“It was a total flop, Hank!”
“Total?”
“’Fraid so.”
“What does that mean, Sammy?”
“In terms of…”
“In terms of money. How much money did we…” Hank paused, angry he used the term we, and amended his question, “How much money did I lose?”
Sam ‘Sammy’ Marin flashed a regretful glance at Hank before answering. “About fifty-two thousand.”
Hank Peterson dropped his head into his hands and let out a sigh so full of sorrow that it lingered in the room like a physical thing, dampening the air with a tinge of depression. “Fifty-two thousand…” Hank repeated. “Sammy, when you said this was going to break the bank, I didn’t think you meant mine.”
Sammy took a drink of whiskey and wiped his bulldog mouth. A droplet of his drink remained, clinging to a hair on his mustache like a mountain climber hanging from a ledge. This inane occurrence bothered Hank in a way it wouldn’t normally bother him. In fact, the brightness of his office fluorescents bothered him in a way they never did before. The noise of the traffic outside bothered him in a way it hadn’t before.
Fifty-two thousand dollars! He’d never lost so much money in his life. Suddenly, everything bothered him.
“I wish I had answers for ya, Hank. Me and your pappy made a killin’ in the movie business.” Sam leaned back in his chair. It let out a squeak so loud it could have only been caused by the shifting of a properly stout man. Then he crossed his arms, deep in thought, “I have an acute eye for details. ‘Least I did. I’m… I’m in touch with the… the… whad’a ya’call’it, pulse of society. ‘Least I was. It could be the landscape is a’changin’…” he huffed before finishing, “…it’s a’chagin’, and leavin’ me in the dust.”
“A lot of good that does me, Sammy,” Hank let out another exasperated sigh before taking a drag off his cigarette. Then he ran a nervous hand through his full head of salt-and-pepper brown hair, wondering how he would explain this to his sister, and current business partner, Sissy Peterson. Before this bone-headed move, he discussed financial decisions with her; she’d invested a lot into the drive-in, as well. The only reason he kept this from her was because it was a sure bet. Sammy said so. And he never knew Sammy to lie. According to the second-rate producer, Hank would double his money.
Of course, that was a fine excuse he told himself to try and feel better. Deep down, he knew he didn’t tell her because she would’ve objected. Maybe she would’ve agreed to a lower investment amount, but she didn’t know Sammy—the man who’d made his father a nice sum of money—like he knew him.
At least he thought he knew him.
The two men sat in Hank’s office. A mixture of low-budget and Hollywood-produced movie posters adorned the walls. Hank didn’t choose the posters based on popularity, genre, or return, but on their colorful and artistic appearance. These included Vertigo, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Barbarella, Jaws, Pink Flamingos, and The Evil Dead.
Boxes of different sizes were stacked on almost every bit of counter space. Movie reels stuck out of the top of most of these boxes, while others carried advertising material for Strawberry Rockets Drive-In Theater. A shelf affixed to the wall behind Hank held stacks of movie scripts. These were some of his prized possessions. He collected and read them like most people collected and read novels. He also studied them like a curator who studies fine art and, in his spare time, he also wrote them.
Since the age of fifteen, it had been Hank’s dream to have one of his scripts find its way into the hands of a capable producer who’d be interested in turning it into a film. Problem was that, over the past thirty-seven years, all the capable producers who got their hands on his scripts rejected them. So when Sam Marin came along needing a producer for his latest picture, Hank jumped on the opportunity, seeing it as a chance to get his foot in the door. His father loved producing a Sam Marin original. And, although he wasn’t the most respected man in the business, he did have connections.
Now, after months of anticipation, Hank Peterson found out the first film he produced had failed. And, according to ole Sammy, it failed pretty big.
“Do you have anything for me?” Hank asked.
“Anything, as in what?”
“I don’t know, Sammy. Anything? I mean, I financed your movie. I… I invested in it. And… all I get back is you telling me it was a flop?”
“My poor bank account is dead tired, Hank. Dead tired. I got nothin’ for ya.”
“Perfect. What about future distribution? Can I make anything back on that?”
