Installation Romance

Lola was a librarian. Bobby was an artist. Lola was jaded, and Bobby was hesitant. They had been tripping over love for a month. They were silly for each other but gun-shy, neither willing to draw first.

Four Sundays have passed since Bobby first saw Lola fold her clothes and place them in a blue plastic basket as he balled his up into warm fistfuls and shoved them into a clean garbage bag. He liked her undisciplined mass of curly auburn hair, guileless hazel eyes, and penchant for loud colors. Bobby didn’t know it, but Lola had laughed to herself when she saw him ramming a motley hodgepodge of clothes into one washer. She liked the way his tattered Levi’s hung loose on his bony hips and how his freckled, honest face scrunched as he leaned over his sketchbook.

The following Saturday Bobby crashed his cart into Lola’s ankles while thumbing the latest Hellboy graphic novel at the grocery store. He almost said something; a greeting crept up into his throat, and he choked on it. She was standing in the frozen food aisle, staring at the ice cream freezer in plaid pajama pants and a Red Sox hoodie. Bobby wussed out, escaping in the opposite direction. He managed to throw a hushed, “scuse me” over his shoulder. Noticing his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle t-shirt, Lola smiled; she had the same bright yellow hallmark of cartoon coolness.

They met again at the Boston Public Library just after it opened on a Friday morning. Lola was taking a package to the Rare Books collection when she spotted Bobby in the film stacks. She ducked into a 600 row across from him. Hidden behind books on engineering and manufacturing, Lola spied on Bobby. He put the books back he didn’t want in the right spots instead of piling them up in the empty spaces at the end of the rows. Even though she hadn’t had to sort books for years, she appreciated his meticulous kindness. Lola ran down three flights of stairs to the circulation desk and waited for him to show up. He came down the stairs ten minutes later, lugging a diverse pile of books. Lola scanned each one from Hong Kong Cinema: The Extra Dimension to Edward Hopper: The Art and the Artist. She was digging for something clever to say, but “Hopper is cool…to me too” was all she could manage.

Bobby nodded three times, short and quick. “Yeah. Cool.”

Lola looked up and offered him a half-cocked smile, hoping she could make up for her verbal blunder in coy body language. She did. That sweet grin charmed Bobby simple.

“Ok thanks, bye.” Turning, he stumbled to the front doors and tripped down the wide marble steps.

* * *

“I was shocked when the judge noticed the golden retriever had a weave; I hadn’t even realized - it was that good.” Brandt was Lola’s best friend. He worked as a professional canine stylist. He had spent the day at the Eukanuba Dog show and had kept Lola rolling during dinner with stories of uber-coiffed purebreds and their neurotic owners. “But enough about me and my bitches. What’s up with you and this mystery boy? Tomorrow is Sunday; do you have amorous plans?” Brandt was sopping up rich red tikka sauce with a chunk of shiny naan.

“No.” Lola mined the soft insides of her pakora; she didn’t like the crispy fried outside. “There’s no point; if I’m attracted to him, he’s probably an asshole, and I’d rather save myself the heartache and hassle.”

“You’ve changed your tune since last week; last week you were all, he’s so cute, he put the books away, he likes Ninja Turtles, la la la.” Brandt was swaying back and forth, enjoying his little ditty. “Just say hello, start there, see what happens.”

“Hello. That’s a hell of a word.” Lola reached up and pushed back a wayward tendril with her wrist. “I met Aiden with a hello. Goodbye came when I walked in on him fucking our neighbor on my birthday. Hello opens up a door I don’t feel like walking through anymore.”

“Alright, every hello doesn’t pan out, but to give up hello entirely, that’s extreme.” Brandt had accumulated a light orange mango milkshake mustache, which he swiped off as soon as he finished talking.

“It’s not extreme. You know the sad gamut of my pisspoor dating history as well as I do and I don’t want to meet this guy only to learn he has a Nutella fetish or a drug habit.” Lola’s nose was running from the vindaloo spice. She sniffed.

“Mmmm nutella. Come on, Lola, they weren’t all bad. Steve was nice.”

“Yeah, he was, until he came to bed one night wearing a Darth Vader mask and actually asked me to come to the dark side.”

“Oh right, I forgot about that. Did I tell you Dylan saw him at a convention last month?”

“No.”

