THE ONE O’CLOCK MOVIE by Michael Murray
Picture Larry in front of the narrow mirror on the back of his “rent-by-the-week-or-by-the-month-when-you-can-manage-it” hotel room door, knotting a wide, flowered tie, purple, white and yellow flowers on a black background. He folds down the collar of his white shirt, brushes a speck of something from the front of his black slacks, picks up a battered gold watch and snaps it on his wrist. There is no air conditioning in the room and it’s hot out, and it’s hot in the room. The window by the bed is open but there is no breeze, only the sound of traffic and the occasional street voice from four floors down. Larry is already sweating, and he’s only been out of the shower five minutes. He pats aftershave on his face though he hasn’t shaved in two or three days; he could use a shave.
Next, the salt-and-pepper plaid sports coat. Not wool, something lighter, but still too much for the heat in the room, and the heat outside. Larry buttons the top button and looks in the mirror. Unbuttons it. Looks again. Leaves it that way. He puts his wallet in his inside coat pocket. He gathers a handful of change from the dresser and stuffs it in his pants pocket. He pushes a comb through his thinning hair and afterward the hair looks no different. He runs it through twice more and gives up. He picks up his keys and a pack of cigarettes and his lighter.
Outside the room, locking the door. Feeling the keys cool against his palm as he walks down the dingy hallway: brown carpet, brown wallpaper; one tiny window in front of him, a million miles away at the other end of the floor, letting in precious little light. Past the rattling cage of the often inoperative elevator and down the stairs. Past the old black man reading Mickey Spillane behind the front desk, nothing exchanged between them. Through the front door and onto the sidewalk, squinting up into sunlight for a moment, one hand on his brow a moment after that. Jostled by two young women passing by, he has blocked their way.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
They ignore him and continue on. He takes a moment to get his bearings, back up against the front of the hotel. Clicks his lighter open, Larry does, and sucks deep on his cigarette to get it started; clicks his lighter closed. A city bus rumbles past, blowing its horn at a convertible that has just cut it off. A station wagon pulls up in front of a fire hydrant in front of the hotel. A policeman watches from a parked motorcycle, eating a sandwich. The driver of the station wagon, a heavy-set blonde woman, waves at the policeman. The policeman waves back. Though it’s lunchtime, the sidewalk isn’t that crowded, and Larry picks a gap and joins the pedestrian flow. Past the dry cleaner and the shoe repair shop, past the tailor just this side of the bar.
In the bar there is a television up in one corner with the sound turned down. A soap opera. Five men are scattered along the bar counter watching the muted television. Larry walks to the far end, the very end, at least three stools away from anybody else. He is the furthest from the television, but it is not a small screen, and he can see it well enough from where he sits.
The bartender, Mel, fixes Larry a bourbon and ginger and sets it in front of him. Larry pulls out his wallet, takes out half the bills, lays them on the bar. Mel fingers through the money, taking what he needs. Larry takes a long drink. Mel goes to the register and comes back with some coins. He stacks them on top of Larry’s paper money.
“Everything going your way today?” Mel asks.
Larry shrugs. He gestures at his drink. “Better.”
Mel pushes an ashtray across. “Supposed to be a new Chinese place going in down on the corner,” Mel says.
“Yeah?”
“Supposed to be. Claim they’re going to have a lunch special. Eleven-thirty to two-thirty.”
“Hope it’s a good one.”
Larry drains his cocktail. “Refreshing.” Ice tumbles back to the bottom of the glass. He pushes it toward Mel.
Mel fixes the second drink, takes more paper money and most of the coins. Larry takes another long drink and sucks on his cigarette.
“It is not cool outside today,” Mel says.
“Good to be inside,” Larry says.
In fact it is good to be inside. There are several large ceiling fans spinning briskly; two smaller rotating fans behind the bar circulate air around Mel and his customers. The drinks are cool and refreshing.
“How’s that taste?” Mel asks.
“Outstanding.”
“Like to hear the customer say that.”
“Customer likes it to be true.”
The soap opera turns into a commercial for vacuums.
“Mel,” one of the other men says.
Mel moves down the bar and pours a mug of beer. He leans against the register. He looks the rest of them over. They are watching the muted commercial.
