes/Episode-13---1981-ermdal submitted by _jaxel_ to stevenwilson [link] [comments] https://preview.redd.it/hhqm5fe5g9l61.png?width=4096&format=png&auto=webp&s=bbd15d6bee22ff1ce6d1ae6c8385461c18abb143 Edit: Heres the spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1wWknp2BHEx6toFz2BDT9w?si=0a6ac82061414c28 Here's all the albums i managed to catch, as usual, if someone spots any mistakes or omissions please feel free to comment so i can add them: Echo & the Bunnymen - Heaven Up Here Joy Division - Still A Certain Ratio - To Each The Durutti Column - LC New Order - Movement Magazine - Magic, Murder and the Weather Tom Tom Club - Tom Tom Club David Byrne - The Catherine Wheel David Byrne - My Life in the Bush of Ghosts Gang of Four - Solid Gold Rush - Moving Pictures Frank Zappa - Shut Up 'n Play Yer Guitar Frank Zappa - Tinseltown Rebellion Frank Zappa - You Are What You Is Camel - Nude Nick Mason - Nick Mason's Fictitious Sports Steve Reich - Tehillim The Human League - Dare! Soft Cell - Non Stop Erotic Cabaret Ultravox - Rage In Eden Duran Duran - Duran Duran Spandau Ballet - Journeys to Glory Heaven 17 - Penthouse and Pavement Depeche Mode - Speak & Spell The Associates - Fourth Drawer Down Gary Numan - Dance Simple Minds - Sons and Fascination/Sister Feeling Call Japan - Tin Drum Orchestra Maneuvers In The Dark - Architecture and Morality Rupert Hine - Immunity Peter Hamill - Sitting Targets Bill Nelson - Quit Dreaming (And Get on the Beam) Todd Rungren - Healing Ricky Lee jones - Pirates Phil Collins - Face Value Iron Maiden - Killers Black Sabbath - Mob Rules Saxon - Denim and Leather Venom - Welcome To Hell Michael Schenker Group - MSG Def Leppard - High 'N' Dry Ozzy Osbourne - Diary Of a Madman UFO - The Wild, the Willing and the Innocent Keith Jarrett - Invocations/The Moth and the Flame Pat Metheny - As Falls Wichita, So Falls Wichita Falls John Surman - The Amazing Adventures of Simon Simon Meredith Monk - Dolmen Music Miles Davis - The Man with the Horn Grace Jones - Nightclubbing Prince - Controversy Electric Light Orchestra - Time Abba - The Visitors Squeeze - East Side Story Elvis Costello - Trust Madness - 7 Adam & The Ants - Prince Charming The Who - Face dances The Rolling Stones - Tattoo You Kraftwerk - Computer World Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft - Alles Ist Gut Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft - Gold und Liebe Vangelis - Chariots of Fire Jon And Vangelis - The Friends of Mr Cairo Jean Michael Jarre - Les Chants Magnétiques Yello - Claro Que Si Yelloy Magic Orchestra - Technodelic Tangerine Dream - Exit Penguin Cafe Orchestra - Penguin Cafe Orchestra Siouxsie and the Banshees - Juju The Cure - Faith The Sound - From the Lions Mouth Comsat Angels - Sleep No More The Psychedelic Furs - Talk Talk Talk The Birthday Party - Prayers on Fire Bauhaus - Mask Au Pairs - Playing with a Different Sex The Stranglers - La Folie Matt Johnson - Burning Blue Soul Eyeless In Gaza - Photographs as Memories |
2021.01.06 16:45 2bYharMonY Tinseltown Juniors' Mid-Rise Fray-Hem Skinny Jeans & Reviews - Jeans - Juniors - Macy's Skinny jeans, Shopping outfit, Skinny $19.99
 | submitted by 2bYharMonY to u/2bYharMonY [link] [comments] |
2020.06.23 20:36 ItLivesLover Deadlands 1.1
(Fan created Zombie Book)
Deadlands
Warning! Mention of gore and mature themes and language.
People often assume there are a few truths they can always count on.
The sun rises in the east.
Spring comes after winter.
When we die, we die.
I use to believe all of this but that world is gone.
(Customisation)
What am I?
Female
Male
What do I look like?
(Models based of Veil of Secrets male and female)
Face 1
Face 2
Face 3
Face 4
Hairstyles female
Brown braided Halo (💎 15)
Edgy undercut flip (💎 15)
Short kinky curly hair
Black Bangs and bob cut
Red Pixie cut
Choppy Blonde
Hairstyles male
Black widows peak (💎 15)
Red side part (💎 15)
Chestnut bowl cut
Blonde buzz cut
Short black waves
Do I wish to see anyone?
Female
Male
Both
None
My first name?
(Default is Kodey)
My surname?
(Default is Miles)
Chapter 1: Before Everything
Beep Beep Beep
(Oh oh, I’m late!)
The sound of the alarm clock startled me out of, as I franticly ran around my bedroom. Dressing in my haste to get to work. Jeans, clean t-shirt and suit jacket would have to do. My boss prefer people to be time. Looking into the mirror making sure that I looked like I DIDN’T wake up 10 minutes ago.
Kodey: “Shit, shit, shit, I’m going to be late.”
I leave my apartment ready to run down four flights of stairs until a familiar voice stops me.
???: “Overslept again Kodey?”
How could anyone not love Mrs Lola Sanchez, next door neighbour and the embarrassing mom everyone wants?
Kodey: ”Yeah, I better get going.”
Mrs Sanchez: “Not without your lunch (young lady/young mister).”
She is holding out a brown paper bag, knowing her she probably made sandwiches for two people and a pint of orange juice.
Yeah like I said, you can’t help but love her.
Kodey: “Thank you, Mrs. Sanchez you are amazing.”
Mrs Sanchez: “Oh Shush, you can repay me with buying some milk on your way back.”
Kodey: “Will do, you just take care of yourself.”
Mrs Sanchez: “And introduce me to your (special girl/boy/someone).” * Depends on your chosen interest will not appear if you are uninterested. Kodey:“ Goodbye Mrs Sanchez.”
I race to my old beat up car, I swear this car is like a grumpy old man, it will not cooperate. With the key in the ignition I turn it once, twice, trice, and it keeps sputtering.
Kodey: “Come on, work with me here.”
Forth time the charm.
Kodey: “YES!”
The streets are filled with people, everyone trying to live their life, trying to make the most of the hands we are dealt. The bored clerk that is waiting for costumers, the kids that spend their day in school, everyone trying to make it through the day.
I turn on the radio to keep me company.
Radio:‘…along the west coast been an increase amount of reports. The advice is to ensure that people are up to date on their shots and avoid animals with aggressive behaviour. This is Your Friendly Broadcast with the morning news, now weather. Over to you Jack. ’
Kobey: ‘Wonder what that is about.’
You make it to your job, rushing up the stairs just catching a glint of the yellow warning sign and the newly polished floors and a big puddle.
You:
(Depending on your actions you will get ⚠️ alert points, it will allow you to unlock opinions, think carefully, it might bring consequences.)
I manage to make it up to the floor and clock in just before the clock
…
…
Cecilia: “How cute, but I’m sure Mr. Hudson says otherwise.”* If you chose 2 or 3.*
Kobey: “Yeah well last time I checked we worked together, remember last week’s presentation.”
Cecilia: “And you did very well, such a pity you couldn’t be there to hear it. Mr Hudson and the clients where so pleased with it. I should know I got a raise.”
Cecilia’s face changes between one of pity to one of smug satisfaction.
Kobey: “And I ask once again what the heck did you put in that coffee?”
My face scrunched up in annoyance.
Cecilia looks chocked at the accusation.
Cecilia: “Nothing, you complained of feeling low on energy earlier so I added some cod liver oil… or was it Castor oil. I can’t seem to remember which.”
Her smug smile however tells another story.
Kodey: “We’ll see about that during the presentation this afternoon.”
Cecilia: “You’re right! If you behave you might become my personal assistant. Wouldn’t that be grand?”
???:”Charles don’t you have actual work to do?”
A new voice interrupted the ‘lovely’ discussion we where having. But this time it was from someone I was glad to see.
Connie Williams worked in a cubical across from me, when I started working here as an intern she was herself quite new and we worked next to each other. I wouldn’t say we were the best of friends but we were definitely work pals. If I could say one thing it was I admired her dedication to her work and its employees.
Connie was quite lanky with long legs and built like a marathon runner. Her dark natural hair gathered in a low puff, the only noticeable makeup she had was some smoky eye and barely there mascara. Black pencil skirt with matching blazer and silky teal blouse that complimented her skin.
Cecilia: “Oh morning Williams. I didn’t see you there. I was just making sure that Miles are up for the presentation later today. It would be a shame that stage fright go in the way again.”
Connie: “How sweet, but Mr Hudson sent you some documents to go over and he wants them ASAP.”
Connie held her poker face her mouth not even twitching. Cecilia throws one more look at me before leaving.
Cecilia: “Ta Ta.”
Kobey: “Hey thanks.”
Connie: “There is more to life than petty office drama. Just wish someone would tell her that.”
Kobey: “Too bad she has everyone around her finger.”
Connie: “Well you know what they say about sirens. They look sweet and sing pretty, but will wreak you if you get anywhere near them. Hopefully someone upstairs will catch one before that happens.”
Kobey: ”Doubt it.”
You look at Connie, there is something weighing her mind. Her eyes slightly downcast, her mouth in a small thin frown.
Kobey: “You look like you are a thousand miles away, what’s on your mind?” Connie: “It was the news this morning. The talked about people being hospitalised, some really nasty virus. My sister lives on the West coast, been thinking I should call her. But I don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing.”
Kobey: I...
Kobey: “Damn, your good.”
Connie: “You just have a bad poker face.”
Connie:”Can you guess what the reportage was about?”
Kobey: It was about
Connie: “Well now I know you aren’t detective material.” You picked wrong answer.
Kodey: “Well you know me. Are you surprised?”
Connie: “No not really, on the subject of ‘you’, I bet my car you missed breakfast again.”
With that the sound of my stomach entered our ears.
Connie: “Looks like I won again.”
Kodey: “Oh stop it.”
Connie: “Come on it is a slow morning, I will keep you company.”
Take a quick breakfast with Connie?
Kodey: “You know what? Sure I can take a 10 minute coffee break.”
Connie: “Knew you wouldn’t turn down free food.”
Kodey: “Yeah well…”
Connie smiles at the comment.
Connie: So what’s your poison?
(Take drink)
As we both sit down with our drinks, I grab hold of the oatmeal bars and dig in. It wasn’t the most pleasant but it did what it was intended for.
Kodey: “So now, you were talking about a sister, who is she? I know you had Lizzie and Maggie.”
Connie: “Maddie, actually. But its Lizzie that decided to get herself stranded in Tinseltown.”
Kodey: “Weren’t she in Chicago a few months back?”
Connie: “Just a weekend trip, I just wonder how much see saw when I think I was updated on every time she sneezed.”
Connie rolls her eyes.
Kodey: “So what is she up to in the city of stars? Becoming the next Victoria Fontaine?”
Connie: “Construction actually, she must get money for food and board someway.”
Kodey: “You planning to go down and visit her?”
Connie: “No.”
Kodey: Why not?
Connie: “There is always something going on, Hudson would want me working 24/7 if that had been an obtion.” Choice 2.
Connie: “Don’t even try Casanova. My love life is under A LOT of red tape. Try again in five years, there might be a shot.” Choice 3
Kodey: “Is she going to visit you?”
Connie: “Probably, I will probably come home from work one evening and have her standing by my door. ‘Lizzie’ and ‘planning ahead’ do not go together in the same sentence.”
Kobey: “Strange since you are more or less the opposite. You sure you are related?”
Connie: “We came out of the same woman, I have seen the evidence… and had nightmares about it.”
Kobey: “You have my sympathies.”
Connie: “Don’t. It is just nature.”
Kobey: “How can you be so detached from it?”
Connie: “Logic prevails in the world of number, calculations and chance. Emotions make everything messy, people flying at the seat of their pants often fail to think of consequences.”
Kobey: “Always the ray of sunshine, huh?”
Connie: “Oh yes. But it is a lesson that has gotten me though a lot of crap. Especially here, some will use your emotions against you, you need to know how to keep your cool.”
Kobey: “Thank you Connie. I’ll keep that in mind.” (+ 1 ⚠️)
Kobey: “But I think you should call Lizzie. I think it might make her day.”
Connie: “I think I’ll do that. Thank you for listening, I appreciate that.”
Connie gives a genuine smile, even if it is brief, before slipping back into her professional stance.
Connie: “Better get back to work.”
Kobey: “See you at the meeting later?”
Connie: “Of course.”
¤(None Diamond path)
¤ Kobey: “I really shouldn’t, I better not give Cecilia any more ammunition. She already has it out for me.”
¤ Connie: “Atleast do me a favour and take an oatmeal bar, if not, half of the office will hear you and you will just give Charles something to whine about.”
¤ Kobey:..
”Coffee Confidant” you took a cup with Connie
”Low on coffee” you decided to not take a cup with Connie
The afternoon presentation was getting closer. I go over my points and papers.
Kobey: ‘ The Clampfords has been known for quite a bit of protocol, perhaps a bit old-fashioned. Greeting the members in order of seniority could make or break a meeting.’
Kobey: ‘ They are also known to be quite no nonsense the entire bunch. Better stick to facts and avoid small talk.’
Cecilia: “I see you are looking up notes for my meeting. How nice of you.”
Kobey: “It is our meeting, a lot hinges on this.”
Cecilia: “Oh I know that, I’ll be sure to put my best foot forward. I am sure the head chief will love me. Men tends to do.”
The nice meeting room is on one of the highest floors. It has quite a view of the city. It looks polished and clean and it is always decorated with polished table decorations in glass. It also had its own bathroom, supply closet and serving cart with refreshments.
Besides Mr Hudson are three people. One older gentleman with a blue suit noticeable stomach, a dark haired woman with a maroon coloured suit and skirt combo and a chunky necklace and lastly a young man with tan skin that is far more casual with half the shirt buttons undone and no tie to complement the black suit.
Mr Hudson: “Miss Clamp, Mr Smith, Mr Torres. These are two of my brightest employees and will be the one in charge of the presentation. They will tell you why you should become one of our clients and what service we provide. I take it you ae all familiar with Miss Williams from the accounting division.”
Mr Hudson makes a short remark, you catch Connie’s eye and feel a wave of ease go over you.
Cecilia: “Sure thing, now I think an introduction is in order.”
Cecilia struts up to the oldest of the three and greets him with a voice akin to honey.
She completely misses the amused smile on the younger man or the irate expression on the woman.
I should greet:
Woman:” Pleasure to meet you Miss/Mr Miles, Beverly Clamp. Head chief of The Clampton.”* (+ 1 ⚠️)*
Kobey: “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr Head chief.“
Woman: “That would be me, Beverly Clamp Head chief of The Clampton.” * You chose incorrect*
I noticed something strange however as I took her hand.
(Are those teeth marks?)
Miss Clamp: “Oh it was nothing, just a squabble on the train.” She said waving it off. She was warm to the touch perhaps she was coming down with something? It was Spring after all a small cold was not uncommon.
