Theatre at Con Market
Movie-house or makeshift booth, you are the temple we urchins worship:
going to the afternoon shows with loose change
still reeking of scallions that our mothers thrust into our palms
The ticket collector would admonish
Don’t holler and cuss if the film skips
But ten times out of ten the film
always skips
at the climactic moment
Not the close-up of a lover’s kiss
here they don’t show love
only hardcore adventure themes
Tarzan
Western cowboys
Roman gladiators
At times the Little Tramp
Tarzan airborne while arrows are flying, skip
A cowboy drawing gun, flips its trigger guard round his index finger, skip
A gladiator trapped in a net as a hungry lion pounces, skip
A dozen pair of eyes swivel in the dark and
glare up at the mysterious black square window
behind them, shouting and cursing
What the f . . . ! Drat! Money back! Money back!
But no one leaves
The projector’s whirring noise resumes
Turbid column of smoky light
The cowboy’s gun is back in his holster; Tarzan reaches the edge of the
forest
The gladiator’s feet are back on the ground, his enemies’ corpses littered
about the scene
Good triumphs over evil
FIN
The lights are on, the urchins file out of the theatre
trying to fill in the gaps where the film skipped
The first attempt at creation, fill in the blank
Peanuts in pockets,
mouths forming expression,
eyes blinking, the kids take turns at connecting the plot
They will go home to eat dinner, by oil lamp, gas mantle, and if
from better households, neon light
They will gather on someone’s porch, resuming their film chat
not minding their younger siblings’ cries, or their elders’ mosquito
slapping
(there are no artillery sounds during the pre-war years)
*
Theatre at Con Market, you were the Danang Winter
along with a ship’s sirens late at night
taking us on the farthest voyages
until the time of our parting
until our last film
in which there was no gladiator, no hero, no border saloon, no fighting
arena,
no mountain, no jungle, no sidewalk, no bowler hat, no cane
A most unusual film
with military costumes full of glitter, high boots, swastika, open jeeps
German shepherds
A black and white film, boring
and sleep-inducing
A column of radon
A room
jam-packed with women
shaved and denuded
A room sealed tight
where upturned faces waited
under large shower heads situated
an arm’s reach away
No water
No water
Only the sound of gas
Terror
Cut
The only time
the film did not skip
the urchins went home sullen, mute
Cold season, cold day, cold memory.