Larry stares at a calendar on the wall in front of him, at a blonde woman wearing cut-off shorts and a halter top and holding a wrench and winking at him. He gestures toward the calendar. “What happened to the redhead?” he asks. “The redhead in the little short skirt?”
“That was last month,” Mel says.
“Today the first?”
“Sixth.”
“You still got her around somewhere?” Larry asks.
“Well, now I think I do,” Mel says, and he bends over to look beneath the register. He pushes something from left to right. “I do,” he says. He brings the redhead calendar page down to Larry. “You want it?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
Mel hands it across to him. “It’s yours.”
Larry looks at the redhead in her short skirt and tight sweater. Her lips are also thick and full and red, much redder than her hair. Larry carefully sets it off to one side, away from his drink.
“That one,” the man closest to Larry says, pointing, “she reminds me of my daughter.”
Larry says, “This is a good-looking woman.”
“That’s right,” the man says. “My daughter’s a good-looking woman.”
“Well,” Larry says.
The man closest to Larry considers his drink. “She’s an unlikable thing, though, my daughter. Her mother fucked her all up.”
“I’ll tell you something,” Larry says. “I won’t think about your daughter when I look at Miss June.”
The man waves his hand. “Do what you want.”
“I will do that,” Larry says.
Picture the quiet in the bar then, the implied challenge in Larry’s voice. It lasts for a few moments. Larry smokes his cigarette. He is not the only one smoking. The fans clear the smoke from above the men’s heads.
“What’s the one o’clock movie?” another man asks Mel.
Mel picks up a newspaper and creases it back. He pulls his glasses from his pocket to peer at the listings. “Seems we have a Gary Cooper movie today, Howard.”
“Ha!” Howard exclaims, slapping the counter. “I thought as much. I thought it was a Gary Cooper picture.”
“You like Gary Cooper or something?” the man closest to Larry asks, never looking up from his drink.
“I do,” Howard says. “There’s no finer actor in the pictures than Gary Cooper.”
“What about Spencer Tracy?” Mel asks.
“He’s a fine actor, no doubt about it. But he’s no Gary Cooper.”
“Old Man and the Sea,” Mel says.
Howard waves a finger in the air. “That part should have been Cooper’s. Cooper and Hemingway were very close, you know. Very close.”
“Ah,” the man with the redheaded daughter says, not looking up from his drink, “Spencer Tracy is the top of the line.”
“Well not today he isn’t,” Howard shouts. He gets off his stool and stands rigid beside it. “Not today he isn’t the top of the line. Today it’s Gary Cooper. It’s a Gary Cooper picture on today and that’s the last I want to hear about it.” Howard pants from the exertion of his outburst.
“Howard,” Mel says, “come on. Sit down. Come on.”
Mel picks up Howard’s drink and wipes the counter dry. He puts down a fresh napkin and centers Howard’s glass on it. Howard sits down. The man closest to Larry never looks up from his drink.
“What picture is it?” Larry asks.
“Springfield Rifle,” Mel says. “1952.”
“Yeah, it’s a real good one,” Howard says. “I know that one, alright.”
“Well keep it to yourself,” the man closest to Larry says. “It’ll be on soon enough.”
“Oh, keep it to myself?” Howard says. “Well here’s a clue: it’s a western, okay? Got it? Springfield Rifle. Hope I didn’t give too much away there. Christ.”
“More of a Civil War picture, really,” Larry says.
Howard doesn’t respond. The man closest to Larry sneaks a peek at Larry and Larry looks away.
The commercial break is over, the soap opera back.
“You got toilet paper in the men’s room now?” Howard asks.
“Sure I do,” Mel says.
“Because I was in there before . . .”
“It’s been taken care of,” Mel says.
“Had to slip into the ladies’ just to wipe my ass.”
“Bet there was quite a crowd in there,” one of the others says.
“Sure there was,” Howard says. “Had to fight them off for the roll. They made me work hard for it but I showed them. Left the seat up. Now if I’d had some cellophane handy I would have stretched it out over the toilet.” He demonstrates with his hands. “Then I would have put the seat down for sure.”
“Ten minutes to one,” the man closest to Larry calls out. “Get this gibberish out of your system before the movie starts.” The man doesn’t look up from his drink.
“Fuck you,” Howard says.
“Only if you use the cellophane.”
