The Fugitivities, стр. 6

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Teaching had not allowed for much in the way of frivolities but going out to film houses to lose himself in the dark was a vice Jonah couldn’t shake. As long as he stayed in Brooklyn the unfavorable equation of public transport and distance usually led him to adopt the path of least resistance: ordering takeout and watching something random online. But in Manhattan, he gravitated toward indie screen institutions like Cinema Reggio down on Twelfth Street, with the old-fashioned marquee that reminded him of the rue Christine. One evening that spring, he ducked into the Reggio, mostly to get out of a sudden downpour. They were screening a restored print of Charles Burnett’s Killer of Sheep—according to some critics, read the lobby notice, it was the greatest black film ever made but virtually unknown outside the indie film world, having disappeared from most screens for decades. He went to purchase a ticket.

Unmistakable. The lanky boyish shag of hair, the reedy voice, the thin delicate hands extended in Italianate gestures. The vendor working the booth was his former college classmate, the wild Cubano from B Dorm. Octavio Cienfuegos. In this serendipitous instance, Octavio was occupied with finessing the elderly couple in line ahead of him; the old man, visibly overwhelmed, was writing down his email address for the Reggio newsletter. Unbeatable discounts, exclusive VIP screenings, not to mention the privilege of supporting the seventh art—Octavio dispensed his assurances with charming conviction and more than a little free association. Once the couple had given up their email and fled in polite haste, Octavio seemed to just as swiftly become a statue again, an inscrutable Pierrot, his gaze fixated on a point somewhere in the middle distance, so that when Jonah got up to the counter and knocked on the glass, he nearly jumped.

“Oh shit! Oh, shit! Jonah? Qué bolá, asere?”

Octavio was visibly high.

“Nothing much, man, just come to see a movie. How the hell you been?”

“You see I’m working, right! Listen, Jonah, normally man, for you, you know I would hook you up, but I haven’t been on the job so long, you know how it is, give me a few weeks, I’m gonna have my way around here, I’m seeing things already, man, I’m telling you, the way they run this rig, it’s por la izquierda, you wouldn’t believe it. Next time you come…”

“No worries, man,” Jonah said. “I wasn’t looking for the angle. I make decent money now, anyway. I’m teaching.”

“Okay, Teach—get those tax dollars, but don’t be a stranger, come see me after the film. Seriously. I’ll be off by then. I want to talk to you. Some strategies I’ve been working on. Knight moves. Avanzadas. I’ll explain. You gotta catch the flick, pero socio, find me later, okay? If you don’t see me, just chill, don’t ask around. Sometimes I duck out, you know, but I won’t be far.”

This conspiratorial tone and its implied precautions proved entirely unnecessary. After the film, Jonah found Octavio waiting for him outside in front of the theater. He was standing unperturbed under the marquee. The rain still coming down hard and blowing in sideways had left him soaked on one side, as if he had been standing there for a long time. Octavio handed him one of the cinema’s upcoming events calendars to use as an impromptu umbrella. Jonah accepted it with thanks, and they ran, splashing, over to Heathers, a nearby bar, where Octavio was well known, and, as he put it, had “standing.” Under Prince-purple fluorescent lighting, they reacquainted themselves with college anecdotes and a debate over whether Killer of Sheep was truly the greatest black film ever made. Without hesitation, Octavio said it was commendable but in no way superior to the best of Micheaux. Jonah hastily agreed, vaguely recognizing the name, though he had never actually seen a film by that director. Octavio had always already seen everything—working the Reggio “internship,” which meant little pay and a lot of free films, certainly helped. Not that he needed rent money. He was living with his parents in the city to save money while he applied to art schools.

The job itself was a soft take. Do whatever management said needed to get done, be a jack-of-all-trades. He would fix the marquee, sell popcorn and tickets, and assist Benny, a Mexican dude from Aguascalientes, who cleaned all the surfaces and the bathrooms, and mopped the lobby. The Reggio management was Sal, a cigar-smoking Bensonhurst man built like a bouncer and notorious for his gator-skin loafers and low boiling point. Octavio put his Cuban heritage to good use when they hosted the Latino Film Festival, doing Q&As and the like. As long as Jonah kept a low profile, Octavio volunteered to sneak him into the festival when it came around.

Jonah found himself drawn to the air of intelligent mischief that he recalled admiring from a distance in college. Octavio was the kind of guy who cut it close and knew, maybe a little too well, that he was attractive, and that the relation between those things allowed for certain kinds of movement in the world, slippages and maneuvers available only to some. This meant that when he had an idea, he acted on it immediately, seemingly intuitively, although because the hidden ratio of calculation and impulse remained masked it was impossible to tell whether plans or impulses led the way, only that the end result was that he enjoyed a remarkable knack for merging with whatever currents were around.

So, when Octavio texted Jonah one evening in May to say that he had an idea that would change their lives, Jonah agreed to meet him the very next morning