“I’m gonna level with ya, Hank. After these screenings, no studio’ll take this.”
Hank diverted his gaze. Along the base of the walls and under the counters, there were more boxes. Most of these contained rolled-up movie posters. Others harbored things like fresh toilet paper rolls, toilet seat covers, brand new Styrofoam Dixie cups, wrapped French-fry cups, paper towels, plastic knives and forks, and paper plates; some of the essentials to run a drive-in. The clutter of boxes didn’t allow Sammy and his large frame to move more than a few inches in his rolling chair without knocking into something. He was as cramped as a bulldog in a chihuahua’s dog house.
Unlike the unorganized look of the countertops and floor, Hank’s desk portrayed a fine example of order. A banker’s style lamp sat beside the typewriter at the center-top of his desk. Paperclips, pins, rubber bands, pencils, and pens all had a place in a plastic desk organizer. Neatly stacked rows of paper found a place near the phone. Wooden paperweights with various titles wood-burned into them lay on top of each pile. These titles included: ‘BILLS’, ‘INVOICES’, and ‘SALES’. The stacks under the ‘BILLS’ and ‘INVOICES’ paperweights were taller than the stack under the ‘SALES’ paperweight. This was always the case, but now, after losing over fifty grand, the difference between the stacks seemed much greater.
“This is the way these things go sometimes,” Sam said, “Investments aren’t foolproof. What can I tell ya? I wasn’t tryin’ ta make a pisser of a pit’cher. These kids now-a-days, they’re talkin’ different and dancin’ different, they have different interests…”
Hank’s shoulders slumped. “Why didn’t you tell me this when you came to me for the money, Sammy?”
“I didn’t know it then. Honest engine.” Sam held up his left hand as a visual indicator of his honest engine statement. “Hank, I really thought I coulda done with you what I did with your pappy. It hurts me that this happened. If I thought this pit’cher was gonna lose as much as it did, I wouldn’t’a come to ya for the backin’. Hell, I wouldn’t’a made the damn thing. You gotta remember, I lost on this too, ya know. Hell, I’d say I lost somethin’ more than my shirt…”
“What’s that, Sam?”
“I lost my reputation.”
Hank rolled his eyes. He knew Sam didn’t have much of a reputation to begin with. At least not with reputable movie directors or producers. Just because his pictures… or pit’chers, as he labeled it… turned a profit back in the forties and fifties didn’t mean the flicks weren’t low-brow and often silly schlock; movies made specifically for the drive-in scene. The kind of film that, if you were necking with your favorite girl, you wouldn’t miss enough to be lost when you got back into it. The drive-ins loved Sam Marin pictures.
“Hank, let me tell ya a story about the first pit’cher I ever filmed. There’s a lesson to be learnt in it…”
While Sammy spoke, Hank didn’t look at him. He couldn’t look at him; anger wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he tuned him out, opting to gaze upon a picture frame on the corner of his desk. His stare remained fixed there for a long moment. Inside the frame was a family photo showing Hank’s late wife, Carolyn, his sons, Luke and Hank Jr., and his daughter—the youngest of the bunch, at nineteen—Audrey. In the picture, Audrey was fourteen. It was taken a month before his wife’s death.
One big happy family standing in front of Strawberry Rockets’ concession stand. The view of his family hurt. Yet he forced himself to keep the gaze as punishment.
These are the people I hurt… and they don’t even know it.
Smoke from the cigarette resting in the ashtray drifted up in a fine tendril, obscuring his view of the photo in a foggy haze. It seemed a fitting analogy. A mask of worry and embarrassment darkened his face like a tornado’s shadow darkens the land around a lone farmhouse.
His head lulled to one side, and he finally had to turn away from the image of his family, unable to take it any longer. He didn’t know how he’d explain any of it to his children.
“…And that’s how I turned a bad situation into a positive,” Sam finished. “It’da do ya good to follow my example. You know what I mean?”
Hank agreed even though he hadn’t heard one word of Sam’s story.