The slightest trace of a smile on Larry’s lips.
“Goddamn Pride of the Yankees,” Howard says loudly, looking down at his drink. “You want to see some real acting take a look at that.”
The man closest to Larry doesn’t respond.
Mel comes down to Larry. “All’s well?”
“I could do it again.”
Mel fixes the bourbon and ginger and sets it down in front of him. He doesn’t take any money. “I had a question to ask you,” Mel says.
“Sure,” Larry says.
Mel leans in and lowers his voice. “The picture we saw on Monday.”
“Monday this week?” Larry asks.
“Monday this week, yeah. The crime picture. The gangster picture.”
Larry touches the rim of his glass with one finger. “Sure,’’ he says.
“You saw it, right?”
“Sure.” Larry stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.
“I think you stayed for the whole thing.”
“It’s possible I did,” Larry says.
Mel looks down at his hands and nods. “That one guy who was the lieutenant to the crime boss. Personal hit man. Remember?”
“Sure.”
Larry lights a fresh cigarette. The man closest to Larry looks over at Larry and Mel.
“You need a drink?” Mel asks him.
The man looks down at his nearly empty glass and shakes his head. “I don’t have any more money.”
Mel considers this fact briefly, then turns his face away, away from the other five men at the bar, toward the back of the room, and he says, quietly, just loud enough for Larry to hear, “Well, wasn’t that you?”
Larry sips his drink and sucks on his cigarette. “Huh?” he says.
Mel looks at him. “I don’t mean to make a big deal of it.”
“Well,” Larry says. He spins the glass between his fingers. He shrugs. He takes a quick look at the man closest to him. The man is looking down at his now empty glass. Larry shrugs. “To tell you the truth,” he says, “it was my brother.” He nods his head once.
“Your brother?”
“Yeah.”
“Twin brother?”
Larry sucks on his cigarette and blows smoke into the air above Mel’s head. “Older brother. Couple years older. We got a similar look.”
“Your brother?” Mel squints at Larry.
“Didn’t I just say that?”
“You did,” Mel concedes. He rubs his chin. “He make any famous pictures?”
Larry shrugs again and peers into his glass. “No. He was always second string, you know?”
“Sure.” Mel scratches his jaw. “That’s quite a thing, I guess, having a brother in the pictures.”
“Sure. I guess it is.”
“He still making pictures?”
“No.”
“You see him much now?”
“I don’t.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah.” Larry takes a drink.
Mel sighs and looks down the length of the bar. “Well,” he says, and he stands up straight, looking at the television. “I thought he was good in that part.”
Larry sucks on his cigarette.
“What was the name of that picture we saw on Monday?” Mel asks.
“Yeah, I don’t remember.”
“Probably got the paper around here somewhere.”
“Probably.”
Mel shrugs. “Okay.” He walks down the bar and turns up the volume on the television. The last five minutes of the soap opera. A brunette woman accusing a blonde woman of having an affair with the brunette’s father.
“Good for him,” one of the men says. “Look at the tits on her.”
“Scotch,” Howard says.
Mel pours.
The man closest to Larry gets up and leaves the bar.
“Good fucking riddance,” Howard says without looking to see who has left.
The other men call for beer. Mel pours. The credits on the soap opera begin to roll.
“I hate that fucking song,” Howard says.
“Huge tits,” one of the men says.
Mel comes back to Larry and leans against the bar. “Seeing as how your brother was in the movies,” he says, “you might appreciate this.”
“Okay,” Larry says cautiously.
“When I was a kid my grandpa died, like it happens for a lot of kids.”
“It happens,” Larry agrees.
“This was upstate. I went to the funeral, they buried him, whatever.”
Larry shakes the ice in the glass.
“You need another?” Mel asks.
“I don’t,” Larry says. “I didn’t mean it that way. Finish your story.”
A used car commercial comes on the television.
“Goddamn shyster,” one of the men yells at the screen, at the slick-suited owner.
“So,” Mel continues, “when I was a kid we went to the cemetery every now and again. Father’s Day, maybe. Sometimes on Sundays. This was my father’s father.”
“Okay.”
“And then we moved away. I was thirteen when we moved. Maybe thirteen. Something like that, anyway. Haven’t been back. Haven’t really been upstate at all since then.”