“He was C3PO, sporting full-body gold paint and was followed in tow by a band of midgets dressed as Ewoks.”

“I can pick him.” Lola picked up her water glass and drained it in three gulps. “And of course there’s Simon; he’s one of your favorites.”

“Oh right, Simon. Dinner at my place and hardcore porn for dessert Simon; he was kind of a letdown. What was the name of the movie again?”

Lola was building a canal through her rice with the edge of her fork, for the sauce to run through. “Doctor Proctor’s Anal Invaders.”

Brandt tapped his lips with his index finger, “I think I’ve seen that; it’s not that bad.” Lola did not laugh. He reached across the table and cupped her chin in his hand. “So you’ve had some rotten apples; that’s no reason to stop picking.”

“Thank you, Johnny Appleseed. But the beginning is the best part for me. The flirting, the potential. Last Sunday I watched him drawing for a few minutes.”

“You spy on this guy a lot. Ever considered you might be the oddball this time around?”

Lola put her right hand up like an elementary school crossing guard. “Shut up and listen for a second. Could you just? We were at the laundry place. He had this big notebook on his lap and his whole world was on that page. He had pastel smudged on his face and a dark line on the ridge of his nose from pushing his glasses up over and over. It made my week, just watching him work like that.”

“So that’s it then? You’re just going to look from now on, resign yourself to be a schoolmarmish librarian spinster, crusty and alone.”

“Maybe it will help me fit better at work.”

Brandt pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and realized the time. “Shit, I’m sorry. I gotta jet. Dylan will be outside in 5 minutes. He’s a timely one.” He stood up and slid into his fuchsia suede jacket. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with?”

“No thanks, B. I’m not in the mood for blaring house techno and dry humping strangers. I’m headed home. Cup of tea and an old movie is more my pace. Where’s the closest T stop?”

Taking a purple pen out of his European carryall, Brandt grabbed his napkin and started sketching a rough map. “Okay,” he said, winding a path from one corner of the pink napkin to the other. “This spot of tikka sauce is the restaurant, and that saag stain in the T stop. Go down this street, Revere Way, take a left, then it’s straight for about six blocks, can’t miss it.”

“Thanks for dinner.” Lola got out of her chair and started wrapping herself in scarves and coats.

Brandt reached out and pulled Lola into a one-arm hug, kissing her on the forehead, leaving a sparkly strawberry mark. “You’re very welcome. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Bye.” Lola wiped off the fruity kiss and tried to rub the residue on Brandt’s cheek. He dodged it and headed for the door.

* * *

Lola was walking down Brookline Avenue hoping she would soon catch the acrid smell of the humid underground air as it slithered its way up from Boston’s gutted underbelly. Lola was double layered, wooled and fleeced, but the relentless cold penetrated each insulating layer.

She kept wandering and checked the napkin a third time. Brandt had written the street name of the T stop on one corner. She had read each sign she passed and was sure she hadn’t missed Revere Way. She had gone at least nine blocks and hadn’t seen the familiar circled T. Looking up, she was surprised to notice an old-fashioned marquee protruding from the building at the end of the block. She hadn’t heard of a classic movie house in this section of Cambridge. Black block letters advertised Allen’s Play It Again, Sam.

That was one of Lola’s favorite films, and she had never seen it on the big screen. She’d much rather go to the movies than sit at home, especially when the theatre was right in front of her, and her apartment was many unknown blocks away. She contemplated sprinting towards the shining art deco beacon, but Boston’s warped colonial brick sidewalks were tough to navigate in good weather. In February, menacing patches of sneaky black ice hid in the nooks and shadows, waiting to fell the careless traveler. She decided it was best to avoid a twisted ankle or broken tailbone and tread deliberately.

The name of the theatre was stenciled in gold on the double glass doors in two concentric circles. Lola had to bend her head at an awkward angle to read the text.

“Kalliope Kaleidoscope, that’s a weird name.”

Lola attacked the door handle and swallowed welcome breaths of warm, buttery air. The ticket window was a few steps to her left. Sitting inside was a potbellied jocular man thumbing through a careworn copy of Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide: The Millennium Edition.

“Hello, sir. When’s the next showing?”

“Oh hello, Miss. Snuck right in, didn’t you? Ah yes, the next show starts in about fifteen minutes.” If the Coca-Cola Santa dyed his hair and beard black and donned a Grateful Dead sweatshirt, he could be this man’s twin. Lola grinned and resisted the urge to tell him what she wanted for Christmas.

