Screen Kiss: A Love Letter to the Movies

My parents instilled in me a love of reading and movies. There were so many evenings when we would cook up a pot of popcorn and watch “oldies” like To Sir, With Love, How Green Was My Valley, The Quiet Man, and 12 Angry Men.

We went to the movie theaters far less often since it was costly to take a family of five, but once I was old enough to go by myself with friends, we’d spend a Saturday at the newly-created “multi-plex,” theater hopping from one movie to another.

Back then there were still some great old movie houses with ornate decorations, balconies, organs, and one enormous screen. As I grew older, these theaters grew fewer, until there was only one or two left in my hometown of Phoenix. The greatest of all, the Cine Capri, eventually fell victim to the wrecking ball after its swan song showing of Titanic. Located amidst the most expensive real estate in Phoenix, it was simply worth too much money to remain as a single-screen theater.

When we moved to Eugene, Oregon, a place much more concerned about preserving heritage, we found the Bijou Theater. It had been many things in its previous life, including a church and a funeral home, but now it was a double-screen theater. We loved the large lobby, the intricate woodwork, the ornate glass, and the old seats.

I met the owner, Julie, a transplanted New Yorker, who had come to Oregon with dreams of owning a movie theater, a true arthouse. It was a circuitous and dramatic route, one that I’m sure will someday make a great memoir. She gave me a tour and explained the ins and outs of theater ownership. If you read Screen Kiss, you’ll know it too.

CHAPTER ONE

A murmur of excitement buzzes through Lane Eight—Addy Tornado’s checkout line. When she scans the customer faces, most of whom are Value Shop regulars, her gaze lands on the famous Princess Meritain of Merutious. She has just joined Addy’s line, right behind Mr. Flanders, who is skimming the latest edition of Guns Around the World. He clearly doesn’t realize he is rubbing elbows with royalty, mainly because he never faces forward, too busy looking at the impulse purchase items available on his left and right.

Princess Meritain takes a step back from Mr. Flanders and his elbow thrashings. Her regal chin turns upward. While she is a diminutive woman, her erect posture and proper carriage creates the impression she towers over all. Perhaps it is her royal training that gives her command of Lane Eight, that or the four-inch, red, don’t-fuck-with-me heels that complement her black, tight-fitting A-line skirt. Addy permits herself one long graze of the princess. She drinks in the shapely calves, curvaceous bottom, thin waist, stellar bosom, red lips, long eyelashes, and eyes so blue she can see them from three customers away.

Her grazing complete, she returns her attention to the MOST IMPORTANT CUSTOMER, the one standing in front of her. Value Shop policy reminds its employees that the customer currently being served is the MOST IMPORTANT CUSTOMER in the store. Mrs. Kaminsky is one of Addy’s favorites, a delightful retiree who has just returned from summer vacation with her son’s family. Mrs. Kaminsky frequents Addy’s line at least four times a week, and she has confided she is lonely and enjoys Addy’s company, if only for a few fleeting minutes while Addy rings up her purchases.

As she regales Addy with yet another story about granddaughter Chloe’s antics in the hotel swimming pool, and a game of Marco Polo gone awry because of some deflated floaties, Addy sneaks a second glance at the princess, who offers a cold, hard stare. Addy immediately looks down, flustered.

“Hey, Addy,” Mrs. Kaminsky says. “You just charged me four ninety-eight for a bunch of radishes.”

Addy gasps and apologizes. She voids the item and focuses on her work. Mrs. Kaminsky leaves with appropriately charged radishes and as Addy’s line moves forward, the princess draws closer and unloads the contents of her little shopping basket onto the conveyor belt with the disdain befitting a task beneath her. She flings a package of overpriced plastic cutlery with such force, it somersaults over the dividing bar and lands in Mr. Flanders’s stack of purchases. He discreetly nudges the cutlery back to the other side, his gaze never straying from the article he’s reading.

 Addy frowns at the behavior of the princess. She has a reputation for being callous and insensitive, and her treatment of the cutlery affirms the stories. Addy allows herself another quick glance while Mr. Flanders debates whether or not to purchase the magazine and finish an article on German rifles from WWII.

He finally placed the magazine in his shopping bag, exchanges a smile with Addy, who rings it up and hands him his change.

Princess Meritain steps to the pay station and stares at Addy as if she’s nuts.

Of course, Addy greets her with the required Value Shop smile—while she groups each item by prominent color before scanning it and placing it in one of the Value Shop paper bags.

Addy can’t help herself. When she looks at any object, its prominent color pushes forward, whether that is the color of the packaging, the letters on the label, or the color of the item. It’s like a spotlight turns on and all Addy sees is one color. Thus, bananas are always grouped with yellow squash, banana popsicles and various cheeses, while lettuces, cucumbers and margarita mix journey out of the store together. Her regular customers have learned her system, but of course Princess Meritain of Merutious has not. But how could she? Addy again forgives the princess this understandable faux pas.