Kobey: “Well then”
*Mr Smith:” We would love to start the meeting if you do not mind.” *if chose incorrectly *
Kodey: “Right, ofcourse.”
”Small talk gone bad,” if chose incorrectly.
I take the metal teacher pointer, it was still quite old-fashioned to have, but Mr Hudson believed that laser pointers and automatic white screens where a waste of money. I hook it around the edge and pull it down as Cecilia starts up the projector.
The entire meeting moved smoothly. I noticed how Mr Torres and Smith was taking notes, but the more I talked I noticed something about Miss Clamp. She looked sweaty, as if she had just been at the gym. Her hand that earlier took notes twitched strangely. I wasn’t the only one that noticed Mr Torres looked more and more concerned as the meeting progressed, even Connie looked a bit weirded out by how quickly this woman was deteriorating.
Until suddenly…
THUMP
Mr Smith: “Miss Clamp? Miss Clamp? What’s wrong?”
The older man shakes her but she shows no response.
Miss Clamp seemed to have fainted. She was completely unresponsive.
Connie held her phone to her ear clearly talking to someone.
Connie: “Yes, send a nurse up to the grand conference room, one of the participants just fainted.”
Connie:”I see.”
Connie said as she put her phone away.
Connie: “Paramedics said there are swamped, but we should make sure she has a lot of water and keep an eye on the fever.”
Cecilia: “What?! They are not going to come? What do we do?”
Connie: “Not panic.” She said in a dry tone directing it to Cecilia specifically.
The sound of Cecilias’ screetching drowned out next to everything. It had been pure luck that I noticed that Miss Clamp’s hand was moving tightening and releasing.
Kobey:“Hey she is waking up.”
Mr Torres: ”Oh thank God Bev you scared me.”
Mr Smith: “There now Miss Clamp, I hope that this teaches you to take care of yourself better.” He was right beside her.
What followed was an image I will never every forget.
Miss Clamps’ eyes shot up, but they were dazed. But it was her action that will forever be imprinted in my mind.
Like a police dog or a wolf she shot her mouth forward and clamped down on Mr Smith wrist. The sound of the older man as she bit harder and harder trying to comprehend how his own college was acting like an animal. He tried to push her of, but she didn’t seem to register words. Her focus was only on the bite, her frantic head movements worked through the skin. She Mr Smith began to bleed more and more profusely.
No words would reach her. She kept snarling, no words or understanding of what she was doing.
I needed to get her away, armed with the rod I could use it like a fishing pole and pull her away.
I just needed to make sure whatever I hooked it around would cause her to get pulled back.
Hook it into her (Hurry, limited time!)
Miss Clamps bulky necklace was a blessing in disguise as it acted like a collar on a big dog. With great strength I manage to get her of Mr Smith, by yanking her of.
I managed to get her off the man, my powerful yank sent her sprawling across the floor. But she didn’t stay down long. Instead it seemed she had a new target as she got of the floor.
I watch as Miss Clamp lunges at me, she is snarling, her eyes unfocused and I can see the marks from where I had used her own necklace as a noose.
With the teachers pointer in hand I: (Hurry, limited time!)
I spot the supply closet in the corner. The door is open
Standing my ground I: (Hurry, limited time!)
If you got 2 or less “By the skin of your teeth”
With a final shove she is inside, I grab the door and slam it shut. But I can feel her pounding, it was not that of a person simply knocking. It was more like a wild bear trying to claw itself out of confinement.
Kobey: “Quick grab the...”
Kobey: “That should hold at least for a bit.” You picked the correct Choice (+ 1 ⚠️)
Mr. Smith: “For fucks sake take the blasted Cabinet!”You picked wrong answer.
With that both Mr Torres and Mr Hudson moves the cabinet before the door. Thankfully there was space for me to get out and not get squished.
With Miss Clamp in the closet Mr Smith tying a handkerchief around his injured hand and wrist. Blood soaking through the cloth.
Mr Torres was mumbling in the corner. Having just seen his friend go on a rampage. Poor man must be out of his mind.
Mr Torres: Bev was just fine, Bev was all right, Bev just said it was nothing to worry about.”
Mr Torres: “Damn that fucking guy.” He said that last piece with so much venom I thought my blood would turn to ice.
Kobey: “Mr Torres, did something happen?”
Mr Torres: “It was something Bev said this morning. It is not my place to tell other people her affairs.”
Kobey: Look…
Tell us what she said happened (18 💎)
We don’t have time to stand around.
Diamond Choices:
Kobey. Mr Torres, can you recall what Mrs Clamp said happened.
Mr Torres: It was like any other morning. Beverley was on her usual train. However some strange man kept harassing her. She said he was probably hung over. He looked all clammy and unfocused.
Mr Torres: He tried to kiss her hand, some of the passages managed to get him off her. When he got to clingy. Tossed him off at a station before the train continued.
Mr Torres: She got to work and had that hickey on her hand.
Kobey: Did she complain of being sick or something?”
Mr Torres: Bev is the type that will power through any cold she gets. But she became sluggish sometime during the late morning and she was very warm. Tried to talk her into going home but she wouldn’t have it.
Kobey: “Means whatever virus this is takes time to incubate. You said she went from fine, to sluggish and feverish until she became ‘that’.”
We all heard the sound of animalistic growls and inhumane screeching. Coming from the barricaded supply closet. It was unnerving to say the least.
Kobey: “Now we just need to know just what it is. But any information is helpful. Thank you Mr. Torres.” (+ 1 ⚠️ )
Mr Torres: “Think nothing off it.”
Kobey: “Alright will all of this said we still need a way to get out. If what happened to Miss Clamp is anything to go on… this is going to get very ugly.”
Kobey:’ There must be something we can use.’
( Glass decoration balls)
Kobey: They might be good to cause a distraction, if there are more creeps in the building.’
(Compact Mirror)
Kobey:’ I could see around corners and even behind me, might be useful.’
‘What should I Take?’
Kobey: ‘What do we do now?’
(Highest amount of ⚠️Alert points 10)
submitted by ItLivesLover to Choices [link] [comments]
Deadlands
Warning! Mention of gore and mature themes and language.
People often assume there are a few truths they can always count on.
The sun rises in the east.
Spring comes after winter.
When we die, we die.
I use to believe all of this but that world is gone.
(Customisation)
What am I?
Female
Male
What do I look like?
(Models based of Veil of Secrets male and female)
Face 1
Face 2
Face 3
Face 4
Hairstyles female
Brown braided Halo (💎 15)
Edgy undercut flip (💎 15)
Short kinky curly hair
Black Bangs and bob cut
Red Pixie cut
Choppy Blonde
Hairstyles male
Black widows peak (💎 15)
Red side part (💎 15)
Chestnut bowl cut
Blonde buzz cut
Short black waves
Do I wish to see anyone?
Female
Male
Both
None
My first name?
(Default is Kodey)
My surname?
(Default is Miles)
Chapter 1: Before Everything
Beep Beep Beep
(Oh oh, I’m late!)
The sound of the alarm clock startled me out of, as I franticly ran around my bedroom. Dressing in my haste to get to work. Jeans, clean t-shirt and suit jacket would have to do. My boss prefer people to be time. Looking into the mirror making sure that I looked like I DIDN’T wake up 10 minutes ago.
Kodey: “Shit, shit, shit, I’m going to be late.”
I leave my apartment ready to run down four flights of stairs until a familiar voice stops me.
???: “Overslept again Kodey?”
How could anyone not love Mrs Lola Sanchez, next door neighbour and the embarrassing mom everyone wants?
Kodey: ”Yeah, I better get going.”
Mrs Sanchez: “Not without your lunch (young lady/young mister).”
She is holding out a brown paper bag, knowing her she probably made sandwiches for two people and a pint of orange juice.
Yeah like I said, you can’t help but love her.
Kodey: “Thank you, Mrs. Sanchez you are amazing.”
Mrs Sanchez: “Oh Shush, you can repay me with buying some milk on your way back.”
Kodey: “Will do, you just take care of yourself.”
Mrs Sanchez: “And introduce me to your (special girl/boy/someone).” * Depends on your chosen interest will not appear if you are uninterested. Kodey:“ Goodbye Mrs Sanchez.”
I race to my old beat up car, I swear this car is like a grumpy old man, it will not cooperate. With the key in the ignition I turn it once, twice, trice, and it keeps sputtering.
Kodey: “Come on, work with me here.”
Forth time the charm.
Kodey: “YES!”
The streets are filled with people, everyone trying to live their life, trying to make the most of the hands we are dealt. The bored clerk that is waiting for costumers, the kids that spend their day in school, everyone trying to make it through the day.
I turn on the radio to keep me company.
Radio:‘…along the west coast been an increase amount of reports. The advice is to ensure that people are up to date on their shots and avoid animals with aggressive behaviour. This is Your Friendly Broadcast with the morning news, now weather. Over to you Jack. ’
Kobey: ‘Wonder what that is about.’
You make it to your job, rushing up the stairs just catching a glint of the yellow warning sign and the newly polished floors and a big puddle.
You:
Side step (+ 1 ⚠️)
Halt (+ 1 ⚠️ )
Jump over (+ 1 ⚠️)
(Depending on your actions you will get ⚠️ alert points, it will allow you to unlock opinions, think carefully, it might bring consequences.)
I manage to make it up to the floor and clock in just before the clock
…
Good Morning Cecilia.
What do you want this time?
…
I’m sorry, ma’am.
No, but I don’t see them anywhere.
I greet you however I damn want.
Cecilia: “How cute, but I’m sure Mr. Hudson says otherwise.”* If you chose 2 or 3.*
Kobey: “Yeah well last time I checked we worked together, remember last week’s presentation.”
Cecilia: “And you did very well, such a pity you couldn’t be there to hear it. Mr Hudson and the clients where so pleased with it. I should know I got a raise.”
Cecilia’s face changes between one of pity to one of smug satisfaction.
Kobey: “And I ask once again what the heck did you put in that coffee?”
My face scrunched up in annoyance.
Cecilia looks chocked at the accusation.
Cecilia: “Nothing, you complained of feeling low on energy earlier so I added some cod liver oil… or was it Castor oil. I can’t seem to remember which.”
Her smug smile however tells another story.
Kodey: “We’ll see about that during the presentation this afternoon.”
Cecilia: “You’re right! If you behave you might become my personal assistant. Wouldn’t that be grand?”
???:”Charles don’t you have actual work to do?”
A new voice interrupted the ‘lovely’ discussion we where having. But this time it was from someone I was glad to see.
Connie Williams worked in a cubical across from me, when I started working here as an intern she was herself quite new and we worked next to each other. I wouldn’t say we were the best of friends but we were definitely work pals. If I could say one thing it was I admired her dedication to her work and its employees.
Connie was quite lanky with long legs and built like a marathon runner. Her dark natural hair gathered in a low puff, the only noticeable makeup she had was some smoky eye and barely there mascara. Black pencil skirt with matching blazer and silky teal blouse that complimented her skin.
Cecilia: “Oh morning Williams. I didn’t see you there. I was just making sure that Miles are up for the presentation later today. It would be a shame that stage fright go in the way again.”
Connie: “How sweet, but Mr Hudson sent you some documents to go over and he wants them ASAP.”
Connie held her poker face her mouth not even twitching. Cecilia throws one more look at me before leaving.
Cecilia: “Ta Ta.”
Kobey: “Hey thanks.”
Connie: “There is more to life than petty office drama. Just wish someone would tell her that.”
Kobey: “Too bad she has everyone around her finger.”
Connie: “Well you know what they say about sirens. They look sweet and sing pretty, but will wreak you if you get anywhere near them. Hopefully someone upstairs will catch one before that happens.”
Kobey: ”Doubt it.”
You look at Connie, there is something weighing her mind. Her eyes slightly downcast, her mouth in a small thin frown.
Kobey: “You look like you are a thousand miles away, what’s on your mind?” Connie: “It was the news this morning. The talked about people being hospitalised, some really nasty virus. My sister lives on the West coast, been thinking I should call her. But I don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing.”
Kobey: I...
think it is sweet that you care.
totally get that.
think it will blow over sooner or later.
Kobey: “Damn, your good.”
Connie: “You just have a bad poker face.”
Connie:”Can you guess what the reportage was about?”
Kobey: It was about
Whooping cough
Rabies (+ 1 ⚠️) - Correct
Chicken pox
Connie: “Well now I know you aren’t detective material.” You picked wrong answer.
Kodey: “Well you know me. Are you surprised?”
Connie: “No not really, on the subject of ‘you’, I bet my car you missed breakfast again.”
With that the sound of my stomach entered our ears.
Connie: “Looks like I won again.”
Kodey: “Oh stop it.”
Connie: “Come on it is a slow morning, I will keep you company.”
Take a quick breakfast with Connie?
I would love that. (💎 12)
Sorry better get back to work
Kodey: “You know what? Sure I can take a 10 minute coffee break.”
Connie: “Knew you wouldn’t turn down free food.”
Kodey: “Yeah well…”
You wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I need to vent.
How can I say no to your pretty face? ❤ *Only appear if you are
interested in women/both*
Connie smiles at the comment.
Connie: So what’s your poison?
Coffee, a really strong on please.
Tea, with milk.
Do they still have any cocoa left?
(Take drink)
As we both sit down with our drinks, I grab hold of the oatmeal bars and dig in. It wasn’t the most pleasant but it did what it was intended for.
Kodey: “So now, you were talking about a sister, who is she? I know you had Lizzie and Maggie.”
Connie: “Maddie, actually. But its Lizzie that decided to get herself stranded in Tinseltown.”
Kodey: “Weren’t she in Chicago a few months back?”
Connie: “Just a weekend trip, I just wonder how much see saw when I think I was updated on every time she sneezed.”
Connie rolls her eyes.
Kodey: “So what is she up to in the city of stars? Becoming the next Victoria Fontaine?”
Connie: “Construction actually, she must get money for food and board someway.”
Kodey: “You planning to go down and visit her?”
Connie: “No.”
Kodey: Why not?
Not your scene?
Another big investment coming up?
You have a new fling going? *❤* *will only give point if
interested in females.*
Connie: “There is always something going on, Hudson would want me working 24/7 if that had been an obtion.” Choice 2.
Connie: “Don’t even try Casanova. My love life is under A LOT of red tape. Try again in five years, there might be a shot.” Choice 3
Kodey: “Is she going to visit you?”
Connie: “Probably, I will probably come home from work one evening and have her standing by my door. ‘Lizzie’ and ‘planning ahead’ do not go together in the same sentence.”
Kobey: “Strange since you are more or less the opposite. You sure you are related?”
Connie: “We came out of the same woman, I have seen the evidence… and had nightmares about it.”
Kobey: “You have my sympathies.”
Connie: “Don’t. It is just nature.”
Kobey: “How can you be so detached from it?”
Connie: “Logic prevails in the world of number, calculations and chance. Emotions make everything messy, people flying at the seat of their pants often fail to think of consequences.”
Kobey: “Always the ray of sunshine, huh?”
Connie: “Oh yes. But it is a lesson that has gotten me though a lot of crap. Especially here, some will use your emotions against you, you need to know how to keep your cool.”
Kobey: “Thank you Connie. I’ll keep that in mind.” (+ 1 ⚠️)
Kobey: “But I think you should call Lizzie. I think it might make her day.”