“A nice drive.”
“Sure, but who has the time?”
“Exactly,” Larry says.
“Anyway, I haven’t been to that cemetery in, oh, say forty years.” Mel shakes his head and gestures at the television. “About a month ago I put on the one o’clock movie, right?”
“Sure.”
“And the movie’s playing, no big deal. Maybe we’re a couple commercial breaks along the way. It was one of these supernatural occult movies. Basically a real crappy movie. Dead bodies, haunted houses, like that. I don’t recall if you saw that picture.”
Larry shrugs and smokes his cigarette.
“And there’s one scene where they go to a cemetery, and maybe they’re looking to dig up a body or something, I don’t really know.”
A portly man comes on the television to introduce the station’s One O’clock Movie. The four men at the bar raise their glasses. Mel leans in closer to Larry.
“Anyway,” Mel says, “I recognized it. The cemetery. It was my grandfather’s cemetery. I could tell by the trees, this one tree in particular I used to climb; it was bigger, but I could tell.”
The portly man spreads his arms wide in appreciation of Gary Cooper. Howard stands and applauds vigorously. Mel lowers his voice even more, so Larry has to lean forward.
“The camera was moving,” Mel says, and he moves his hand slowly in the air before Larry’s face, “and then it stops, and the actors are looking at something, but over here, over in the left-hand corner,” Mel points toward that spot on the television, “I saw it, my grandfather’s grave. His name right there in the left-hand corner of the screen. Date of birth. Date he died. His name. Right there. It was up there for maybe five or six seconds as clear as it could be, and then they moved the camera again or the scene changed or something. And I just couldn’t believe it, right there in a movie. I stood right on that spot when they buried him.”
“That must have been a thing to see,” Larry says.
“I can’t explain it. To see that on TV.” Mel clears his throat and rubs his eye. “Jesus,” he says.
The beginning of Springfield Rifle. Howard, the Gary Cooper fan, trying to quiet stray bits of conversation.
Mel nods his head. “Right there on TV,” he whispers hoarsely to Larry.
Larry pushes his drink toward the bartender. “Can I get you one?”
Mel waves him off and fixes another bourbon and ginger. Gary Cooper’s name appears on the screen.
“Maybe we’ll see that brother of yours in another movie sometime,” Mel says, setting the drink down.
“Maybe.”
The opening credits have finished, and Mel looks at Larry for a moment, and Larry looks down at his money, and Mel looks away, up at the television. Larry pushes a few bills across the counter for the last drink, then a few extra. He smokes the rest of his cigarette and pushes the butt around in the ashtray. He looks down at Miss June and finishes his bourbon and ginger. He pushes his stool away from the bar and Howard glares at him because of the noise. Mel is intent on the movie. Larry silently walks out of the bar.
He steps into the bright sunshine and shields his eyes against it with Miss June. Past the tailor, past the shoe repair shop, past the dry cleaner. His senses are acute with whiskey and sunlight. The desk clerk is gone, the Mickey Spillane open and face down on the counter, spine cracking. Next, Larry is up the stairs, and back in his room. He pours a small tumbler of whiskey and takes a sip; he stands in front of the window and looks down at the street. He sets the glass down and shrugs himself out of his coat and tosses it on the bed. Somehow, in this action, his wallet falls from the inside pocket and bounces to the floor on the far side of the bed; later, after his nap, when he’s hungry and thinking about a bite to eat, he will not be able to find the wallet immediately.
He looks around the room and pictures Miss June and her short skirt, her tight sweater, on the wall above the sink. He puts her up with thumbtacks. He stands in the window again, bent slightly at the waist, both hands on the sill, drink resting between them. It is hot in the room. There is no breeze. He looks at the building across the street, the piano company, the glare of the sunny day reflecting from its windows. He can’t see if there’s anybody beyond the windows looking back at him or not. He doesn’t really care one way or the other, it’s just idle speculation. Sounds of traffic from the street; somewhere out of sight there’s a small boy yelling, but it doesn’t sound like distress, he sounds like he’s enjoying himself. Behind Larry, Miss June pouts from above the sink, lips redder than red.
Michael Murray’s stories and poems have appeared in Hawaii Review, New Orleans Review, Noon, The Quarterly, and Threepenny Review.