As the princess’s luscious lips curl into displeasure, Addy offers,“I’m all about order,” as an explanation for her behavior.

“I’d rather you not touch my things any more than necessary,” Princess Meritain replies, in a breathy voice Addy finds very sexy. “It’s not sanitary.”

“I promise you, I sanitize my hands after I touch the register or handle money or credit cards.”

Princess Meritain raises an already high-pitched eyebrow. “Every time?”

“Every time.” And then Addy leans forward, resting her elbow on the check-writing desk, and whispers, “My hands are so clean right now that I could feed you a strawberry.” It’s a risky flirt, and Addy watches the princess’s response carefully.

The eyebrow descends and joins a face of the creamiest skin Addy has ever seen. She gazes into the extraordinary blue eyes for another second before completing the princess’s transaction.

 Princess Meritain gazes into the bag and screams, “What the hell? Why is the Drano in the bag with my tomatoes? That’s disgusting!”

“Well, tomatoes and the bottle of Drano are the only red purchases you have. If you’d bought something else that was red, I could’ve started another bag.”

The blue eyes turn a darker shade. “I demand to see your manager.”

Addy crosses her arms. “No.”

The high-pitched eyebrow returns. “Excuse me?”

“You may not see the manager. I won’t allow it. That will be twenty-seven dollars. Even.” The princess turns up her regal chin. “I won’t pay it.”

“Then you can’t have your Drano.”

With a swoop, Addy pushes the bags into a corner of the bagging area and welcomes the next MOST IMPORTANT CUSTOMER, Mrs. Delano. While she offers her sweetest smile to Mrs. D., she remains cognizant of the princess’s stare.

So she gives her a show. She quickly lines up Mrs. D’s reusable bags and scans her items, correctly grouped by dominant color. She swipes and taps keys at lightning speed, stealing a glance at the princess, who seems entranced by her grocery ballet, an homage to efficiency.

As Mrs. Delano departs, Princess Meritain steps back to the pay station, licking her lips. Addy knows that look.

“I’d like to pay now.”

Addy completes the transaction, her gaze locked on the princess’s gorgeous eyes. When she hands her the receipt, she says, “Value Shop encourages you to follow this link and complete a survey regarding my service and your level of satisfaction. Are you satisfied?”

 “Not yet,” the princess whispers.

Addy glances at the next customer in line, a young woman engaged in a battle of wills with a preschool-age boy. He wishes to add a candy bar to their otherwise healthy purchases that fill the conveyor belt—and are not grouped by color. Addy sighs.

Suddenly the princess is behind her, pressing into her back. “Meet me in frozen dinners,” she says, in a voice almost as smoky as her blue eyes.

Addy nods and drops the CLOSED sign at the end of the conveyor belt. She completes the young woman’s transaction, including the candy bar, in record time, given the plethora of colors involved.

She scampers toward the frozen food section as the princess makes a quick turn from an adjoining aisle and pulls in front of her. Addy is afforded the luxurious view of Princess Meritain’s ass, her butt cheeks rising and falling with each step.

She stops suddenly, but Addy is so entranced with her backside that she almost plows her over. She grabs a door handle just in time and rights herself. Princess Meritain’s amused look is striking and sexy. Addy is smoldering, but she doubts stuffing a Lean Cuisine down her shirt will help.

The princess faces a refrigerated case and slaps the glass with both hands. She grinds her center against it, right in the Green Giant’s line of sight.

She glances over her shoulder and says to Addy, “Can you satisfy me now?”

Addy presses against her. She matches her rhythm, kissing the side of her neck while her hands and lips explore the princess’s sultry curves, enjoying the continuous undulation of their pelvises. The silk buttons of Princess Meritain’s shirt come undone, as does the clasp of her bra, neither a match for Addy’s nimble fingers. When the princess’s bare nipples meet the cold glass, she gasps and lolls her head to the side. Addy pulls that regal chin up and connects their mouths for a deep kiss. Then she steps away.

“No, please,” the princess whines.

Addy, still fully clothed, adjusts her Value Shop polo shirt and nametag, which hangs askew from her gyrations. The glass is fogged and she wonders if it’s possible to spoil the food from the outside of the case. Princess Meritain’s tiny skirt suddenly drops to

 her ankles, revealing a sheer, pink thong that matches the bra Addy has already woman-handled. When the princess sloughs off the silk shirt and bra, Addy almost grabs them, protecting the fine garments from the dirty, scarred linoleum floor.

But the princess doesn’t notice. She spins around, stepping away from her discarded clothes toward a fresh case, one that hasn’t been a victim of their heat. She presses her back against the frosty glass, her eyes grow wide and her lips form an O.

“Feeling a chill. Come warm me up, Addy.”