Connie: “I think I’ll do that. Thank you for listening, I appreciate that.”
Connie gives a genuine smile, even if it is brief, before slipping back into her professional stance.
Connie: “Better get back to work.”
Kobey: “See you at the meeting later?”
Connie: “Of course.”
¤(None Diamond path)
¤ Kobey: “I really shouldn’t, I better not give Cecilia any more ammunition. She already has it out for me.”
¤ Connie: “Atleast do me a favour and take an oatmeal bar, if not, half of the office will hear you and you will just give Charles something to whine about.”
¤ Kobey:..
Okey.
Yes, mom.
Sure thing sweetheart. ❤ * Will only appear if interested in women
or both genders.*
”Coffee Confidant” you took a cup with Connie
”Low on coffee” you decided to not take a cup with Connie
The afternoon presentation was getting closer. I go over my points and papers.
Kobey: ‘ The Clampfords has been known for quite a bit of protocol, perhaps a bit old-fashioned. Greeting the members in order of seniority could make or break a meeting.’
Kobey: ‘ They are also known to be quite no nonsense the entire bunch. Better stick to facts and avoid small talk.’
Cecilia: “I see you are looking up notes for my meeting. How nice of you.”
Kobey: “It is our meeting, a lot hinges on this.”
Cecilia: “Oh I know that, I’ll be sure to put my best foot forward. I am sure the head chief will love me. Men tends to do.”
The nice meeting room is on one of the highest floors. It has quite a view of the city. It looks polished and clean and it is always decorated with polished table decorations in glass. It also had its own bathroom, supply closet and serving cart with refreshments.
Besides Mr Hudson are three people. One older gentleman with a blue suit noticeable stomach, a dark haired woman with a maroon coloured suit and skirt combo and a chunky necklace and lastly a young man with tan skin that is far more casual with half the shirt buttons undone and no tie to complement the black suit.
Mr Hudson: “Miss Clamp, Mr Smith, Mr Torres. These are two of my brightest employees and will be the one in charge of the presentation. They will tell you why you should become one of our clients and what service we provide. I take it you ae all familiar with Miss Williams from the accounting division.”
Mr Hudson makes a short remark, you catch Connie’s eye and feel a wave of ease go over you.
Cecilia: “Sure thing, now I think an introduction is in order.”
Cecilia struts up to the oldest of the three and greets him with a voice akin to honey.
She completely misses the amused smile on the younger man or the irate expression on the woman.
I should greet:
The man in the blue suit,
The woman in the purple suit – Correct
The young tieless man.
Woman:” Pleasure to meet you Miss/Mr Miles, Beverly Clamp. Head chief of The Clampton.”* (+ 1 ⚠️)*
Kobey: “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr Head chief.“
Woman: “That would be me, Beverly Clamp Head chief of The Clampton.” * You chose incorrect*
I noticed something strange however as I took her hand.
(Are those teeth marks?)
Miss Clamp: “Oh it was nothing, just a squabble on the train.” She said waving it off. She was warm to the touch perhaps she was coming down with something? It was Spring after all a small cold was not uncommon.
Kobey: “Well then”
It is a lovely day isn’t it?
Would you like some coffee?
Take your seats while I set everything up. - Correct
*Mr Smith:” We would love to start the meeting if you do not mind.” *if chose incorrectly *
Kodey: “Right, ofcourse.”
”Small talk gone bad,” if chose incorrectly.
I take the metal teacher pointer, it was still quite old-fashioned to have, but Mr Hudson believed that laser pointers and automatic white screens where a waste of money. I hook it around the edge and pull it down as Cecilia starts up the projector.
The entire meeting moved smoothly. I noticed how Mr Torres and Smith was taking notes, but the more I talked I noticed something about Miss Clamp. She looked sweaty, as if she had just been at the gym. Her hand that earlier took notes twitched strangely. I wasn’t the only one that noticed Mr Torres looked more and more concerned as the meeting progressed, even Connie looked a bit weirded out by how quickly this woman was deteriorating.
Until suddenly…
THUMP
Mr Smith: “Miss Clamp? Miss Clamp? What’s wrong?”
The older man shakes her but she shows no response.
Miss Clamp seemed to have fainted. She was completely unresponsive.
Connie held her phone to her ear clearly talking to someone.
Connie: “Yes, send a nurse up to the grand conference room, one of the participants just fainted.”
Connie:”I see.”
Connie said as she put her phone away.
Connie: “Paramedics said there are swamped, but we should make sure she has a lot of water and keep an eye on the fever.”
Cecilia: “What?! They are not going to come? What do we do?”
Connie: “Not panic.” She said in a dry tone directing it to Cecilia specifically.
The sound of Cecilias’ screetching drowned out next to everything. It had been pure luck that I noticed that Miss Clamp’s hand was moving tightening and releasing.
Kobey:“Hey she is waking up.”
Mr Torres: ”Oh thank God Bev you scared me.”
Mr Smith: “There now Miss Clamp, I hope that this teaches you to take care of yourself better.” He was right beside her.
What followed was an image I will never every forget.
Miss Clamps’ eyes shot up, but they were dazed. But it was her action that will forever be imprinted in my mind.
Like a police dog or a wolf she shot her mouth forward and clamped down on Mr Smith wrist. The sound of the older man as she bit harder and harder trying to comprehend how his own college was acting like an animal. He tried to push her of, but she didn’t seem to register words. Her focus was only on the bite, her frantic head movements worked through the skin. She Mr Smith began to bleed more and more profusely.
No words would reach her. She kept snarling, no words or understanding of what she was doing.
I needed to get her away, armed with the rod I could use it like a fishing pole and pull her away.
I just needed to make sure whatever I hooked it around would cause her to get pulled back.
Hook it into her (Hurry, limited time!)
Necklace! – Correct (+ 1 ⚠️ )
Elbow!
Earring!
Miss Clamps bulky necklace was a blessing in disguise as it acted like a collar on a big dog. With great strength I manage to get her of Mr Smith, by yanking her of.
I managed to get her off the man, my powerful yank sent her sprawling across the floor. But she didn’t stay down long. Instead it seemed she had a new target as she got of the floor.
I watch as Miss Clamp lunges at me, she is snarling, her eyes unfocused and I can see the marks from where I had used her own necklace as a noose.
With the teachers pointer in hand I: (Hurry, limited time!)
block – Correct (+ 1 ⚠️ )
clutch
Trip
I spot the supply closet in the corner. The door is open
Standing my ground I: (Hurry, limited time!)
- Push - Correct
Push - correct
Pat
Push her in – correct
Brush her away
Rush away
If you got 2 or less “By the skin of your teeth”
With a final shove she is inside, I grab the door and slam it shut. But I can feel her pounding, it was not that of a person simply knocking. It was more like a wild bear trying to claw itself out of confinement.
Kobey: “Quick grab the...”
Serving cart
Table Statuette
Filing cabinet - correct
Kobey: “That should hold at least for a bit.” You picked the correct Choice (+ 1 ⚠️)
Mr. Smith: “For fucks sake take the blasted Cabinet!”You picked wrong answer.
With that both Mr Torres and Mr Hudson moves the cabinet before the door. Thankfully there was space for me to get out and not get squished.
With Miss Clamp in the closet Mr Smith tying a handkerchief around his injured hand and wrist. Blood soaking through the cloth.
Mr Torres was mumbling in the corner. Having just seen his friend go on a rampage. Poor man must be out of his mind.
Mr Torres: Bev was just fine, Bev was all right, Bev just said it was nothing to worry about.”
Mr Torres: “Damn that fucking guy.” He said that last piece with so much venom I thought my blood would turn to ice.
Kobey: “Mr Torres, did something happen?”
Mr Torres: “It was something Bev said this morning. It is not my place to tell other people her affairs.”
Kobey: Look…
Tell us what she said happened (18 💎)
We don’t have time to stand around.
Diamond Choices:
Kobey. Mr Torres, can you recall what Mrs Clamp said happened.
Mr Torres: It was like any other morning. Beverley was on her usual train. However some strange man kept harassing her. She said he was probably hung over. He looked all clammy and unfocused.
Mr Torres: He tried to kiss her hand, some of the passages managed to get him off her. When he got to clingy. Tossed him off at a station before the train continued.
Mr Torres: She got to work and had that hickey on her hand.
Kobey: Did she complain of being sick or something?”
Mr Torres: Bev is the type that will power through any cold she gets. But she became sluggish sometime during the late morning and she was very warm. Tried to talk her into going home but she wouldn’t have it.
Kobey: “Means whatever virus this is takes time to incubate. You said she went from fine, to sluggish and feverish until she became ‘that’.”
We all heard the sound of animalistic growls and inhumane screeching. Coming from the barricaded supply closet. It was unnerving to say the least.
Kobey: “Now we just need to know just what it is. But any information is helpful. Thank you Mr. Torres.” (+ 1 ⚠️ )
Mr Torres: “Think nothing off it.”
Kobey: “Alright will all of this said we still need a way to get out. If what happened to Miss Clamp is anything to go on… this is going to get very ugly.”
Kobey:’ There must be something we can use.’
( Glass decoration balls)
Kobey: They might be good to cause a distraction, if there are more creeps in the building.’
(Compact Mirror)
Kobey:’ I could see around corners and even behind me, might be useful.’
‘What should I Take?’
Grab the glass balls (10 💎)
Take the compact mirror ( 5 ⚠️ )
I can’t risk having something weighting me down.
Kobey: ‘What do we do now?’
(Highest amount of ⚠️Alert points 10)
2020.06.21 17:22 ItLivesLover Deadlands (Mock Zombie Book)
Deadlands
Warning! Mention of gore and mature themes and language.
People often assume there are a few truths they can always count on.
The sun rises in the east.
Spring comes after winter.
When we die, we die.
I use to believe all of this but that world is gone.
(Customisation)
What am I?
Female
Male
What do I look like?
(Models based of Veil of Secrets male and female)
Face 1
Face 2
Face 3
Face 4
Hairstyles female
Brown braided Halo (💎 15)
Edgy undercut flip (💎 15)
Short kinky curly hair
Black Bangs and bob cut
Red Pixie cut
Choppy Blonde
Hairstyles male
Black widows peak (💎 15)
Red side part (💎 15)
Chestnut bowl cut
Blonde buzz cut
Short black waves
Do I wish to see anyone?
Female
Male
Both
None
My first name?
(Default is Kodey)
My surname?
(Default is Miles)
Chapter 1: Before Everything
Beep Beep Beep
(Oh oh, I’m late!)
The sound of the alarm clock startled me out of, as I franticly ran around my bedroom. Dressing in my haste to get to work. Jeans, clean t-shirt and suit jacket would have to do. My boss prefer people to be time. Looking into the mirror making sure that I looked like I DIDN’T wake up 10 minutes ago.
Kodey: “Shit, shit, shit, I’m going to be late.”
I leave my apartment ready to run down four flights of stairs until a familiar voice stops me.
???: “Overslept again Kodey?”
How could anyone not love Mrs Lola Sanchez, next door neighbour and the embarrassing mom everyone wants?
Kodey: ”Yeah, I better get going.”
Mrs Sanchez: “Not without your lunch (young lady/young mister).”
She is holding out a brown paper bag, knowing her she probably made sandwiches for two people and a pint of orange juice.
Yeah like I said, you can’t help but love her.
Kodey: “Thank you, Mrs. Sanchez you are amazing.”
Mrs Sanchez: “Oh Shush, you can repay me with buying some milk on your way back.”
Kodey: “Will do, you just take care of yourself.”
Mrs Sanchez: “And introduce me to your (special girl/boy/someone).” * Depends on your chosen interest will not appear if you are uninterested. Kodey:“ Goodbye Mrs Sanchez.”
I race to my old beat up car, I swear this car is like a grumpy old man, it will not cooperate. With the key in the ignition I turn it once, twice, trice, and it keeps sputtering.
Kodey: “Come on, work with me here.”
Forth time the charm.
Kodey: “YES!”
The streets are filled with people, everyone trying to live their life, trying to make the most of the hands we are dealt. The bored clerk that is waiting for costumers, the kids that spend their day in school, everyone trying to make it through the day.
I turn on the radio to keep me company.
Radio:‘…along the west coast been an increase amount of reports. The advice is to ensure that people are up to date on their shots and avoid animals with aggressive behaviour. This is Your Friendly Broadcast with the morning news, now weather. Over to you Jack. ’
Kobey: ‘Wonder what that is about.’
You make it to your job, rushing up the stairs just catching a glint of the yellow warning sign and the newly polished floors and a big puddle.
You:
(Depending on your actions you will get ⚠️ alert points, it will allow you to unlock opinions, think carefully, it might bring consequences.)
I manage to make it up to the floor and clock in just before the clock
…
…
Cecilia: “How cute, but I’m sure Mr. Hudson says otherwise.”* If you chose 2 or 3.*
Kobey: “Yeah well last time I checked we worked together, remember last week’s presentation.”
Cecilia: “And you did very well, such a pity you couldn’t be there to hear it. Mr Hudson and the clients where so pleased with it. I should know I got a raise.”
Cecilia’s face changes between one of pity to one of smug satisfaction.
Kobey: “And I ask once again what the heck did you put in that coffee?”
My face scrunched up in annoyance.
Cecilia looks chocked at the accusation.
Cecilia: “Nothing, you complained of feeling low on energy earlier so I added some cod liver oil… or was it Castor oil. I can’t seem to remember which.”
Her smug smile however tells another story.
Kodey: “We’ll see about that during the presentation this afternoon.”
Cecilia: “You’re right! If you behave you might become my personal assistant. Wouldn’t that be grand?”
???:”Charles don’t you have actual work to do?”
A new voice interrupted the ‘lovely’ discussion we where having. But this time it was from someone I was glad to see.
Connie Williams worked in a cubical across from me, when I started working here as an intern she was herself quite new and we worked next to each other. I wouldn’t say we were the best of friends but we were definitely work pals. If I could say one thing it was I admired her dedication to her work and its employees.
Connie was quite lanky with long legs and built like a marathon runner. Her dark natural hair gathered in a low puff, the only noticeable makeup she had was some smoky eye and barely there mascara. Black pencil skirt with matching blazer and silky teal blouse that complimented her skin.
Cecilia: “Oh morning Williams. I didn’t see you there. I was just making sure that Miles are up for the presentation later today. It would be a shame that stage fright go in the way again.”
Connie: “How sweet, but Mr Hudson sent you some documents to go over and he wants them ASAP.”
Connie held her poker face her mouth not even twitching. Cecilia throws one more look at me before leaving.
Cecilia: “Ta Ta.”
Kobey: “Hey thanks.”
Connie: “There is more to life than petty office drama. Just wish someone would tell her that.”
Kobey: “Too bad she has everyone around her finger.”
Connie: “Well you know what they say about sirens. They look sweet and sing pretty, but will wreak you if you get anywhere near them. Hopefully someone upstairs will catch one before that happens.”
Kobey: ”Doubt it.”
You look at Connie, there is something weighing her mind. Her eyes slightly downcast, her mouth in a small thin frown.
