In the parking lot of the Ford Drive-in, images crawled awkwardly over the screen. The cold steel box clung stiffly to the window. It spoke in strange foreign languages as intermittent static invaded a horribly severed line. The sad plot was realized in the context of a broken Detroit backdrop. Lights threw themselves over the fence and distracted even the most diligent of viewers. The crowded peripheral voiced reminders of locality and place, shattering any oblique cinematic desire for defamiliarization. Large billboards, housing hastily proposed and enacted advertisements, screamed incessantly. Lighted buildings served as constant reminders of that which existed beyond the screen. Their presence lacerated viewer attention and shattered any hopes of isolation. Somehow, conveniently placed projectors managed this complicated aesthetic.
Unlike a conventional theater, an awareness of community abounded. This was very much the cinema of attractions, in both senses of the word. The rough sway of car bodies on worn shocks pronounced the endeavors of muted companions. A metropolitan youth sweated out its existence, and fell into a subdued sleep; the type of slumber that a comforting mother encourages.
Sitting softly with her arms crossed, she presided over the scene. Carefully, she scanned the various bottled discards of a restless theater populous and the unsteady steps of numerous bathroom evacuees. She observed the flesh which provoked others while unraveling her own. They were concious of her fevered hips and the way she shifted them cautiously. She distracted the bustling masses from important shot sequences. These moments positively distorted that which was understood and that which could be perceived.
(A.C. Newman – “On the Table”)
(M. Ward – “Get to the Table on Time”)
Levin sat there waiting for the moment to come. Something told him that this was the night. The night she would allow his caress along her gray skin. He’d paid the fair, and purchased the bottle. He hoped it was enough. Levin had prepared, hours before, in front of the mirror. He listened to Bowie B-sides while he washed his face. He felt that the spinning vinyl brought the fading flush back to his skin. He couldn’t believe that she was there. He hoped it was enough. He’d been there all night staring at the screen, waiting for the moment to occur. Just then, the projector failed and the people began shouting threats. A slim smile crept to his flushed cheeks, as he made the final preparations. He hoped it was enough.