The princess is a sight. Her face is flush, her nipples firm, and the blue eyes have turned a cooler shade of crystal. And she still gyrates, only now her back and buttocks are assaulted by the cold. She spreads her legs wider, beckoning Addy. When Addy doesn’t respond immediately, she caresses her own breasts, splays her fingers across her belly and moves the manicured digits closer to the thong, the only strip of clothing she still wears.

“Let me,” Addy instructs, sliding in front of the princess, disregarding the inevitable dirt stains on the knees of her white pants. She yanks down the scrap of material and brings the juicy center to her mouth.

“Addy? Hello, Addy?”

Addy blinked. Her gaze shot left and right. She was at work, sitting in the driver’s seat of Bus 29, the crown jewel of the Wilshire Hills Transportation Department. It was Thursday in late August. Her bus idled in front of Rhinehart’s Mini-Mart, stop number six on her route. The bus’s front door was still open. Thankfully, the brake was still engaged, but the hot summer wind blew inside and devoured the A/C.

She looked up into the full-view mirror above her driver’s seat to acknowledge the passenger who had called to her. Mrs. Gelpin waved from the second row, a gentle smile on her face. At eighty-four, she was a long-time resident of Wilshire Hills, and one of Addy’s regulars. She understood that periodically Addy took a mental vacation, and it wasn’t always at the most convenient time.

“We’re all on board, Addy. Ready to go,” Mrs. Gelpin called. Then she gave a little cough and her index finger touched her chin.

Addy’s hand immediately went to her own chin. It was wet and sticky. She glanced at her left hand, resting on the bus’s steering wheel. It held a half-eaten peach.

CHAPTER TWO

Dr. Ivy Bertrand, dean of the School of Music at Cammon University, stared at Mazie Midnight with a look that could wilt flowers. Mazie imagined Dr. Bertrand practiced the look at home while she stood in front of the mirror and tied—and retied—her trademark bow tie until it was a perfectly symmetrical work of fashion art. Today’s bow tie was a conservative blue and green striped number that popped against her crisp, white Oxford button-down shirt. She’d perfected her stony stare and undoubtedly intimidated thousands of graduate students, because if practice made perfect anywhere, it would be at the School of Music.

“I’m serious, Ms. Fenster,” she reiterated, peering over the top of her reading glasses. The whites of her eyes contrasted with her dark chocolate skin, which only intensified her flinty gaze. “If you don’t complete the performance element of your required program of study for your master’s degree in music performance by the end of the fall semester, I will be forced to enter a failing grade in your performance workshop because you will not perform. Are we clear?”

“Quite,” Mazie said, although in her mind it came out as quit. Something she’d done far too often. She hoped Dr. Bertrand didn’t comment.

She bit her bottom lip. She wanted to share her new name with Dr. Bertrand. She very much wanted to tell her that she’d left May Fenster at the Oregon-Idaho state line. She’d changed her name to Mazie Midnight, honoring Grandma Mazie, the person who encouraged her to sing, and Midnight—the exact moment in time that her new life in Oregon began. She felt an explanation trip across her tongue, attempting to push out from her lips.

“Is there something you’d like to say, Ms. Fenster?”

Dr. Bertrand was intuitive. That was why she was one of the best. Mazie opened her mouth, her tongue moved and her lips parted. Yet no sound escaped. A far too familiar condition. Dr. Bertrand sighed audibly and signed Mazie’s program of study. She closed her fountain pen, set it lovingly in a special mahogany holder, and clasped her hands.

“In the event you have further contact with my old friend, Maestro Larkin Lamond, you can tell her that by admitting you to this program, I consider our past debt paid in full. Can you remember that?”

“Yes, Dr. Bertrand.”

She put an index finger at opposite corners of the Program of Study form and deliberately pushed it toward Mazie, who signed in the box above Dr. Bertrand’s commanding signature. She didn’t look at Dr. Bertrand, remembering Larkin’s advice. She’d said, “Be deferential. She’s really a big pussycat but you’ll never see it unless she drinks an entire bottle of vodka with you.”

Mazie doubted that would happen, but she imagined vodka had something to do with the debt Ivy Bertrand owed their mutual friend Larkin. Perhaps they had been lovers.

Dr. Bertrand reached for a beautiful wooden sphere and rolled it between her fingers. Mazie guessed her hands never stilled for long, as she was an accomplished violinist, a world-renowned conductor, and a brilliant composer, having written some of the greatest composed music of the twenty-first century.

“Is there anything else, Ms. Fenster?”

“No, Dr. Bertrand. May I be excused?”

“Yes.”

She snatched her messenger bag and headed for the door. It squeaked open just far enough for her to disappear into the corridor when Dr. Bertrand said, “May I ask...”

Mazie took a breath and turned around. Dr. Bertrand’s face had softened.

“Maestro Lamond sent me a recording. I’ve heard you sing. You have the chops. When did your stage fright consume you?”

“I don’t know.”

Dr. Bertrand’s lips turned up slightly in a conspiratorial smile. They both knew Mazie was lying.