Kobey: “You look like you are a thousand miles away, what’s on your mind?” Connie: “It was the news this morning. The talked about people being hospitalised, some really nasty virus. My sister lives on the West coast, been thinking I should call her. But I don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing.”
Kobey: I...
Kobey: “Damn, your good.”
Connie: “You just have a bad poker face.”
Connie:”Can you guess what the reportage was about?”
Kobey: It was about
Connie: “Well now I know you aren’t detective material.” You picked wrong answer.
Kodey: “Well you know me. Are you surprised?”
Connie: “No not really, on the subject of ‘you’, I bet my car you missed breakfast again.”
With that the sound of my stomach entered our ears.
Connie: “Looks like I won again.”
Kodey: “Oh stop it.”
Connie: “Come on it is a slow morning, I will keep you company.”
Take a quick breakfast with Connie?
Kodey: “You know what? Sure I can take a 10 minute coffee break.”
Connie: “Knew you wouldn’t turn down free food.”
Kodey: “Yeah well…”
Connie smiles at the comment.
Connie: So what’s your poison?
(Take drink)
As we both sit down with our drinks, I grab hold of the oatmeal bars and dig in. It wasn’t the most pleasant but it did what it was intended for.
Kodey: “So now, you were talking about a sister, who is she? I know you had Lizzie and Maggie.”
Connie: “Maddie, actually. But its Lizzie that decided to get herself stranded in Tinseltown.”
Kodey: “Weren’t she in Chicago a few months back?”
Connie: “Just a weekend trip, I just wonder how much see saw when I think I was updated on every time she sneezed.”
Connie rolls her eyes.
Kodey: “So what is she up to in the city of stars? Becoming the next Victoria Fontaine?”
Connie: “Construction actually, she must get money for food and board someway.”
Kodey: “You planning to go down and visit her?”
Connie: “No.”
Kodey: Why not?
Connie: “There is always something going on, Hudson would want me working 24/7 if that had been an obtion.” Choice 2.
Connie: “Don’t even try Casanova. My love life is under A LOT of red tape. Try again in five years, there might be a shot.” Choice 3
Kodey: “Is she going to visit you?”
Connie: “Probably, I will probably come home from work one evening and have her standing by my door. ‘Lizzie’ and ‘planning ahead’ do not go together in the same sentence.”
Kobey: “Strange since you are more or less the opposite. You sure you are related?”
Connie: “We came out of the same woman, I have seen the evidence… and had nightmares about it.”
Kobey: “You have my sympathies.”
Connie: “Don’t. It is just nature.”
Kobey: “How can you be so detached from it?”
Connie: “Logic prevails in the world of number, calculations and chance. Emotions make everything messy, people flying at the seat of their pants often fail to think of consequences.”
Kobey: “Always the ray of sunshine, huh?”
Connie: “Oh yes. But it is a lesson that has gotten me though a lot of crap. Especially here, some will use your emotions against you, you need to know how to keep your cool.”
Kobey: “Thank you Connie. I’ll keep that in mind.” (+ 1 ⚠️)
Kobey: “But I think you should call Lizzie. I think it might make her day.”
Connie: “I think I’ll do that. Thank you for listening, I appreciate that.”
Connie gives a genuine smile, even if it is brief, before slipping back into her professional stance.
Connie: “Better get back to work.”
Kobey: “See you at the meeting later?”
Connie: “Of course.”
¤(None Diamond path)
¤ Kobey: “I really shouldn’t, I better not give Cecilia any more ammunition. She already has it out for me.”
¤ Connie: “Atleast do me a favour and take an oatmeal bar, if not, half of the office will hear you and you will just give Charles something to whine about.”
¤ Kobey:..
”Coffee Confidant” you took a cup with Connie
”Low on coffee” you decided to not take a cup with Connie
The afternoon presentation was getting closer. I go over my points and papers.
Kobey: ‘ The Clampfords has been known for quite a bit of protocol, perhaps a bit old-fashioned. Greeting the members in order of seniority could make or break a meeting.’
Kobey: ‘ They are also known to be quite no nonsense the entire bunch. Better stick to facts and avoid small talk.’
Cecilia: “I see you are looking up notes for my meeting. How nice of you.”
Kobey: “It is our meeting, a lot hinges on this.”
Cecilia: “Oh I know that, I’ll be sure to put my best foot forward. I am sure the head chief will love me. Men tends to do.”
The nice meeting room is on one of the highest floors. It has quite a view of the city. It looks polished and clean and it is always decorated with polished table decorations in glass. It also had its own bathroom, supply closet and serving cart with refreshments.
Besides Mr Hudson are three people. One older gentleman with a blue suit noticeable stomach, a dark haired woman with a maroon coloured suit and skirt combo and a chunky necklace and lastly a young man with tan skin that is far more casual with half the shirt buttons undone and no tie to complement the black suit.
Mr Hudson: “Miss Clamp, Mr Smith, Mr Torres. These are two of my brightest employees and will be the one in charge of the presentation. They will tell you why you should become one of our clients and what service we provide. I take it you ae all familiar with Miss Williams from the accounting division.”
Mr Hudson makes a short remark, you catch Connie’s eye and feel a wave of ease go over you.
Cecilia: “Sure thing, now I think an introduction is in order.”
Cecilia struts up to the oldest of the three and greets him with a voice akin to honey.
She completely misses the amused smile on the younger man or the irate expression on the woman.
I should greet:
Woman:” Pleasure to meet you Miss/Mr Miles, Beverly Clamp. Head chief of The Clampton.”* (+ 1 ⚠️)*
Kobey: “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr Head chief.“
Woman: “That would be me, Beverly Clamp Head chief of The Clampton.” * You chose incorrect*
I noticed something strange however as I took her hand.
(Are those teeth marks?)
Miss Clamp: “Oh it was nothing, just a squabble on the train.” She said waving it off. She was warm to the touch perhaps she was coming down with something? It was Spring after all a small cold was not uncommon.
Kobey: “Well then”
*Mr Smith:” We would love to start the meeting if you do not mind.” *if chose incorrectly *
Kodey: “Right, ofcourse.”
”Small talk gone bad,” if chose incorrectly.
I take the metal teacher pointer, it was still quite old-fashioned to have, but Mr Hudson believed that laser pointers and automatic white screens where a waste of money. I hook it around the edge and pull it down as Cecilia starts up the projector.
The entire meeting moved smoothly. I noticed how Mr Torres and Smith was taking notes, but the more I talked I noticed something about Miss Clamp. She looked sweaty, as if she had just been at the gym. Her hand that earlier took notes twitched strangely. I wasn’t the only one that noticed Mr Torres looked more and more concerned as the meeting progressed, even Connie looked a bit weirded out by how quickly this woman was deteriorating.
Until suddenly…
THUMP
Mr Smith: “Miss Clamp? Miss Clamp? What’s wrong?”
The older man shakes her but she shows no response.
Miss Clamp seemed to have fainted. She was completely unresponsive.
Connie held her phone to her ear clearly talking to someone.
Connie: “Yes, send a nurse up to the grand conference room, one of the participants just fainted.”
Connie:”I see.”
Connie said as she put her phone away.
Connie: “Paramedics said there are swamped, but we should make sure she has a lot of water and keep an eye on the fever.”
Cecilia: “What?! They are not going to come? What do we do?”
Connie: “Not panic.” She said in a dry tone directing it to Cecilia specifically.
The sound of Cecilias’ screetching drowned out next to everything. It had been pure luck that I noticed that Miss Clamp’s hand was moving tightening and releasing.
Kobey:“Hey she is waking up.”
Mr Torres: ”Oh thank God Bev you scared me.”
Mr Smith: “There now Miss Clamp, I hope that this teaches you to take care of yourself better.” He was right beside her.
What followed was an image I will never every forget.
Miss Clamps’ eyes shot up, but they were dazed. But it was her action that will forever be imprinted in my mind.
Like a police dog or a wolf she shot her mouth forward and clamped down on Mr Smith wrist. The sound of the older man as she bit harder and harder trying to comprehend how his own college was acting like an animal. He tried to push her of, but she didn’t seem to register words. Her focus was only on the bite, her frantic head movements worked through the skin. She Mr Smith began to bleed more and more profusely.
No words would reach her. She kept snarling, no words or understanding of what she was doing.
I needed to get her away, armed with the rod I could use it like a fishing pole and pull her away.
I just needed to make sure whatever I hooked it around would cause her to get pulled back.
Hook it into her (Hurry, limited time!)
Miss Clamps bulky necklace was a blessing in disguise as it acted like a collar on a big dog. With great strength I manage to get her of Mr Smith, by yanking her of.
I managed to get her off the man, my powerful yank sent her sprawling across the floor. But she didn’t stay down long. Instead it seemed she had a new target as she got of the floor.
I watch as Miss Clamp lunges at me, she is snarling, her eyes unfocused and I can see the marks from where I had used her own necklace as a noose.
With the teachers pointer in hand I: (Hurry, limited time!)
I spot the supply closet in the corner. The door is open
Standing my ground I: (Hurry, limited time!)
If you got 2 or less “By the skin of your teeth”
With a final shove she is inside, I grab the door and slam it shut. But I can feel her pounding, it was not that of a person simply knocking. It was more like a wild bear trying to claw itself out of confinement.
Kobey: “Quick grab the...”
Kobey: “That should hold at least for a bit.” You picked the correct Choice (+ 1 ⚠️)
Mr. Smith: “For fucks sake take the blasted Cabinet!”You picked wrong answer.
With that both Mr Torres and Mr Hudson moves the cabinet before the door. Thankfully there was space for me to get out and not get squished.
With Miss Clamp in the closet Mr Smith tying a handkerchief around his injured hand and wrist. Blood soaking through the cloth.
Mr Torres was mumbling in the corner. Having just seen his friend go on a rampage. Poor man must be out of his mind.
Mr Torres: Bev was just fine, Bev was all right, Bev just said it was nothing to worry about.”
Mr Torres: “Damn that fucking guy.” He said that last piece with so much venom I thought my blood would turn to ice.
Kobey: “Mr Torres, did something happen?”
Mr Torres: “It was something Bev said this morning. It is not my place to tell other people her affairs.”
Kobey: Look…
Tell us what she said happened (18 💎)
We don’t have time to stand around.
Diamond Choices:
Kobey. Mr Torres, can you recall what Mrs Clamp said happened.
Mr Torres: It was like any other morning. Beverley was on her usual train. However some strange man kept harassing her. She said he was probably hung over. He looked all clammy and unfocused.
Mr Torres: He tried to kiss her hand, some of the passages managed to get him off her. When he got to clingy. Tossed him off at a station before the train continued.
Mr Torres: She got to work and had that hickey on her hand.
Kobey: Did she complain of being sick or something?”
Mr Torres: Bev is the type that will power through any cold she gets. But she became sluggish sometime during the late morning and she was very warm. Tried to talk her into going home but she wouldn’t have it.
Kobey: “Means whatever virus this is takes time to incubate. You said she went from fine, to sluggish and feverish until she became ‘that’.”
We all heard the sound of animalistic growls and inhumane screeching. Coming from the barricaded supply closet. It was unnerving to say the least.
Kobey: “Now we just need to know just what it is. But any information is helpful. Thank you Mr. Torres.” (+ 1 ⚠️ )
Mr Torres: “Think nothing off it.”
Kobey: “Alright will all of this said we still need a way to get out. If what happened to Miss Clamp is anything to go on… this is going to get very ugly.”
Kobey:’ There must be something we can use.’
( Glass decoration balls)
Kobey: They might be good to cause a distraction, if there are more creeps in the building.’
(Compact Mirror)
Kobey:’ I could see around corners and even behind me, might be useful.’
‘What should I Take?’
Kobey: ‘What do we do now?’
(Highest amount of ⚠️Alert points 10)
submitted by ItLivesLover to Choices [link] [comments]
Warning! Mention of gore and mature themes and language.
People often assume there are a few truths they can always count on.
The sun rises in the east.
Spring comes after winter.
When we die, we die.
I use to believe all of this but that world is gone.
(Customisation)
What am I?
Female
Male
What do I look like?
(Models based of Veil of Secrets male and female)
Face 1
Face 2
Face 3
Face 4
Hairstyles female
Brown braided Halo (💎 15)
Edgy undercut flip (💎 15)
Short kinky curly hair
Black Bangs and bob cut
Red Pixie cut
Choppy Blonde
Hairstyles male
Black widows peak (💎 15)
Red side part (💎 15)
Chestnut bowl cut
Blonde buzz cut
Short black waves
Do I wish to see anyone?
Female
Male
Both
None
My first name?
(Default is Kodey)
My surname?
(Default is Miles)
Chapter 1: Before Everything
Beep Beep Beep
(Oh oh, I’m late!)
The sound of the alarm clock startled me out of, as I franticly ran around my bedroom. Dressing in my haste to get to work. Jeans, clean t-shirt and suit jacket would have to do. My boss prefer people to be time. Looking into the mirror making sure that I looked like I DIDN’T wake up 10 minutes ago.
Kodey: “Shit, shit, shit, I’m going to be late.”
I leave my apartment ready to run down four flights of stairs until a familiar voice stops me.
???: “Overslept again Kodey?”
How could anyone not love Mrs Lola Sanchez, next door neighbour and the embarrassing mom everyone wants?
Kodey: ”Yeah, I better get going.”
Mrs Sanchez: “Not without your lunch (young lady/young mister).”
She is holding out a brown paper bag, knowing her she probably made sandwiches for two people and a pint of orange juice.
Yeah like I said, you can’t help but love her.
Kodey: “Thank you, Mrs. Sanchez you are amazing.”
Mrs Sanchez: “Oh Shush, you can repay me with buying some milk on your way back.”
Kodey: “Will do, you just take care of yourself.”
Mrs Sanchez: “And introduce me to your (special girl/boy/someone).” * Depends on your chosen interest will not appear if you are uninterested. Kodey:“ Goodbye Mrs Sanchez.”
I race to my old beat up car, I swear this car is like a grumpy old man, it will not cooperate. With the key in the ignition I turn it once, twice, trice, and it keeps sputtering.
Kodey: “Come on, work with me here.”
Forth time the charm.
Kodey: “YES!”
The streets are filled with people, everyone trying to live their life, trying to make the most of the hands we are dealt. The bored clerk that is waiting for costumers, the kids that spend their day in school, everyone trying to make it through the day.
I turn on the radio to keep me company.
Radio:‘…along the west coast been an increase amount of reports. The advice is to ensure that people are up to date on their shots and avoid animals with aggressive behaviour. This is Your Friendly Broadcast with the morning news, now weather. Over to you Jack. ’
Kobey: ‘Wonder what that is about.’
You make it to your job, rushing up the stairs just catching a glint of the yellow warning sign and the newly polished floors and a big puddle.
You:
Side step (+ 1 ⚠️)
Halt (+ 1 ⚠️ )
Jump over (+ 1 ⚠️)
(Depending on your actions you will get ⚠️ alert points, it will allow you to unlock opinions, think carefully, it might bring consequences.)
I manage to make it up to the floor and clock in just before the clock
…
Good Morning Cecilia.
What do you want this time?
…
I’m sorry, ma’am.
No, but I don’t see them anywhere.
I greet you however I damn want.