“Excellent. One please.”

“That’s a mere five dollars.” Lola took out a crumpled Abe Lincoln and passed it through the half moon opening in the window. She waited for a ticket to pop out of the machine. Santa Garcia chuckled and shook his head. “We don’t bother with tickets, ma’am. But I do have a really neat hand stamp if you’d like to make it official.”

“No thanks.” Lola turned around and was about to walk towards the theatre doors when she noticed the mural behind the candy counter. Imagine Mars Candy Co. had commissioned Lichtenstein and Warhol to redo the Elgin Marbles. A pop art Athena was sharing a monstrous box of jujubes with a hip Hermes. Zeus was enjoying one half of a tremendous Snickers bar with a comic-book- style Hera. It was a post-modern bacchanal. Just above the head of a jaunty Pegasus was a sign pointing towards the stairs reading “Balcony.”

“I see you appreciate great beauty.” Lola turned around and walked back towards the box office. The ticket man was looking proudly across the lobby at the wall.

“It’s amazing. Did you do it?”

“Oh no, I can barely stay in the lines. My projectionist did it. I was added various creative flares here and there.” His hand swooped in small circles, vaguely indicating his artistic input. “But the kid really did most of it. Pretty talented don’t you think?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Is the balcony open? I mean, can you sit up there?”

“Sure is. Best seats in the house up there, go ahead on up.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Lola made her way over to the stairwell. She ran her hand along the worn wooden banister as she walked up the narrow steps. The maroon carpet covering the stairs was worn almost bare down the middle. Dark petrified polka dots of ancient gum were spattered in a random pattern. Yellowing movie posters hung in rusting frames on each wall. Scarlet O’Hara in front of a blazing Tara. Janet Leigh screaming in frozen terror. Bela Lugosi glaring over the edge of his sleek black cape.

Lola liked this place. She needed a new cinematic haunt. She was banned from the Hoytes Multiplex on Commonwealth Ave. because she had been caught punishing people who were answering their cell phones during the movie. She didn’t know why everyone was so upset. It’s not like she had filled the squirt gun with acid, just Diet Coke.

She had to go up two full flights to reach the balcony. Lola glanced down to the main theatre and saw that it was empty. Staring back at the dozen or so balcony rows, she realized that she had the theatre all to herself. She felt like a spoiled Hollywood starlet in a grand private viewing room.

The balcony floor was sticky with decades of spilt soda, and there were little mountains of masticated raisinets and gummy bears scattered between the aisles. Lola sat in the front row and put her feet up on the brass bar in front of her. The seat springs squeaked and creaked with every slight movement. The flickering yellow lights reflected in the shiny patent leather of her turquoise cowgirl boots. Moving her feet back and forth made the tiny specters dance across her shoetops. She started singing softly to fill the cavernous hollow of the theatre. “When I was just a little girl / I asked my mother / What will I be…”

Bobby faintly heard the voice as it waltzed up the twelve rows to the projection booth at the very back of the theatre. The singing pulled him out of the one hundred and forty-seventh page of Salem’s Lot. He dog-eared the book and looked at his watch; it was only ten minutes until he was supposed to start the late show, and he hadn’t even switched back to the opening reel. He hopped up and grabbed reel one from the work table and was about to load it in the projector, but curiosity snagged him. The singing had gotten louder, and he wondered who was out there. Bobby put the reel back down and went over to the little window left of the projector. He pushed the thick, warped glass pane to the side and gazed out.

He saw a sole customer dancing to the beat of her own drumming. Bobby saw the bright blue boots tap dancing across the brass divider and hands whirling in a flamenco fashion. Then he noticed the hair, the telltale misbehaving reddish curls. It was laundry girl, the librarian with the crooked smile. Bobby whipped around and looked about the small projection booth; he was glad she didn’t have such a candid view of him. The room was wallpapered with her face; charcoal sketches of her folding laundry, penciled silhouettes of her as she stamped his books, her as Wonder Woman. She was everywhere, and now she was here.

If she was the only one in the house tonight, Kosta might make her leave. Bobby made a beeline for the phone and buzzed Kosta.

