The Movie Phenomenon

The Movie Phenomenon

I’m waiting for Andrew to arrive here at Central Park. He says it’s a famous spot but I’ve never seen it in a movie before.
“We’ve lived a life of parallel films,” I say to him.
“You think we’ve only seen different movies?”
I nod with my foot nodding too, in a green heel.
“One hundred percent?” he asks.
“Could be.”
“It’s impossible,” he says. “Titanic.”
“Never seen it. Have you seen Annie Hall?”
“Not yet but I was planning on it. I know. Grease.”
“I’ve only seen a play- a high school play version. Hm. Let’s see. Have you seen…”
“Apocalypse Now.”
“Just an I Love the Eighties clip.”
“I’m pretty sure it came out in the seventies but I’ve only seen parts too.”
“Wait. Did you see the ‘Smells like victory’ part?”
“No. Did you see the water skiing part?”
“I finally start laughing. I take his hand and take him to the water’s edge. I say, “I want this thing that can’t be true to last. So I’m not going to ask you, or even allude to the scene of Jenny running through the water in D.C. for Forest Gump.”
He doesn’t respond. Now, I figure he probably has seen it and is smart enough to not say anything.
It also occurs to me that kissing him now is opportunistic. Theoretically, I’m acting somewhat artificially because of one cute thing. I want him to be so smart. If I want something as beautiful as Forest and Jenny had I should wait for he sun to set at least half way. Not it’s too late and it would be silly to kiss him now. Maybe the moment doesn’t always come at the end. Shit.
He takes my hand and leads me onto the park’s path.
“The sun will set soon,” I say.
“I figure we’ll go to a cool place over on the west side.”
I’m too cool to ask where, extracting from his reservoir of not speaking when appropriate to not say anything. We walk all the way across, not really speaking. As soon as we hit Seventh Avenue he says, “Eventually…”
I look at him.
“We will see a film together and finally break the phenomenon.”
“We should pick this movie carefully.”
“Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I want to talk to you tonight.”
“Then we better stay out of natural environments.”
“I’m glad you said ‘natural’ environments and not ‘quite’ ones. Because the place I’m planning on taking you might not be too loud.”
We sit at a wooden table on the cement patio of a restaurant on a cliff wall on the edge of Hudson River Park. It’s totally night and we didn’t kiss during twilight. Our stars are the some-what distant lights of Jersey City. There is a four feet high cobble stone wall next to us. I love the wall.
I think he is very deliberate about his silences. “You’ve gone out with many women.” I meant to make that a question.
“That’s a real confident suggestion.”
“I mean. I think you’d be talking more to talk off nerves or you know- you’re not interested in talking about yourself anymore.”
“You are correct and incorrect. I have spoken too much with women in the past. But I have not gone out with so many.”
“What about with men?”
“Those were different times.”
“I’m sorry to be so inquisitive.”
“You should speak your mind. It started when we didn’t want to finally find a movie that we’ve both seen. You didn’t kiss me because you felt something so perfect happening but you didn’t want to ruin it. I’m doing the same thing.”
“We probably grew up watching the same T.V. shows.”
“I only watched one T.V. show growing up.”
“See. I can’t imagine my soul mate never having seen The Wonder Years. So don’t even tell me what show it was. I don’t want to know. I love this place and maybe I love this city and I might project some of that love onto you. What show was it?”
“I’ll call my mother and you can ask here. We’ll build suspense because it doesn’t matter. You won’t be sad whether it was or wasn’t that show.”
“Don’t call your mother!”
“It will be funny. You can ask her about my best friend that had a crush on her, my bully older brother Wayne, or even about Winnie, my biggest crush.”
I got up and walked to the wall looking over the Hudson ten feet away from the table. There were tops of trees below me. I wanted to make him chase me down into the blackened city jungle below. Probably because it seemed like rude restaurant behavior, I stayed.
Finally he joined me. Against my will, knowing a thousand other dates have kissed at that wall, I kissed him anyway and he went for it at the same time. Breaking away for a moment I said in the drunkenness of the kiss, “Mrs. Doubtfire.”
“No. Peter Herman’s Great Adventure.”
“No, and I think I’m grateful. The Childsplay series.”
“I saw the sequels- not the original.”
“Only the original. Kindergarten Cop.”
“No. You can basically forget about Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“Our food is here.” We sit down. “Don’t you just love it when you get back from the bathroom and your food is waiting for you?”
“I guess so.”
“Just testing you.”
“What movie is that?”
“I don’t want to even ruin it when I show you that movie. I want you to remember that I said that. It will be extremely random timing when you here that sentence again.”
“I can’t wait.”

I’m putting lipstick on and this joke or ideas someone said at lunch today at work entertains me: “You can pull off romantic tricks from movies if this phenomenon is true.” So now I’m wondering if he’s thought about this. I no longer want to get around to seeing Gone With The Wind or any classic since I could find out that he stole an idea from it, unless of course he gives proper credit.
I have to admit that by the time I meet him down on West 3rd Street and
Sixth Avenue I’ve thought of all sorts of tricks from movies I’ve seen. I’ve contemplated the integrity like Thoreau and Locke going back and forth on the A-train.
I’m suspicious of everything he does or says. “This feels a little serious,” he says. “Once we’ve seen the same movie we’ve finally become coexisting beings in the same universe. Are you ready for this.”
“We both grew up on The Wonder Years. Therefore we coexist in the same universe.”
He puts his arm around me during the previews. I feel that although our lives have been made so parallel, having not seen and of the same films, we some how are like age-old friends. That’s a new feeling towards another person for me.
Two hours later, the quiet fellow finally approaches the deformed singer on the stage. She hugs him and the screen overwhelms in white light. There is a c-note sustained.
We walk out sharing a speechlessness. “Are all the movie that you’ve seen,” he asks, “totally a trip like Eraserhead?”
“I should ask you the same question.”
“How about a stroll in the Village?”
“Sounds delightful.”
Strolling amongst the bars, places with strung light bulbs, loud groups, mellow groups, tables on sidewalks, oddly angled streets and cobblestones we enjoy more of that shared contentedness of the moment.
“Why did you not watch TV growing up?”
“Well, my mother did not have a TV set. I used to visit my sister at my father’s house and traditionally we watched The Wonder Years. I saw films though. They were basically movies that my mother took me to see.”
“You make this seem less phenomenal.”
“I’ve seen many commonplace movies when I was a teenager with friends and when I was older.”
“There must be something about the films I’ve seen that differed from your mother’s and the ones when you were older.”
“I see what you’r trying to find.”
“Not what makes us different.”
“Never mind.”
“What makes our lives different.”
He looks thoughtful. “Our lives are different because we’ve seen different films?”
“Or because we relate to different ones too.”
“Well I’ve seen all genres.”
“I’m not trying to find out what it is okay. Forget it.”
“When we forget about this we might run out of a compelling bind to our union.”
“Other girls would think you sound weird. But you are speaking my language.”
“It’s- As long as it lasts, let’s just accept it. Let’s not ignore our case. If it runs out, which- if you love film like I do- it won’t, we’ll just see what happens okay. Believe in destiny a little bit.”
“I’m with you.” I put my hand in his in a sportsman like way but also a romantic way.
After a moment’s contemplation he says, “Oh my friend, Beth. You have missed out on a whole world of brilliance.”
“Is that from a movie?”
“Maybe. It’s more like the conclusion to a long sequence of artistic accomplishment.”
“To beauty,” I say trying to catch on to his sentimentality, with my hand in the air.