Cecilia: “How cute, but I’m sure Mr. Hudson says otherwise.”* If you chose 2 or 3.*
Kobey: “Yeah well last time I checked we worked together, remember last week’s presentation.”
Cecilia: “And you did very well, such a pity you couldn’t be there to hear it. Mr Hudson and the clients where so pleased with it. I should know I got a raise.”
Cecilia’s face changes between one of pity to one of smug satisfaction.
Kobey: “And I ask once again what the heck did you put in that coffee?”
My face scrunched up in annoyance.
Cecilia looks chocked at the accusation.
Cecilia: “Nothing, you complained of feeling low on energy earlier so I added some cod liver oil… or was it Castor oil. I can’t seem to remember which.”
Her smug smile however tells another story.
Kodey: “We’ll see about that during the presentation this afternoon.”
Cecilia: “You’re right! If you behave you might become my personal assistant. Wouldn’t that be grand?”
???:”Charles don’t you have actual work to do?”
A new voice interrupted the ‘lovely’ discussion we where having. But this time it was from someone I was glad to see.
Connie Williams worked in a cubical across from me, when I started working here as an intern she was herself quite new and we worked next to each other. I wouldn’t say we were the best of friends but we were definitely work pals. If I could say one thing it was I admired her dedication to her work and its employees.
Connie was quite lanky with long legs and built like a marathon runner. Her dark natural hair gathered in a low puff, the only noticeable makeup she had was some smoky eye and barely there mascara. Black pencil skirt with matching blazer and silky teal blouse that complimented her skin.
Cecilia: “Oh morning Williams. I didn’t see you there. I was just making sure that Miles are up for the presentation later today. It would be a shame that stage fright go in the way again.”
Connie: “How sweet, but Mr Hudson sent you some documents to go over and he wants them ASAP.”
Connie held her poker face her mouth not even twitching. Cecilia throws one more look at me before leaving.
Cecilia: “Ta Ta.”
Kobey: “Hey thanks.”
Connie: “There is more to life than petty office drama. Just wish someone would tell her that.”
Kobey: “Too bad she has everyone around her finger.”
Connie: “Well you know what they say about sirens. They look sweet and sing pretty, but will wreak you if you get anywhere near them. Hopefully someone upstairs will catch one before that happens.”
Kobey: ”Doubt it.”
You look at Connie, there is something weighing her mind. Her eyes slightly downcast, her mouth in a small thin frown.
Kobey: “You look like you are a thousand miles away, what’s on your mind?” Connie: “It was the news this morning. The talked about people being hospitalised, some really nasty virus. My sister lives on the West coast, been thinking I should call her. But I don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing.”
Kobey: I...
think it is sweet that you care.
totally get that.
think it will blow over sooner or later.
Kobey: “Damn, your good.”
Connie: “You just have a bad poker face.”
Connie:”Can you guess what the reportage was about?”
Kobey: It was about
Whooping cough
Rabies (+ 1 ⚠️) - Correct
Chicken pox
Connie: “Well now I know you aren’t detective material.” You picked wrong answer.
Kodey: “Well you know me. Are you surprised?”
Connie: “No not really, on the subject of ‘you’, I bet my car you missed breakfast again.”
With that the sound of my stomach entered our ears.
Connie: “Looks like I won again.”
Kodey: “Oh stop it.”
Connie: “Come on it is a slow morning, I will keep you company.”
Take a quick breakfast with Connie?
I would love that. (💎 12)
Sorry better get back to work
Kodey: “You know what? Sure I can take a 10 minute coffee break.”
Connie: “Knew you wouldn’t turn down free food.”
Kodey: “Yeah well…”
You wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I need to vent.
How can I say no to your pretty face? ❤ *Only appear if you are
interested in women/both*
Connie smiles at the comment.
Connie: So what’s your poison?
Coffee, a really strong on please.
Tea, with milk.
Do they still have any cocoa left?
(Take drink)
As we both sit down with our drinks, I grab hold of the oatmeal bars and dig in. It wasn’t the most pleasant but it did what it was intended for.
Kodey: “So now, you were talking about a sister, who is she? I know you had Lizzie and Maggie.”
Connie: “Maddie, actually. But its Lizzie that decided to get herself stranded in Tinseltown.”
Kodey: “Weren’t she in Chicago a few months back?”
Connie: “Just a weekend trip, I just wonder how much see saw when I think I was updated on every time she sneezed.”
Connie rolls her eyes.
Kodey: “So what is she up to in the city of stars? Becoming the next Victoria Fontaine?”
Connie: “Construction actually, she must get money for food and board someway.”
Kodey: “You planning to go down and visit her?”
Connie: “No.”
Kodey: Why not?
Not your scene?
Another big investment coming up?
You have a new fling going? *❤* *will only give point if
interested in females.*
Connie: “There is always something going on, Hudson would want me working 24/7 if that had been an obtion.” Choice 2.
Connie: “Don’t even try Casanova. My love life is under A LOT of red tape. Try again in five years, there might be a shot.” Choice 3
Kodey: “Is she going to visit you?”
Connie: “Probably, I will probably come home from work one evening and have her standing by my door. ‘Lizzie’ and ‘planning ahead’ do not go together in the same sentence.”
Kobey: “Strange since you are more or less the opposite. You sure you are related?”
Connie: “We came out of the same woman, I have seen the evidence… and had nightmares about it.”
Kobey: “You have my sympathies.”
Connie: “Don’t. It is just nature.”
Kobey: “How can you be so detached from it?”
Connie: “Logic prevails in the world of number, calculations and chance. Emotions make everything messy, people flying at the seat of their pants often fail to think of consequences.”
Kobey: “Always the ray of sunshine, huh?”
Connie: “Oh yes. But it is a lesson that has gotten me though a lot of crap. Especially here, some will use your emotions against you, you need to know how to keep your cool.”
Kobey: “Thank you Connie. I’ll keep that in mind.” (+ 1 ⚠️)
Kobey: “But I think you should call Lizzie. I think it might make her day.”
Connie: “I think I’ll do that. Thank you for listening, I appreciate that.”
Connie gives a genuine smile, even if it is brief, before slipping back into her professional stance.
Connie: “Better get back to work.”
Kobey: “See you at the meeting later?”
Connie: “Of course.”
¤(None Diamond path)
¤ Kobey: “I really shouldn’t, I better not give Cecilia any more ammunition. She already has it out for me.”
¤ Connie: “Atleast do me a favour and take an oatmeal bar, if not, half of the office will hear you and you will just give Charles something to whine about.”
¤ Kobey:..
Okey.
Yes, mom.
Sure thing sweetheart. ❤ * Will only appear if interested in women
or both genders.*
”Coffee Confidant” you took a cup with Connie
”Low on coffee” you decided to not take a cup with Connie
The afternoon presentation was getting closer. I go over my points and papers.
Kobey: ‘ The Clampfords has been known for quite a bit of protocol, perhaps a bit old-fashioned. Greeting the members in order of seniority could make or break a meeting.’
Kobey: ‘ They are also known to be quite no nonsense the entire bunch. Better stick to facts and avoid small talk.’
Cecilia: “I see you are looking up notes for my meeting. How nice of you.”
Kobey: “It is our meeting, a lot hinges on this.”
Cecilia: “Oh I know that, I’ll be sure to put my best foot forward. I am sure the head chief will love me. Men tends to do.”
The nice meeting room is on one of the highest floors. It has quite a view of the city. It looks polished and clean and it is always decorated with polished table decorations in glass. It also had its own bathroom, supply closet and serving cart with refreshments.
Besides Mr Hudson are three people. One older gentleman with a blue suit noticeable stomach, a dark haired woman with a maroon coloured suit and skirt combo and a chunky necklace and lastly a young man with tan skin that is far more casual with half the shirt buttons undone and no tie to complement the black suit.
Mr Hudson: “Miss Clamp, Mr Smith, Mr Torres. These are two of my brightest employees and will be the one in charge of the presentation. They will tell you why you should become one of our clients and what service we provide. I take it you ae all familiar with Miss Williams from the accounting division.”
Mr Hudson makes a short remark, you catch Connie’s eye and feel a wave of ease go over you.
Cecilia: “Sure thing, now I think an introduction is in order.”
Cecilia struts up to the oldest of the three and greets him with a voice akin to honey.
She completely misses the amused smile on the younger man or the irate expression on the woman.
I should greet:
The man in the blue suit,
The woman in the purple suit – Correct
The young tieless man.
Woman:” Pleasure to meet you Miss/Mr Miles, Beverly Clamp. Head chief of The Clampton.”* (+ 1 ⚠️)*
Kobey: “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr Head chief.“
Woman: “That would be me, Beverly Clamp Head chief of The Clampton.” * You chose incorrect*
I noticed something strange however as I took her hand.
(Are those teeth marks?)
Miss Clamp: “Oh it was nothing, just a squabble on the train.” She said waving it off. She was warm to the touch perhaps she was coming down with something? It was Spring after all a small cold was not uncommon.
Kobey: “Well then”
It is a lovely day isn’t it?
Would you like some coffee?
Take your seats while I set everything up. - Correct
*Mr Smith:” We would love to start the meeting if you do not mind.” *if chose incorrectly *
Kodey: “Right, ofcourse.”
”Small talk gone bad,” if chose incorrectly.
I take the metal teacher pointer, it was still quite old-fashioned to have, but Mr Hudson believed that laser pointers and automatic white screens where a waste of money. I hook it around the edge and pull it down as Cecilia starts up the projector.
The entire meeting moved smoothly. I noticed how Mr Torres and Smith was taking notes, but the more I talked I noticed something about Miss Clamp. She looked sweaty, as if she had just been at the gym. Her hand that earlier took notes twitched strangely. I wasn’t the only one that noticed Mr Torres looked more and more concerned as the meeting progressed, even Connie looked a bit weirded out by how quickly this woman was deteriorating.
Until suddenly…
THUMP
Mr Smith: “Miss Clamp? Miss Clamp? What’s wrong?”
The older man shakes her but she shows no response.
Miss Clamp seemed to have fainted. She was completely unresponsive.
Connie held her phone to her ear clearly talking to someone.
Connie: “Yes, send a nurse up to the grand conference room, one of the participants just fainted.”
Connie:”I see.”
Connie said as she put her phone away.
Connie: “Paramedics said there are swamped, but we should make sure she has a lot of water and keep an eye on the fever.”
Cecilia: “What?! They are not going to come? What do we do?”
Connie: “Not panic.” She said in a dry tone directing it to Cecilia specifically.
The sound of Cecilias’ screetching drowned out next to everything. It had been pure luck that I noticed that Miss Clamp’s hand was moving tightening and releasing.
Kobey:“Hey she is waking up.”
Mr Torres: ”Oh thank God Bev you scared me.”
Mr Smith: “There now Miss Clamp, I hope that this teaches you to take care of yourself better.” He was right beside her.
What followed was an image I will never every forget.
Miss Clamps’ eyes shot up, but they were dazed. But it was her action that will forever be imprinted in my mind.
Like a police dog or a wolf she shot her mouth forward and clamped down on Mr Smith wrist. The sound of the older man as she bit harder and harder trying to comprehend how his own college was acting like an animal. He tried to push her of, but she didn’t seem to register words. Her focus was only on the bite, her frantic head movements worked through the skin. She Mr Smith began to bleed more and more profusely.
No words would reach her. She kept snarling, no words or understanding of what she was doing.
I needed to get her away, armed with the rod I could use it like a fishing pole and pull her away.
I just needed to make sure whatever I hooked it around would cause her to get pulled back.
Hook it into her (Hurry, limited time!)
Necklace! – Correct (+ 1 ⚠️ )
Elbow!
Earring!
Miss Clamps bulky necklace was a blessing in disguise as it acted like a collar on a big dog. With great strength I manage to get her of Mr Smith, by yanking her of.
I managed to get her off the man, my powerful yank sent her sprawling across the floor. But she didn’t stay down long. Instead it seemed she had a new target as she got of the floor.
I watch as Miss Clamp lunges at me, she is snarling, her eyes unfocused and I can see the marks from where I had used her own necklace as a noose.
With the teachers pointer in hand I: (Hurry, limited time!)
block – Correct (+ 1 ⚠️ )
clutch
Trip
I spot the supply closet in the corner. The door is open
Standing my ground I: (Hurry, limited time!)
- Push - Correct
Push - correct
Pat
Push her in – correct
Brush her away
Rush away
If you got 2 or less “By the skin of your teeth”
With a final shove she is inside, I grab the door and slam it shut. But I can feel her pounding, it was not that of a person simply knocking. It was more like a wild bear trying to claw itself out of confinement.
Kobey: “Quick grab the...”
Serving cart
Table Statuette
Filing cabinet - correct
Kobey: “That should hold at least for a bit.” You picked the correct Choice (+ 1 ⚠️)
Mr. Smith: “For fucks sake take the blasted Cabinet!”You picked wrong answer.
With that both Mr Torres and Mr Hudson moves the cabinet before the door. Thankfully there was space for me to get out and not get squished.
With Miss Clamp in the closet Mr Smith tying a handkerchief around his injured hand and wrist. Blood soaking through the cloth.
Mr Torres was mumbling in the corner. Having just seen his friend go on a rampage. Poor man must be out of his mind.
Mr Torres: Bev was just fine, Bev was all right, Bev just said it was nothing to worry about.”
Mr Torres: “Damn that fucking guy.” He said that last piece with so much venom I thought my blood would turn to ice.
Kobey: “Mr Torres, did something happen?”
Mr Torres: “It was something Bev said this morning. It is not my place to tell other people her affairs.”
Kobey: Look…
Tell us what she said happened (18 💎)
We don’t have time to stand around.
Diamond Choices:
Kobey. Mr Torres, can you recall what Mrs Clamp said happened.
Mr Torres: It was like any other morning. Beverley was on her usual train. However some strange man kept harassing her. She said he was probably hung over. He looked all clammy and unfocused.
Mr Torres: He tried to kiss her hand, some of the passages managed to get him off her. When he got to clingy. Tossed him off at a station before the train continued.
Mr Torres: She got to work and had that hickey on her hand.
Kobey: Did she complain of being sick or something?”
Mr Torres: Bev is the type that will power through any cold she gets. But she became sluggish sometime during the late morning and she was very warm. Tried to talk her into going home but she wouldn’t have it.
Kobey: “Means whatever virus this is takes time to incubate. You said she went from fine, to sluggish and feverish until she became ‘that’.”
We all heard the sound of animalistic growls and inhumane screeching. Coming from the barricaded supply closet. It was unnerving to say the least.
Kobey: “Now we just need to know just what it is. But any information is helpful. Thank you Mr. Torres.” (+ 1 ⚠️ )
Mr Torres: “Think nothing off it.”
Kobey: “Alright will all of this said we still need a way to get out. If what happened to Miss Clamp is anything to go on… this is going to get very ugly.”
Kobey:’ There must be something we can use.’
( Glass decoration balls)
Kobey: They might be good to cause a distraction, if there are more creeps in the building.’
(Compact Mirror)
Kobey:’ I could see around corners and even behind me, might be useful.’
‘What should I Take?’
Grab the glass balls (10 💎)
Take the compact mirror ( 5 ⚠️ )
I can’t risk having something weighting me down.
Kobey: ‘What do we do now?’