“Hey Kosta, how many tickets have you sold for the 9:30 show?” Bobby was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Just one, to a cute little girl, she went up to the balcony.”

“Should I run the show for just one person?” Bobby was a bit surprised Kosta hadn’t called it off already. It was twenty-five after; usually he would have sent a stray customer on their merry way with a refund and a few free passes. Bobby was twisting the phone cord in his fingers, hoping Kosta would act out of character.

“Usually I’d say no, but we were almost sold out for the Murderous Matinee Deathly Double Feature, so I’ll say it’s your call. If you want the extra two hours’ wages — stay; if you want a free Saturday night, give the girl her five bucks back and a few free passes. Up to you, kiddo. I’m going to pack it in down here Bobby. Would you shut up for me?”

“Sure, Kosta, no problem.”

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” Bobby put the phone down. He had the shakes. He also had an idea.

A cute librarian was here, in his ragtag theatre, just outside his little window. Excited and terrified, Bobby was determined; he would talk to her, he would ask her out. This was not going to go down like the library incident. He was not going to wamble away from her, run to the nearest secluded spot and throw up violently. Maybe he should vomit now to eliminate the possible threat. Bobby ran his fingers through his hair, which was gross because his palms were sweaty. He thought he might pass out. He sat down and threw his head in between his legs to prevent the onset of hyperventilation. Bobby stared at the white tips of his Converse All Stars, gulping down large calming breaths. He sat up and stared at the little window. She was still singing. “Que sera, sera / Whatever will be, will be…” Bobby sat still and listened for a few moments.

She had a velvety voice, deep and melodic. Even Doris Day would have been impressed. She had gotten bolder over the course of the song. At first Bobby could barely make out the words; now she was going at it like Tina Turner singing “Proud Mary” after she ditched Ike. Bobby laughed softly. He walked over to the control panel and dimmed the house lights. It went dark in the theatre, and she stopped singing. Bobby could hear her settle into the squeaky seat.

He picked up the first reel, labeled Kaleidoscope – Coming Soon 10/2001, opened the side of the projector, and hitched the cylinder into place. He snaked the film through the necessary notches and slots, closed the hatch, and started the trailer reel. He walked around the projector to the window and looked out.

The light from the screen gave her an ethereal halo; she was illuminated in silvers and blues, reds and golds. Reaching up, she unfurled her hair. It fell down far behind the edge of the seat; she scooped the thick mass of it up and wove it into a loose bun on the crown of her head. Bobby wanted to soak the moment up, savor it like the last bite of Christmas dinner. He wished he could freeze-frame her body and capture every gentle angle of her still form. But he couldn’t waste time looking at her; he had a full agenda.

Bobby worked out the timing of his mission. He could do it; he had to. Four changeovers, one every 20 minutes. Get the pictures off the booth walls while the trailers run, change to first reel. Bring her pictures down to the lobby and take the posters out of the frames, come back to booth, change to second reel. Hang her pictures in the frames, come back to the booth, change to third reel. Finish new sketch in the booth, change to the last reel. Go down to the lobby and wait. He would have to be stealthy and well-timed. James Bond style. If he missed a switch or made too much racket shuffling things around, she might get suspicious. If she got up, his plans would be shot.

Bobby lucked out; she never got up, never moved. He didn’t miss a switch and made as little noise as possible. Bobby hung his drawings in the stairwell chronologically. The first picture she would see would be her with her blue basket. Then at the grocery store in her Sox sweatshirt. He had liked her best in the library picture; it was hanging just at the bottom of the steps. But he was now partial to his latest. He drew her the way he saw her tonight. Hands dancing in the air, boots tapping an indigo rhythm on the dull brass bar, her curls leaning to the left. He put the newest one down at the foot of the steps; she would have to pick it up to look at it.

Bobby loaded the last reel and left the booth. He went down to the lobby to wait. Fifteen minutes passed until he heard the credits rolling up from the bottom of the screen; the music snuck out through the cracks in the theatre doors. It wouldn’t be long until she came down, moments. He looked at the bottom of the stairs where he had placed the last picture of the makeshift gallery. It was only just done. He heard a sharp gasp at the top of the stairs. Then saw her blue boots stepping lightly on the worn red carpet. “Hello,” her voice came down the stairs, hesitant but clear. Bobby smoothed the front of his shirt, breathed deep, and sang, “Que será, sera…”