“I knew things weren’t goin’ well when after the first showin’,” Sam continued, “I overheard two youngin’s talkin’. They was sayin’ how lame the pit’cher was. That got me a little worried, so I asked the usher—a young man, himself—what he thought of the flick, and he—not knowin’ my relation to the pit’cher—said it was lousy. He told me kids don’t talk that way no more. At first, I thought, eh… what does this wet-behind-the-ears-young-punk-kid know? Probably just got outta the habit of eatin’ his boogers. But then the weekly numbers started comin’ in. That’s when I realized the kid may’ve been on to somethin’. After the second week… I knew the snot-nose was on ta somethin’.”
Hank removed a piece of paper from under the weight marked ‘BILLS’, and stared at it. “Sammy… What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I was counting on that money.”
“What is it?”
Hank handed him the sheet of paper. After taking a moment to read it over, Sam rubbed his chin and said, “Hell if I know, Hank. All I can say is I’m as sorry as a sinner who didn’t repent ‘fore bein’ struck by lightnin’.”
“Yeah, Sammy,” Hank said, blowing out a plume of cigarette smoke, “So am I.”
There was a soft knock on the door. “Only one person I know knocks that softly,” Hank said before calling out, “Come on in, Audrey.”
Hank’s daughter, Audrey, opened the door and stood in the entranceway. “Hey, Dad, me and the girls are going to start setting up. We’ll probably be ready to play in about an hour and a half.”
“Sounds good, hon.” In that moment, looking at his daughter had a lot in common with a swift, hard blow to the back of the head. The number, fifty-two thousand, circled in his head, along with the question: Is my little girl going to be disappointed in me?
“Audrey Peterson,” Sammy said, his eyes bulging, “By golly, the last time I saw you, you came up to my knee. I bet you don’t remember me.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t, sir.” Every inch of Audrey’s five-foot-seven frame exuded a charismatic kind of beauty rarely seen outside of a Hollywood blockbuster. From her long brown hair to her deep brown eyes and keen fashion sense, most men took second and third takes when passing her on the street. And she knew it, showing it with a confidence that radiated off her.
“What’s this sir stuff? Call me Sammy. That’s what my friends call me. Boy, you sure grew into a beautiful young woman.”
Hank shot Sammy a glare. The old guy didn’t notice; his eyes remained fixed on Audrey. Hank saw how men looked at his daughter, and he didn’t like it. Now, he saw the same lust in Sam Marin’s eyes.
“Thank you, sir. I mean, Sammy.”
“Sam…” Hank grumbled, “Someday your eye for details will get you in trouble.”
Sam cleared his throat and averted his gaze from Audrey. He could feel Hank’s angry eyes upon him. He rubbed his nose before taking another drink, neglecting to look at Hank.
A wave of embarrassment came over Audrey, both at Mr. Marin’s attention and her father’s acknowledgment of it. She looked down at her shoes as she shifted from one leg to the other.
“I think I oughta get goin’ old buddy,” Sam said.
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Hank said, his voice cold.
“You don’t have to leave on my account,” Audrey said.
“Naw, little lady,” Sammy said, making sure not to look at Audrey when he addressed her, “I have other business to tend to. Hank, I’ll catch ya on the flip side.”
“Sure,” Hank said.
Audrey stepped out of the doorway so Mr. Marin could leave. Once he was gone, Audrey asked, “Can I turn the sign on?”
“Yeah, go ahead, hon,” Hank said, staring at the paper.
“You okay, Dad?” He didn’t respond. “Dad? You okay?”
A moment passed before Hank said, “Yeah. Go on and have a good concert.”
Audrey flipped a switch on the office wall, near the door. Nothing in the room came on or went off. However, outside, on a marquee above the one-story building, a neon sign reading: Strawberry Rockets Drive-In, Hagerstown’s Number One Place for Fun, lit up.
“I’m lighting a sign, and I’m not even sure I’ll be able to pay the electric bill,” Hank whispered.
“What, Dad?”
“Nothing, hon. Go on, now.”
Audrey shut the door, softly, allowing her father to be alone to wallow in his misery.