(Highest amount of ⚠️Alert points 10)
2019.12.30 03:47 Prolifebabe Article proving what prolife feminists have been saying all along: patriarchy likes abortion more than it likes pregnant women.
https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2016/07/classic-hollywood-abortion?fbclid=IwAR2XegtThcL5CxWl5gFMmyeB6X8obpLSTYad8rBObrY_Cp6JOLmW8jVJ-AA
“Abortions were our birth control,” an anonymous actress once said about the common procedure’s place in Hollywood from the 1920s through the 1950s. While patriarchal political powers connive to block women’s legal access to abortion in 21st century America, in Old Hollywood, abortions were far more standard and far more accessible than they often are today—more like aspirin, or appendectomies. How and why did a procedure that was taboo and illegal at the time become so ordinary—at least, among a certain set?
Much like today, in Old Hollywood, the decisions being made about women’s bodies were made in the interests of men—the powerful heads of motion pictures studios MGM, Paramount Pictures, Warner Bros., and RKO. As Aubrey Malone writes in Hollywood's Second Sex: The Treatment of Women in the Film Industry, 1900-1999, “If you want to play in this business, you play like a man or you’re out. And if you happen to be a woman, better not mention it to anybody.”
From the very infancy of America’s film industry, abortions were necessary body maintenance for women in the spotlight. Birth control, including prophylactics, were about as new as “stars” themselves—movie performers who went overnight from being “Little Mary” or “The Vitagraph Girl” to “America’s Sweetheart” or “Sex Goddess.”
“These newly wealthy men and women didn’t know how to control their money, their bodies, or their lives, spending, cavorting, and reveling in excess,” writes Anne Helen Petersen in Scandals of Classic Hollywood. In the working environment of the Hollywood studio system, society’s 19th-century sexual segregation had fallen away. Women—flappers, It girls, sirens and seductresses—were spared their destiny in the kitchen, and for the first time, they earned large incomes they could spend on whatever and whomever they wished. Many believed the publicity they read about their own erotic powers, and they went toe-to-toe professionally with men. Sparks were bound to fly.
And so it became necessary for the studios to implement reformatory measures to prevent stars from destroying their value through scandal. In 1922, Will H. Hays Hays collaborated with studios to introduce mandatory “morality clauses” into stars’ contracts. Consequently an unintended pregnancy would not only bring shame to these top box-office earners—it would violate studio policy. “[I]t was a common assumption that glamorous stars would not be popular if they had children,” writes Cari Beauchamp in her book on powerful women in Old Hollywood, Without Lying Down.
These clauses may have extended to an actress’s right to marry. According to Petersen, rumor had it that “Blonde Bombshell” Jean Harlow couldn’t wed William Powell because “MGM had written a clause into her contract forbidding her to marry”—a wife couldn’t be a “bombshell,” after all. When Harlow became pregnant from the affair, she called MGM head of publicity Howard Strickling in a panic. Shortly thereafter, according to E.J. Fleming in The Fixers: Eddie Mannix, Howard Strickling and the MGM Publicity Machine, “Mrs. Jean Carpenter” entered Good Shepherd Hospital “to get some rest.” She was seen only by her private doctors and nurses in room 826, the same room she had occupied the year before for an “appendectomy.”
In the 1930s, vamp and man-eating thespian Tallulah Bankhead got “abortions like other women got permanent waves,” biographer Lee Israel quips in Miss Tallulah Bankhead. When virtuous singing sensation Jeanette McDonald found herself pregnant in 1935, MGM studio boss Louis B. Mayer told Strickling to “get rid of the problem.” McDonald soon checked into a hospital with an “ear infection,” according to Fleming’s The Fixers.
Many of these Silent Sex Goddesses either fell victim to their own hedonism, fell out of favor, or burned out, such as Theda Bara and Clara Bow. Others, like Joan Crawford, kept going. Kenneth Anger writes that Crawford was a “gutsy jazz baby” who marched through the “twin holocaust of the Talkies/Crash unscathed” to escape her dirt-poor origins. “Joan knew where she came from,” he continues, “and did not want to go back there.”
In 1931 Joan Crawford, estranged from her husband Douglas Fairbanks Jr., became pregnant with what she believed was Clark Gable’s child and Strickling arranged for an abortion. Rather than reveal the truth, Crawford told Fairbanks that during the filming of Rain on Catalina Island, she slipped on the deck of a ship and lost the baby.
Crawford’s rival Bette Davis also willingly chose to have abortions for the sake of her career. Davis was the breadwinner for her entire family—her mother and sister, and her husband, Harmon Nelson, whom she married in 1932. If she’d had a child in 1934, she told her biographer Charlotte Chandler in The Girl Who Walked Home Alone, she would’ve “missed the biggest role in her life thus far”—that of Mildred in Of Human Bondage, which earned Davis her first Oscar nomination. Other great parts—“Jezebel, Judith, Elizabeth, Charlotte, and Margo Channing”—may not have followed, either. “But I didn’t miss any of these roles, and I didn’t miss having a family,” she said. Later in life, Davis had three children.
Her first child, Barbara Davis Sherry—known as B.D.—was born when Davis was 39. As biographer Whitney Stine notes in I’d Love to Kiss You: Conversations with Bette Davis, “she was proud of the fact that, after her abortions, she could have a baby at last and a career, because her mother had always insisted that she couldn’t have both. She never tired of reminding [her mother] that she could be a mother and an actress.”
“A child could wait; her career could not.” That’s the reasoning Jean Harlow’s mother gave about her daughter’s own abortion at age 18. Ava Gardner, too, expressed a similar sentiment when discussing her abortion, which she had when married to Frank Sinatra—unbeknownst to him. “‘MGM had all sorts of penalty clauses about their stars having babies,’” Jane Ellen Wayne quotes Gardner saying in The Golden Girls of MGM. “‘If I had one, my salary would be cut off. So how could I make a living? Frank was broke and my future movies were going to take me all over the world. I couldn’t have a baby with that sort of thing going on. MGM made all the arrangements for me to fly to London. Someone from the studio was with me all the time. The abortion was hush hush . . . very discreet.’”
But things didn’t work out quite so well for Judy Garland. Famous primarily for playing Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and struggling to maintain both her weight and her image as an ingenue, Garland was never free to make her own choices.
“Married or not, the MGM girls maintained their virginal image,” Wayne observes, and this was especially true of Garland. In 1941, at age 19, she married the bandleader David Rose without the approval of MGM, and within 24 hours was ordered back by to work. When she became pregnant by Rose, her mother, Ethel, in cahoots with the studio, arranged for Garland to have an abortion. Audiences loved her as a child—not as a mother. In 1943, Garland became pregnant from her affair with Tyrone Power, according to Petersen. Strickling arranged for her to have an abortion. Arguably, these incidents affected Garland psychologically; eventually she became the first public victim of stardom.
Tyrone Power also got Lana Turner pregnant. Again, Strickling arranged for an abortion. Power was one of a constellation of male stars—such as Errol Flynn, Clark Gable, and Charlie Chaplin—whose unbridled dalliances left women paying the price, according to The Fixers. (The phrase “In like Flynn” alludes to Errol’s ease at bedding women—and his good fortune at being acquitted of statutory rape of two teenage girls.)
Strickling, who was by now referred to as a “fixer,” had his hands full with Turner. The “Sweater Girl” allegedly found herself pregnant by bandleader Artie Shaw in 1941, and Strickling arranged an abortion during her publicity tour of Hawaii. The procedure took place without anesthesia, on her hotel bed. Turner’s mother covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her daughter’s cries. A studio doctor, paid $500 that was then deducted from Turner’s paycheck, performed the procedure. A week later, she was back on set filming Ziegfeld Girl, according to The Fixers.
Some actresses struggled with whether or not to keep their child. Mexican screen siren Lupe Velez committed suicide in 1944 because she was pregnant by her lover Harald Ramond, who wouldn’t marry her. A devout Catholic, she declined to call “Doctor Killkare” (“the joke name for Tinseltown’s leading abortionist,” according to Kenneth Anger in Hollywood Babylon), and downed 75 Seconal instead, according to Hollywood Babylon.
The decision was equally tragic for Dorothy Dandridge. Otto Preminger had directed her in Carmen Jones and made her a star. When she became pregnant by him in 1955, he refused to divorce his wife and marry her. Dandridge was forced to have an abortion; the studio demanded it, according to Scandals of Classic Hollywood, not only because a child would compromise her image as the sexy Carmen Jones, but also because Preminger was a white man. And, while miscegenation laws were repealed in California in 1948, nationwide they were still very much in place.
Ironically, the rebel of her day was Loretta Young—not because she had an abortion, but because she refused to have one. A devout Catholic, Young journeyed abroad in 1935 to recuperate from a ‘mystery illness,’ after she found herself with child by Clark Gable under shady circumstances—and avoided the press. She gave birth to her daughter at home in Los Angeles. Young initially gave the child up for adoption—and then, a few months later, officially adopted her, according to The Fixers.
In the heyday of the Hollywood studio system, women were at their most desirable and their most powerful—but it still didn’t afford them the right to choose when it came to governing their bodies. Hollywood’s production codes extended to women’s reproduction. In the hundred years or so that have passed since the birth of American cinema, everything has changed—though, then again, perhaps nothing has.
submitted by Prolifebabe to prolife [link] [comments]
“Abortions were our birth control,” an anonymous actress once said about the common procedure’s place in Hollywood from the 1920s through the 1950s. While patriarchal political powers connive to block women’s legal access to abortion in 21st century America, in Old Hollywood, abortions were far more standard and far more accessible than they often are today—more like aspirin, or appendectomies. How and why did a procedure that was taboo and illegal at the time become so ordinary—at least, among a certain set?
Much like today, in Old Hollywood, the decisions being made about women’s bodies were made in the interests of men—the powerful heads of motion pictures studios MGM, Paramount Pictures, Warner Bros., and RKO. As Aubrey Malone writes in Hollywood's Second Sex: The Treatment of Women in the Film Industry, 1900-1999, “If you want to play in this business, you play like a man or you’re out. And if you happen to be a woman, better not mention it to anybody.”
From the very infancy of America’s film industry, abortions were necessary body maintenance for women in the spotlight. Birth control, including prophylactics, were about as new as “stars” themselves—movie performers who went overnight from being “Little Mary” or “The Vitagraph Girl” to “America’s Sweetheart” or “Sex Goddess.”
“These newly wealthy men and women didn’t know how to control their money, their bodies, or their lives, spending, cavorting, and reveling in excess,” writes Anne Helen Petersen in Scandals of Classic Hollywood. In the working environment of the Hollywood studio system, society’s 19th-century sexual segregation had fallen away. Women—flappers, It girls, sirens and seductresses—were spared their destiny in the kitchen, and for the first time, they earned large incomes they could spend on whatever and whomever they wished. Many believed the publicity they read about their own erotic powers, and they went toe-to-toe professionally with men. Sparks were bound to fly.
And so it became necessary for the studios to implement reformatory measures to prevent stars from destroying their value through scandal. In 1922, Will H. Hays Hays collaborated with studios to introduce mandatory “morality clauses” into stars’ contracts. Consequently an unintended pregnancy would not only bring shame to these top box-office earners—it would violate studio policy. “[I]t was a common assumption that glamorous stars would not be popular if they had children,” writes Cari Beauchamp in her book on powerful women in Old Hollywood, Without Lying Down.
These clauses may have extended to an actress’s right to marry. According to Petersen, rumor had it that “Blonde Bombshell” Jean Harlow couldn’t wed William Powell because “MGM had written a clause into her contract forbidding her to marry”—a wife couldn’t be a “bombshell,” after all. When Harlow became pregnant from the affair, she called MGM head of publicity Howard Strickling in a panic. Shortly thereafter, according to E.J. Fleming in The Fixers: Eddie Mannix, Howard Strickling and the MGM Publicity Machine, “Mrs. Jean Carpenter” entered Good Shepherd Hospital “to get some rest.” She was seen only by her private doctors and nurses in room 826, the same room she had occupied the year before for an “appendectomy.”
In the 1930s, vamp and man-eating thespian Tallulah Bankhead got “abortions like other women got permanent waves,” biographer Lee Israel quips in Miss Tallulah Bankhead. When virtuous singing sensation Jeanette McDonald found herself pregnant in 1935, MGM studio boss Louis B. Mayer told Strickling to “get rid of the problem.” McDonald soon checked into a hospital with an “ear infection,” according to Fleming’s The Fixers.
Many of these Silent Sex Goddesses either fell victim to their own hedonism, fell out of favor, or burned out, such as Theda Bara and Clara Bow. Others, like Joan Crawford, kept going. Kenneth Anger writes that Crawford was a “gutsy jazz baby” who marched through the “twin holocaust of the Talkies/Crash unscathed” to escape her dirt-poor origins. “Joan knew where she came from,” he continues, “and did not want to go back there.”
In 1931 Joan Crawford, estranged from her husband Douglas Fairbanks Jr., became pregnant with what she believed was Clark Gable’s child and Strickling arranged for an abortion. Rather than reveal the truth, Crawford told Fairbanks that during the filming of Rain on Catalina Island, she slipped on the deck of a ship and lost the baby.
Crawford’s rival Bette Davis also willingly chose to have abortions for the sake of her career. Davis was the breadwinner for her entire family—her mother and sister, and her husband, Harmon Nelson, whom she married in 1932. If she’d had a child in 1934, she told her biographer Charlotte Chandler in The Girl Who Walked Home Alone, she would’ve “missed the biggest role in her life thus far”—that of Mildred in Of Human Bondage, which earned Davis her first Oscar nomination. Other great parts—“Jezebel, Judith, Elizabeth, Charlotte, and Margo Channing”—may not have followed, either. “But I didn’t miss any of these roles, and I didn’t miss having a family,” she said. Later in life, Davis had three children.
Her first child, Barbara Davis Sherry—known as B.D.—was born when Davis was 39. As biographer Whitney Stine notes in I’d Love to Kiss You: Conversations with Bette Davis, “she was proud of the fact that, after her abortions, she could have a baby at last and a career, because her mother had always insisted that she couldn’t have both. She never tired of reminding [her mother] that she could be a mother and an actress.”
“A child could wait; her career could not.” That’s the reasoning Jean Harlow’s mother gave about her daughter’s own abortion at age 18. Ava Gardner, too, expressed a similar sentiment when discussing her abortion, which she had when married to Frank Sinatra—unbeknownst to him. “‘MGM had all sorts of penalty clauses about their stars having babies,’” Jane Ellen Wayne quotes Gardner saying in The Golden Girls of MGM. “‘If I had one, my salary would be cut off. So how could I make a living? Frank was broke and my future movies were going to take me all over the world. I couldn’t have a baby with that sort of thing going on. MGM made all the arrangements for me to fly to London. Someone from the studio was with me all the time. The abortion was hush hush . . . very discreet.’”
But things didn’t work out quite so well for Judy Garland. Famous primarily for playing Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and struggling to maintain both her weight and her image as an ingenue, Garland was never free to make her own choices.
