Singles

We are seeing the flick that Dawn has told me, along with Dram Stokers Dracula, she just cannot get enough of. The soundtrack that has been a best seller in England 8 months before the movie came out. The soundtrack which Dawn Michelle has stated on numerous occasions she has blasted in the portable tape-paler in her car while chain smoking cigarettes, drinking cheap gas station coffee, driving out past Elmwood talking to the dashboard memorizing her lines for speech.

 

We are seated in the same crimson row we sat at for sister Act. Somehow Patrick and Amy are in the theatre next to us by themselves.

Behind us is an overweight  semi-balding middle-aged man who brought a trash bag in for some sort of ‘bring your own receptacle and eat all the popcorn you desire’ special.  He seems miffed that my arm is caped around Renae.  Because of the maroon décor the inside of Westlake theater looks like an aortic valve. The lights hush into a yawn. My arms are welded around Renae’s shoulder. I can feel her contours of her bra beneath my right fingers. If for some reason I can’t stop thinking about how incongruous Patrick look planted next to Amy. I wonder if they are seated in the same row. .  My hand is now completely draped around her body, fingers are snapping at each other on her lap. Her lisp taste like clover. It is more intense than our make out session when we saw Sister Act.   We hardly make it through the previews. We keep coming to each other. We keep holding each other. Somehow we have metaphysically melted past the pigmentation that is the others flesh. Somehow we are pining for more. Somehow we are scratching, we are biting, we are groping. Somehow we are being railed into each other as if with a magnet, somehow are compasses keep pointing into the direction of the others respective belt buckle.

The movie is transpiring. A beam of light shoots out from behind  us, out of a translucent skull on to the palette of the screen. 

 

The movie begins with three guttural chords trumpeting the introit to an era.

It is a grunge utopia. Everyone has long hair. Everyone seemingly has an appreciation for art and coffee and kick-ass tunes. Everyone is slamming their limbs into am amoebic foam of dancing called mosh. There is a close up of FOOD GIANT. There is a shot of the US premier uncut version of Brazil showing at the Neptune.

I think about Dawn Michelle and how she always referred to grunge as Skate Board music

Everyone is meeting for coffee. 

                                       

The guy behind us is making noise. He sounds like he is choking on the buttery kernels of his all-you-can-eat hefty bag popcorn. Hale is seated down at the last row. It is the same theater where a month earlier we saw last of the Mohicans and, upon leaving, saw Coach Mann crying in the back row.

We stop kissing just tersely when  8 year old Steve  is taken to the Doctor by his mid-seventies elementary school mother to learn about sex.  We fall down laughing when he pulls his playground comrades behind the side of the school and informs them, that, while ejaculating, the male shoots out a cumwad of spam.  We try not to overtly wince at the screen at the college part where everyone comes up attired as their favorite Contraceptive. The phrase, “Emotional Larceny” means absolutely nothing whatsoever to 15yr olds who have spent their entirety of their life in one giant Midwestern corn field with an occasional road.   

Somehow in the movie we pay no attention when burgeoning star and uncredited Cameron Crowe cameo Eric Stoltz adorned in mime guise offers the sage advice while smoking a cigarette looking for a club called the soda, stating that the problem about life is that love disappears.

My tongue is in her ear. Her eyes are closed. Her head is falling back. Even Tim and Kristie seem to be irked that we are sensually attacking each other in public.
   

More grunts are heard. Hale gets up when members of  TOUCH ME I’M DICK including Eddie Vedder  Hale comes back with an X-tra large Tub of pop corn and a X-large Pepsi with no ice at the scene where members of Pearl Jam are telling their lead singer to Shhh!!!! Watching a documentary on Queen  Bee apiary mating habits. Requesting Hale to take a modest slurp of his caffeinated beverage at and without making a clogged up making a clogged up toilet sound is damn near impossible and Renae shoots me a “Why doesn’t have-to-tag-along-look” by rolling her eyes up into the porcelain sheath of her fair forehead, which I kiss, responding to the volley and splash of her smile before ou lips end up falling into the other’s countenance again. The film seems to take superfluous liberties when it comes to breaking the fourth wall. There is pouches of laughter sprinkled across the theater. We laugh when Linda Powell tells Steve Dunn that A.) he has an act and that B.) not having an act is his act. We fall into sticky cement floor of the theater when Matt Dillon aka Cliff Pontier aka lead singer of the Grunge doppelganger TOUCH ME I’m DICK  optically stutters while elucidating the tonal etymology of a song titled TOUCH ME I’M DICK. We laugh When Brigit Fonda aka Janet goes in for a Breast augmentation with a budding Bill Pullman.

Steve’s super train looks like something we engendered with Legos in the fifth grade.

During the sex scene in the movie I become stiff. Part of me is saluting. Part of me is turning into an anatomical strip pole. Part of me is becoming the vertical plank of the crucifix, waiting for her limbs to be nailed horizontally across the timber and marrow of may flesh. We never have much time together. We hold each other on the phone, thought unlike Patrick’s assessment we have never, “Dude, stroked each other.” Somehow I can’t help laughing thinking about the awkward look epoxied into Amy’s lips when she first walked in with Pat. During the sex scene we hold each other even though we do not look at each other. I squeeze her hand. When the faceless interviewer interviews Xavier McDaniel and asks if there is anything else and the X-men averts his an Uncle Sam protruding finger at the camera mandating that Steve not cum yet I have no clue what he is alluding to.

Midway through the flick the lower part of my anatomy is shaped like the ubiquitous Seattle space needle. I am embarrassed. It is like I am brandishing a bouquet of flowers from below my belt for my date. Midway through the movie I whip glasses on. I am having a hard time seeing the screen.

The portentous phrase Mr. Sensitive Pony Tail guy gibe goes completely over our head. 
 

We keep on kissing. It is like everything we have ever planted in the northern hemisphere of each others body is something new  and succulent and warm. We keep on kissing. Every time I feel that I have an erection I press down at the Gideon bible in my right pocket, my penis is a vicar standing up for the word of the Lord. The portly man behind us dips into his vat of popcorn making static sounds when he chews.  I squeeze her hand. Kristie and Tim are still seated next to each other without holding each other. They look like they could be seated in tandem chairs inside a dentist office. That that is a very nice hat and I don’t mean that in an Eddie Haskell sort of way. That I just want to find someone who will say bless you after I sneeze. When Steve tells Janet that in a parallel universe we are probably scorching lovers I kiss Renae again.  We make out one final time. We end when there is a knock on the door witnessing Linda Powel coming back to Steve Dunn.

When a disheveled Steve asks Linda what took her so long she smiles commenting that she was stuck in traffic.

The garage door starts to orgasm in the last scene. Even David Hale, even the portly man behind us with the hefty garbage bag fraught with popcorn begins to fall apart in sheets of laughter.

Some how we are banking for more

After we make out Renae looks down as if she is looking for the stem of a plucked flower.  Much to the chagrin of my loyal friend Hale who insists that Renae does this with every lad in a football jacket. Much to the popcorn crunching disdain of the portly man behind us. We keep falling inside each other lips wondering where the stratospheric carefree topple will lead us, tugging at each others body like a ripcord to a parachute, watching us fall open into each other’s splayed limbs wondering when we will arrive.