“Married or not, the MGM girls maintained their virginal image,” Wayne observes, and this was especially true of Garland. In 1941, at age 19, she married the bandleader David Rose without the approval of MGM, and within 24 hours was ordered back by to work. When she became pregnant by Rose, her mother, Ethel, in cahoots with the studio, arranged for Garland to have an abortion. Audiences loved her as a child—not as a mother. In 1943, Garland became pregnant from her affair with Tyrone Power, according to Petersen. Strickling arranged for her to have an abortion. Arguably, these incidents affected Garland psychologically; eventually she became the first public victim of stardom.
Tyrone Power also got Lana Turner pregnant. Again, Strickling arranged for an abortion. Power was one of a constellation of male stars—such as Errol Flynn, Clark Gable, and Charlie Chaplin—whose unbridled dalliances left women paying the price, according to The Fixers. (The phrase “In like Flynn” alludes to Errol’s ease at bedding women—and his good fortune at being acquitted of statutory rape of two teenage girls.)
Strickling, who was by now referred to as a “fixer,” had his hands full with Turner. The “Sweater Girl” allegedly found herself pregnant by bandleader Artie Shaw in 1941, and Strickling arranged an abortion during her publicity tour of Hawaii. The procedure took place without anesthesia, on her hotel bed. Turner’s mother covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her daughter’s cries. A studio doctor, paid $500 that was then deducted from Turner’s paycheck, performed the procedure. A week later, she was back on set filming Ziegfeld Girl, according to The Fixers.
Some actresses struggled with whether or not to keep their child. Mexican screen siren Lupe Velez committed suicide in 1944 because she was pregnant by her lover Harald Ramond, who wouldn’t marry her. A devout Catholic, she declined to call “Doctor Killkare” (“the joke name for Tinseltown’s leading abortionist,” according to Kenneth Anger in Hollywood Babylon), and downed 75 Seconal instead, according to Hollywood Babylon.
The decision was equally tragic for Dorothy Dandridge. Otto Preminger had directed her in Carmen Jones and made her a star. When she became pregnant by him in 1955, he refused to divorce his wife and marry her. Dandridge was forced to have an abortion; the studio demanded it, according to Scandals of Classic Hollywood, not only because a child would compromise her image as the sexy Carmen Jones, but also because Preminger was a white man. And, while miscegenation laws were repealed in California in 1948, nationwide they were still very much in place.
Ironically, the rebel of her day was Loretta Young—not because she had an abortion, but because she refused to have one. A devout Catholic, Young journeyed abroad in 1935 to recuperate from a ‘mystery illness,’ after she found herself with child by Clark Gable under shady circumstances—and avoided the press. She gave birth to her daughter at home in Los Angeles. Young initially gave the child up for adoption—and then, a few months later, officially adopted her, according to The Fixers.
In the heyday of the Hollywood studio system, women were at their most desirable and their most powerful—but it still didn’t afford them the right to choose when it came to governing their bodies. Hollywood’s production codes extended to women’s reproduction. In the hundred years or so that have passed since the birth of American cinema, everything has changed—though, then again, perhaps nothing has.
2019.11.16 03:34 rhonnie14 Death Of The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
submitted by rhonnie14 to Wholesomenosleep [link] [comments]
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
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2019.11.11 20:39 rhonnie14 Death Of The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
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You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
2019.11.11 20:02 rhonnie14 Death Of The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
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You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
2019.11.10 20:20 rhonnie14 Death Of The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
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submitted by rhonnie14 to nosleep [link] [comments]
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
2019.11.10 19:33 rhonnie14 Death Of The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
submitted by rhonnie14 to Horror_stories [link] [comments]
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
2019.11.10 04:25 rhonnie14 Death Of The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
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You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
2019.11.10 04:24 rhonnie14 Death Of The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
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You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
2019.11.10 04:23 rhonnie14 Death Of The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
submitted by rhonnie14 to DarkTales [link] [comments]
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for my little brother Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone. In my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But during this depression, I became even more isolated. I just immersed myself in my writing. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
A lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left.
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
2019.11.09 06:57 rhonnie14 Death In The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died. Those movie trips with mom, dad, and my little brother Mike were year-round. Always on every major holiday. Christmas. Halloween But still… there was something special about Thanksgiving afternoon.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming. But him and mama made damn sure to buy my brother and I plenty of Christmas gifts. Quantity over quality not always a bad thing.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well. He was the basketball player, I the writer.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was. With the closest movie houses over an hour away, The Rylander captivated this college town. The place was always busy at Christmas. And even crowded on Thanksgiving: a refuge for those of us who didn’t want to deal with Black Friday’s madness.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone… and I shouldn’t have. Not when I had Mike and two of the best parents in the world. But in my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But I knew they had to be disappointed that I hadn’t become a great teacher or finished grad school. Or that I hadn’t risen from a struggling semi-pro to professional writer.
During this depression, I became even more isolated. Just immersing myself in my writing. I smiled a lot less. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
I tell you, a lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left. Recalling The Rylander was all that kept me going. This was gonna be the loneliest Thanksgiving of my life
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
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You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died. Those movie trips with mom, dad, and my little brother Mike were year-round. Always on every major holiday. Christmas. Halloween But still… there was something special about Thanksgiving afternoon.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming. But him and mama made damn sure to buy my brother and I plenty of Christmas gifts. Quantity over quality not always a bad thing.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well. He was the basketball player, I the writer.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was. With the closest movie houses over an hour away, The Rylander captivated this college town. The place was always busy at Christmas. And even crowded on Thanksgiving: a refuge for those of us who didn’t want to deal with Black Friday’s madness.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone… and I shouldn’t have. Not when I had Mike and two of the best parents in the world. But in my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But I knew they had to be disappointed that I hadn’t become a great teacher or finished grad school. Or that I hadn’t risen from a struggling semi-pro to professional writer.
During this depression, I became even more isolated. Just immersing myself in my writing. I smiled a lot less. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
I tell you, a lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left. Recalling The Rylander was all that kept me going. This was gonna be the loneliest Thanksgiving of my life
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
2019.11.09 06:56 rhonnie14 Death In The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died. Those movie trips with mom, dad, and my little brother Mike were year-round. Always on every major holiday. Christmas. Halloween But still… there was something special about Thanksgiving afternoon.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming. But him and mama made damn sure to buy my brother and I plenty of Christmas gifts. Quantity over quality not always a bad thing.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well. He was the basketball player, I the writer.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was. With the closest movie houses over an hour away, The Rylander captivated this college town. The place was always busy at Christmas. And even crowded on Thanksgiving: a refuge for those of us who didn’t want to deal with Black Friday’s madness.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone… and I shouldn’t have. Not when I had Mike and two of the best parents in the world. But in my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But I knew they had to be disappointed that I hadn’t become a great teacher or finished grad school. Or that I hadn’t risen from a struggling semi-pro to professional writer.
During this depression, I became even more isolated. Just immersing myself in my writing. I smiled a lot less. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
I tell you, a lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left. Recalling The Rylander was all that kept me going. This was gonna be the loneliest Thanksgiving of my life
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
submitted by rhonnie14 to JustNotRight [link] [comments]
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died. Those movie trips with mom, dad, and my little brother Mike were year-round. Always on every major holiday. Christmas. Halloween But still… there was something special about Thanksgiving afternoon.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming. But him and mama made damn sure to buy my brother and I plenty of Christmas gifts. Quantity over quality not always a bad thing.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well. He was the basketball player, I the writer.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was. With the closest movie houses over an hour away, The Rylander captivated this college town. The place was always busy at Christmas. And even crowded on Thanksgiving: a refuge for those of us who didn’t want to deal with Black Friday’s madness.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone… and I shouldn’t have. Not when I had Mike and two of the best parents in the world. But in my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But I knew they had to be disappointed that I hadn’t become a great teacher or finished grad school. Or that I hadn’t risen from a struggling semi-pro to professional writer.
During this depression, I became even more isolated. Just immersing myself in my writing. I smiled a lot less. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
I tell you, a lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left. Recalling The Rylander was all that kept me going. This was gonna be the loneliest Thanksgiving of my life
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
14
2019.11.08 18:29 rhonnie14 Deaths In The Dollar Theater
Thanksgiving was about movies for me. Not turkey, not football. Instead of a dining room table, us Hanscoms journeyed down to Americus, Georgia’s dollar theater: The Rylander.
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died. Those movie trips with mom, dad, and my little brother Mike were year-round. Always on every major holiday. Christmas. Halloween But still… there was something special about Thanksgiving afternoon.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming. But him and mama made damn sure to buy my brother and I plenty of Christmas gifts. Quantity over quality not always a bad thing.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well. He was the basketball player, I the writer.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was. With the closest movie houses over an hour away, The Rylander captivated this college town. The place was always busy at Christmas. And even crowded on Thanksgiving: a refuge for those of us who didn’t want to deal with Black Friday’s madness.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone… and I shouldn’t have. Not when I had Mike and two of the best parents in the world. But in my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But I knew they had to be disappointed that I hadn’t become a great teacher or finished grad school. Or that I hadn’t risen from a struggling semi-pro to professional writer.
During this depression, I became even more isolated. Just immersing myself in my writing. I smiled a lot less. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
I tell you, a lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left. Recalling The Rylander was all that kept me going. This was gonna be the loneliest Thanksgiving of my life
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
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submitted by rhonnie14 to creepypasta [link] [comments]
You see, The Rylander was a family tradition. We had no relatives to visit. There was only us in Americus. So from my childhood to my twenties, we’d finish the turkey on Thanksgiving then go straight to the theater.
Over the years, I saw cinema evolve. Great directors rise and fall. And even The Rylander’s trademark one-dollar price slowly crawl all the way to three-fifty. But my family’s love never died. Those movie trips with mom, dad, and my little brother Mike were year-round. Always on every major holiday. Christmas. Halloween But still… there was something special about Thanksgiving afternoon.
Like our own Black Friday, Rylander excitement conquered us. Over twenty years later and the memories still remain vivid. Dad driving his Honda, parking downtown. Christmas music blaring from both his radio and sidewalk speakers. Christmas trees and plastic Santas all over the square. The season’s cheer contagious.
Surrounded by a coffee shop and ice cream stand, The Rylander was the Cathedral of my childhood. Its faded brick, stained red carpet, and front double doors were somehow all welcoming.
The manager Mr. Jack could never afford the much-needed renovation… Not when all he had were two shotgun theaters. But that was all the Hanscom family needed. The Rylander a second-run cinema everywhere except our hearts.
The inside was even more glorious. Framed posters let Golden Age stars watch us make our way through. All the walls showing off hideous concession cartoons straight out of a tacky drive-in. The theater’s clinical lab lighting amplified by flickering bulbs. The smell of burnt popcorn like a fog descending upon this south Georgia Tinseltown.
And around Christmastime, Yuletide classics drifted through The Rylander. Ugly plastic Christmas trees surrounded us, their scrawny limbs stretched by oversized ornaments. Plastic elves guarded the theater entrances. Fake snow made the floor even stickier.
Mr. Jack always took the holidays serious. He was a true showman with curly brown hair and a sloppy mustache. But his manic energy kept the place in business. His passion part of The Ryalnder’s soul.
Even Mr. Jack’s employees were all too eager to talk cinema with us weird movie buffs. And within this dilapidated building, I had a second family. A second home.
Not that my own home life was bad. Back then, us Hanscoms were complete. We were happy.
There was mama. A sweet, gentle woman. With blue eyes and flowing dark hair, her frail frame and voice never hid her constant anxiety. But she cared. Mom was maybe too passionate, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always stuck up for Mike and I.
Dad was much louder. Boisterous and charismatic, all traits he inherited from teaching math at Georgia Southwestern State University. Regardless of his shaggy light hair and lousy wardrobe, he was an attractive man. Somehow, he made being cheap charming. But him and mama made damn sure to buy my brother and I plenty of Christmas gifts. Quantity over quality not always a bad thing.
Then there was Mike. He was only a year younger than me. A more athletic version of Bill Hanscom. Starting in middle school, Mike got taller than me. Stronger… both mentally and physically. His blonde hair and square jaw made him much more conventionally handsome than me. But still we got along well. He was the basketball player, I the writer.
So yeah, I wasn’t tall. Just scrawny and strange. Somewhat attractive behind the huge glasses and goofy smile. My green eyes constantly quivering. My introverted demeanor more like mom’s rather than dad or Mike’s.
The Rylander was second to only my family for emotional support. I didn’t have any other close friends. Just mom, dad, Mike. And the theater.
The funny thing was I wasn’t alone. The Rylander was an Americus sanctuary. A staple of the community… at least, back then it was. With the closest movie houses over an hour away, The Rylander captivated this college town. The place was always busy at Christmas. And even crowded on Thanksgiving: a refuge for those of us who didn’t want to deal with Black Friday’s madness.
During my years at Georgia Southwestern, I encountered other people who’d grown up with The Rylander. People of all ages and styles. Whether their memories were holidays with family, partying with friends, or just lonely nights seeking companionship with the silver screen, The Rylander had a loyal fanbase. Myself chief amongst them.
But things changed during my early twenties. After graduation, people got crueler. My writing never took off. The jobs I got were disasters. Life itself just got harder.
I felt all alone… and I shouldn’t have. Not when I had Mike and two of the best parents in the world. But in my young jaded soul, I felt like I let myself down. I felt like I let everyone down.
Instead of adulthood, I hit alienation. Alcoholism. And soon enough, our family’s Rylander pilgrimages started to become less frequent.
Mom and dad still supported me. But I knew they had to be disappointed that I hadn’t become a great teacher or finished grad school. Or that I hadn’t risen from a struggling semi-pro to professional writer.
During this depression, I became even more isolated. Just immersing myself in my writing. I smiled a lot less. Mike was off playing college ball at Georgia State… and yet here I was I spending less time with the folks. I had no excuse either. I was a twenty-three-year-old shut-in. And as the writing struggled, so did my battle with the bottle. And my newfound addiction to drugs.
Like an island eroding into the sea, the Hanscom family unit was falling apart. Finally, our Rylander trips had gasped its last breath. Those magical Thanksgiving days gone with it.
At this point, I didn’t even go to the theater by myself. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Mr. Jack was still alive. Or the theater for that matter. I never left the house.
Then came the OD. A week before Thanksgiving, I took too many painkillers. There was too much hurt and anguish I tried to numb. When I recovered, I tried killing myself on Thanksgiving morning.
My final memories of mom and dad were them standing by my hospital bed. I don’t even remember Mike showing up to comfort me. All I know was the Hanscom family’s last movie together was a tragic drama. And one with no happy ending in sight.
After being released, I was forced to go to a clinic. Basically a rehab/mental hospital combo.
I tell you, a lot can change in a year. Time moves slower than you think... Especially your first few months in sobriety.
Over the past year, my parents moved to Tallahassee, Florida. My brother graduated Cum Laude and moved in with them. Now I really was alone. Down and out in southwest Georgia.
But even when I heard mom and dad crying on the phone or received their tear-stained letters, I didn’t believe them. Even when them and Mike wept right in front of me on those monthly visits, I couldn’t believe them… My mind wouldn’t allow it. I was my own fall guy.
Worst of all, I was released a few days before Thanksgiving. As if life was playing yet another sick prank on me. Toiling with my nostalgia.
Inevitably, I thought back on the past. With no job and not much money other than what the folks put in my account, those memories were all I had left. Recalling The Rylander was all that kept me going. This was gonna be the loneliest Thanksgiving of my life
I spent long days and even longer nights at the King Motel. A forty-dollar-a-night eyesore in the heart of the Americus’s projects.
I never left the motel much. Not to see the old sights and crowds. The campus. Our old house. And definitely not to pay my respects to The Rylander… Deep down, I just hoped its red double doors were still open for business.
On Thanksgiving, I had a few PBRs to celebrate. A shitty turkey sandwich the motel clerk was nice enough to make for me.
Mom and dad tried calling. So did Mike. But I ignored them... every single time. I still felt the embarrassment of being the Hanscom family fuck-up. Felt too much guilt to give in to their love. I didn’t deserve them.
Around noon, I got drunk enough to get sentimental. Maybe it was the Christmas music. Or maybe it was It’s A Wonderful Life playing in all its black-and-white glory on the T.V. Flashbacks overwhelmed me. Memories of those better Thanksgivings… And back then, one or two o’clock always meant movie time.
The beer gave me courage to confront the past. At that point, I decided to go pay a belated Hanscom family farewell to The Rylander.
Battling my inner excitement and anxiety, I made the quick walk downtown. Beneath an overcast sky, the cold air made me further tremble. Made me shiver on those empty streets.
The Americus college crowd was gone with most of their classmates for the holidays. Georgia Southwesteen still a true suitcase school. I saw no cars out, saw no one other than glowing Santa and reindeer figurines.
Then I reached my memory’s Mecca: The Rylander. There it was, the one business open on West Lamar Street. Open on this glorious holiday.
The sight lifted my spirits. My beer buzz replaced by a nostalgic reverence.
This was The Rylander resurrected from my mind. The bricks still so rough. The windows still cracked. The building still breathing after all these years. After all my turmoil… Somehow, The Rylander outlasted my own family’s bond.
To my surprise, a few cars were lined up in front of the theater. But there was no line on that rugged red carpet. No posters on display. The marquee showed only cobwebs... and a single message sent straight into my soul: OPEN
Pulling my red hoodie in tighter, I staggered toward the ticket booth. I stopped in front of it, amazed. Awestruck.
“Mr. Jack,” I said behind a relieved smile.
The owner stood before me. Like a faded matinee idol, he was older but still showed poise. His quirky personality still shining through the graying moustache and frail flesh. His Ramones tee shirt and blue jeans now looser on a more feeble frame.
Behind the cage, Jack grinned. “Bill? Is that you?” he asked in his gentle Southern accent.
“Yeah. I’m still here.” I took out my wallet. Ready to retrieve four dollar bills. “I figured I’d see if y’all were still kicking.”
“Oh, we always are, Bill,” Jack replied without hesitation.
I chuckled. My eyes searched for the showtimes, a title… anything. But the booth was void of any information. “What are y’all showing?” I asked, slight confusion in my deep voice.
Playful, Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He motioned toward the theater. “We’re starting in five minutes, so you’re right on time!”
“Awesome!” I pulled out the four ones.
Jack waved me off. “Naw, we changed the prices awhile back. Back to one dollar now, Bill.”
I looked at him behind incredulous eyes. “What the Hell! One dollar?”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!”
Through the glass, Jack’s unwavering smile won me over. Even older, he was the same cool guy. The theater manager of my youth… and life.
I handled him a crumpled Washington. “I appreciate it,” I said. “I had no idea-”
“That we went back,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “A lot has changed since we last met, buddy.”
“Shit, I can tell!” I replied.
Laughing, Jack tossed me a faded ticket. The Rylander was printed across the top in stars. “You’re gonna like this one!” he beamed. “I chose it myself!”
And he was right. I entered The Rylander and immediately saw 1951’s A Christmas Carol was the slated movie for the day… my favorite Scrooge playing just on one screen. The Rylander apparently downsized theaters to justify its dollar throwback price. But I damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Like a preserved movie set, I was greeted by the familiar decorations. The same Old Hollywood posters. Humphrey Bogart gave me his usual cool stare. Brando his usual glower.
Burnt popcorn simmered straight to my nostrils. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” took its place alongside the rest of Jack’s holiday soundtrack.
Even the employees looked the same… if slightly older. More frail and fragile like Mr. Jack.
I shot the shit with a few of them. The conversations part reunion and part movie geek convention. Either way, I enjoyed seeing them again.
Then I bought popcorn and made my way inside theater number one. The lights were already dim. The room colder than it was outside.
On screen, a grinning turkey head stared out at the audience. Wearing a black Pilgrim hat, the animated Thanksgiving mascot looked a little too friendly. Its gobbling incessant. Its wide smile lingering. Its eyes beaming… All while “White Christmas” drifted through the room…
A time capsule of my childhood loomed before me. There were the sticky floors. The shit seats. But above all, the sound was crisp... As was The Rylander’s silver screen.
A few people sat in each row. A decent holiday crowd of different ages and races. But besides being engrossed by the coming attractions, they had another thing in common: despondence. Their bodies were motionless, their stares blank. They looked soulless. As if they’d been dragged out of the grave for this screening.
No one in the crowd turned to face me. Not that I was complaining. Staying discreet, I took a seat toward the back. My loud munching all I heard over the previews.
The projection was flawless. As was this pristine print of A Christmas Carol.
Throughout the show, no one ever looked back at me. I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing but British accents and Christmas bells.
None of the moviegoers even complained when my phone buzzed to life multiple times throughout the show. Multiple calls I ignored from my parents and Mike.
Like medicine for melancholy, the magic of the movies soothed me. Sure, I sat quiet and alone in a dark room. No different than most of my time spent at the hospital… But there was a comforting camaraderie here. These strangers and I stayed engaged with a classic movie. Much like how my family and I did in this very theater… sometimes in these very same seats.
Halfway through, a new spectator joined us: Mr. Jack. He glided in. His steps slow, methodical. Doing his best to not disrupt the screening.
I watched him sit a row behind me. Then I saw no one had even noticed. They were a statue audience. Their eyes glued to the film.
Jack never once made a sound. Never once looked at me or anywhere else but the screen.
Uneasy, I crunched on another piece of popcorn. Glad my smacking was overshadowed by the Christmas classic.
I stayed quiet. Easy enough with such a great movie. The only problem was I was the lone person laughing at the funny scenes. The only person reacting at all. Even Mr. Jack was stoic. And through the rising anxiety, I thought to myself how this fucking audience needed a two drink minimum…
The awkward atmosphere ended on The Rylander’s final reel. Ebenezer Scrooge found his Christmas spirit… and still my fellow moviegoers showed no signs of life. There was no shared joy. No cheers or applause. Nothing to match A Christmas Carol’s bombastic score.
In my mind, I reflected on the Hanscom family trips. How my dad would talk back to the screen. Cheer in the appropriate spots, get scared when an effective horror movie got to him. My father was always an ideal partner to share the movie theater experience with. Always a boost to even the worst of cinema... And nothing like this current crowd...
A stifling silence lingered once the screen faded to black. Nobody said a word. And nobody got up.
In the dark, we just sat there. Sat in the cold. Shivering, I waited several tense seconds. Then I’d had enough.
Still holding the popcorn, I rose from my seat. Turned to see Mr. Jack standing right behind me. Right in the doorway.
He waved his arm toward me. Beckoning me with effortless charisma. Jack resembling a skeletal figure in this pitch black theater. “Won’t you stay, Bill?” he asked.
Nervous, I looked all around the rest of theater one.
The audience had finally made a move. Each and every one of them was now turned to face me. Not a smile amongst them. Not a sliver of emotion on their apathetic faces. As if they were hopeless Rylander prisoners.
Mr. Jack grabbed my arm in a tight grip. A death grip.
Startled, I looked into his harsh eyes.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he said.
Straining, I struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”
Flashing a wicked smile, Jack leaned in closer. “Forever…” he finished.
“No!” I shouted. I pulled away from him, dropping my bag.
Popcorn spilled out across the floor. And then a flash of silver caught my horrified eyes.
Jack raised a long knife. “This is for all of us, Bill!” he said, a fiery soulfulness in his voice.
Like a frightened child, I staggered back. For once, I wasn’t full of self-pity or sadness. I was fucking scared.
“The happiest years of our lives are right here, right in this very building,” Jack went on. With methodical precision, he pointed the blade at me. “And now we can stay, Bill. We can all stay where we belong.”
I whirled around. The rest of the crowd were now standing. Human tombstones in the dark. Their vacant stares fixated on me.
“Stay with them, Bill!” I heard Mr. Jack’s voice continue.
Tears welling up, I felt the memories sting me. Haunt me. Flashbacks to the family movie nights played before me. The Thanksgiving theater trips. The beautiful bliss.
“Stay with us,” Jack said.
Weeping, I closed my eyes. Internal home movies kept playing in my mind. The family watching TCM at home. Or watching scary YouTube videos together.
I heard Jack’s cold footsteps get closer. “Stay here, Bill.”
And then the next Hanscom family reel hit me. I thought of the letters mom and dad wrote. The times they saw me at the hospital. Mike’s phone calls. Their shared eternal hope for me. Their eternal love. The phone calls they’d been making all week… The reunion we may never have. The happy ending we always wanted... The final reel our family needed. And the final reel I now wanted.
Jack grabbed my shoulder.
I confronted his pale face. His frightening conviction.
“Stay at The Rylander,” Jack said, sympathy slipping into his tone.
Trembling in the chilly theater, I backed away toward the entrance. Further away from Jack. Further away from the crowd. My feet crushed countless popcorn pieces. “No...” I said. Stopping at the doorway, I wiped away the flowing tears. “I can’t!”
To my horror, I now saw the audience was back in their seats. Their blank faces stared straight at the blank screen. As if they were waiting for a double feature that wasn’t scheduled…
“Stay here, Bill,” Jack beckoned me.
I confronted Mr. Jack just in time to see him put the knife to his throat. His grip steady and calm.
“No!” I cried.
“Stay with us!” Jack said.
Right in the middle of the aisle, he slit his own throat. In one methodical slice.
“Oh God!” I yelled. “Mr. Jack!”
The manager fell straight back. The sticky floor his coffin. The theater his tomb.
The floor was made even stickier by the dark blood oozing from Jack’s morbid wound. His pleased smile his final freeze frame.
A harsh tearing and bright flame distracted me. Afraid, I looked on to see the silver screen set ablaze….
The fire spread rapidly. Wicked flames hit the floor and made their way straight toward the motionless audience. Straight toward its easy victims.
In the suspense, my shivering gave way to sweating. The vivid blaze blinded me. The fire only grew bigger and bigger. Like the flames were all part of the show, no one in the crowd flinched. Not even as they started burning alive.
The smell of burnt flesh rather than popcorn dominated the scene.
“Get out!” I screamed at the audience.
But they remained seated. Each of them engulfed by the unforgiving fire. Forever Rylander residents.
.”No!” I yelled.
Disturbed, I crashed back against a wall. A reservoir of tears burst from my eyes.
“Stay…” a weak voice cried out... A familiar Southern accent.
I looked down to see Mr. Jack crawling right toward me.
Through the blood and grue, the smile stayed on his face. Dark blood still oozed from his fatal cut. His hand still held the knife. His wild eyes a spotlight placed on me. “Stay with us, Bill...”
My concerned gaze shifted to the audience. The people I’d just watched A Christmas Carol with. They stayed in their chairs, bound by the fire. The crowd just as still and stilted as always. Quiet as they entered death… or what I thought was death.
In an elongated stretch, Jack reached toward me. Determination all over his dead body. “Bill…” he cried out through this furnace.
I faced him. And in that instant, I realized I was the only customer in theater number one. The only living one. Mr. Jack must’ve died years ago… The audience already dead with him. Only now they wanted me. Another one of the Rylander regulars to join them beyond the grave.
Closer and closer Jack crawled. His strength only increasing as he closed the gap.
Illuminated by the towering flames, Jack held up the knife. Black blood now covered his entire body. “Join us, Bill!!” he yelled.
Moving images of mom and dad flickered through my mind. Us playing baseball in the back yard. Mom reading my stories. Then there was Mike and I through the years. Us playing basketball outside and NBA 2K inside. These were home movies from Heaven… And they were still here. Our tragic drama could still be the stuff of sentimental Lifetime movies. Still be the stuff of joy. Like what they used to be.
Mr. Jack swung the blade toward me. “Stay with us, Bill!” he shouted.
Behind him, I saw the rows and rows of carnage. The theater was so quiet. Almost devoid of life. Almost...
I reached inside my hoodie pocket.
Still smiling, Jack leaned up on one hand. Blood pouring out of his throat like dripping syrup. “Stay at The Rylander!” he yelled.
Fighting back tears, I glared at him. Then in one swift toss, I hurled the ticket toward Mr. Jack. Straight into the fire. Straight into my past.
The cheap paper incinerated upon impact.
“No!” Mr. Jack pleaded. He staggered to his feet. “Bill!”
I didn’t stick around. Fear nor adrenaline fueled my quickness. Hope did.
Out the theater I ran. Down the hallway. Past the Christmas decorations. Past Bogie. Far away from Frank’s “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”
Determined, I burst out of The Rylander for good. Out from the fire and straight into the bitter November cold.
I stopped on the downtown sidewalk. Exhausted from emotion.
Scanning the scene, I saw no one around me. But there were still the cars... The Rylander customers had driven here… The corpses.
Unease sunk into my freezing flesh. I whirled around.
The Rylander was there. Or its grave was at least. Only the theater standing before me wasn’t the beacon of joy from my childhood. From my life. The Rylander’s marquee now had holes galore. The building’s windows formed a shattered symphony. The bricks now moldy… somehow uglier. No one stood behind the ticket booth except spiders. An eternal For Lease sign a tombstone for this movie theater grave.
Fighting the bitter sadness, I stumbled up to the front windows. My soul felt crushed. Like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, I felt transported to an ugly what-if. An alternate reality from Hell.
I was close to the booth when the sickening smell stopped me. Carried by that brutal wind, the nauseating stench of charred flesh and decay whisked through East Lamar Street.
One look inside The Rylander made it clear that what I witnessed was no haunting. No nightmare. Even from here, I could see the bodies piled up inside the burnt building. All of them lined up in rows alongside theater one’s long aisle… except for a corpse sprawled out by the front entrance. A knife still in their torched hand. Mr. Jack’s body scorched beyond recognition save for The Ramones tee shirt.
The tears came back. And so did my crippling fear.
Later on, I found out there was a group suicide held that Thanksgiving. Right there inside theater number one. Mr. Jack led all these lonely people to the grave. To their dollar theater deaths. Each of them unable to move on in their lives. Unable to move on from The Rylander.
But I did. Finally. The terrifying encounter sobered me up from my solemn despair. Destroyed the bitter, jaded soul I’d become.
That evening, I drove straight home to Tallahassee. To mom, dad. Mike. They were all there waiting for me. And together, we shed tears of joy. The four of us got to work on building more wonderful memories.
I’m proud to say we made a sequel to our Hanscom family tradition. Later on that night, we caught the late show for a cheap horror movie down at Movies 8. Tallahassee’s very own second-run theater. Tickets had gone up to five dollars since our last trip. Of course, dad complained. But I sure as Hell didn’t.
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