FILM NOIR By Larry Tyler It was Jean's idea to go to the movies, and if it was up to Gus, he wouldn't be there at all, but in their forty year marriage, both had learned that some things are worth going to the mat for, some aren't. Gus found a seat that suited him, checked for gum on the cushion or soda on the floor, and sat down. Jean sat beside him. "Used to play music for you at the movies," he muttered. "Now it's eight bucks for a matinee and they play nothing." "The seats are a lot more comfortable than they used to be though," Jean said encouragingly. He hated it when she did that. It felt like she was patting him on the head. "Never used to have twenty previews before the movie either," Gus said. "And commercials. Who ever heard of commercials at the movies? I could stay home and watch commercials." He looked around. There wouldn't be a big crowd for the movie, but that was fine with Gus. It was fine with Jean too, although she hoped enough people would show up to laugh along with her. She enjoyed movies more when others were there, laughing along. Two young men entered the theater a moment before the lights went dim. Gus could hear them approaching. One was swearing and the other contributed to the conversation with a loud horse laugh. Gus was pretty sure they were drunk. When they walked several rows ahead and plunked themselves down in the second row, Gus was relieved. The fellow who was swearing draped his legs over the seat in front of him and slid down. The fellow with the horse laugh swiped the other fellow's baseball cap off his head and thought it was funny. "Look at that," Gus growled. Jean patted him twice on the knee. Gus felt angrier. "This sucks," Gus heard one of the two fellows say and they left their seats, came back up the aisle and sat directly behind Gus and Jean. "Well, doesn't that figure," Gus muttered to Jean. "We can find another seat," Jean said. "There are plenty of other empty seats just as good as these." "We were here first; we'll stay right here," Gus proclaimed. As the previews started, Gus sniffed at the air, trying to detect the odor of alcohol. The fellow with the horse laugh groaned at the preview. "I hate him," he said. Gus assumed he was referring to the actor on the screen. The other fellow offered his critical assessment: "He sucks." And in a louder voice he added, "Get him off the screen!" Gus swung around and glared. "I came here to watch the movie, not to listen to you two hyenas," he hissed. Jean patted his hand. "Now, Gus," she said firmly. Gus swung back to face the screen. The two fellows behind him broke into laughter. "Now, Gus!" one of them said derisively in falsetto. More laughter. Then whispers. Gus tried hard to hear what they were saying but couldn't. Then more laughter, ugly laughter that ripped at his nerves. "Remember what the doctor told you," Jean said. Gus growled. "Do you remember what he said? Put these things out of your mind. Just pay attention to the movie." Gus stared at the screen, but he was running a fantasy in his mind. He'd go talk to the manager. He'd have them thrown out. He'd show them a thing or two. The two fellows didn't like the next preview any better than the first preview. "Suck-ee," one of them said. Gus's body stiffened. Jean squeezed him arm. It did no good. Gus spun around again and said, "Would you keep your big fat mouths shut?" The fellow with a baseball cap leaned forward and smiled. "Since you asked so politely, we'll consider your request." When the sarcasm sunk in, Gus's glare turned sterner. He turned back in his seat. A moment later, the baseball cap fellow gave Gus's seat a kick. "Oops," he said. The other fellow whinnied. "Hooligans," Gus growled. Jean hated it when he used terms like "hooligans". He started doing that right after his first heart attack and it always made him sound older than he was. Jean's father used to use terms like that. Nobody says hooligans anymore, she thought to herself. There was more chatter in the row behind Gus, muffled by laughter in the audience, but Gus could only hear the snickering behind him. He swung around again and glared. Jean tugged at his arm and he swung back. "Relax and think happy thoughts like the doctor told you," Jean said. Gus looked at the screen but his thoughts weren't happy and his jaw could have cracked a railroad spike. "Now Gussy," one of the hooligans cooed. Jean rubbed Gus's arm three times while she watched the preview. Apparently, the hooligans liked the movie better than the previews because they sat quietly for the first ten minutes. Their pleasure was Gus's pain, however. The audience seemed to enjoy jokes based on bodily emissions. Jean seemed to be enjoying the movie too. But this was decidedly not his kind of comedy. Meanwhile, their attention span spent, the two hooligans resumed their conversation after the first ten minutes of the film. One of the hooligans gave Gus's chair another kick, waited a few seconds and kicked the chair again. The other hooligan laughed. "We can move up a row or two," Jean suggested. "No," Gus said firmly. He knew what the two hooligans looked like now. He burned their features into his memory, their droopy-eyed ignorant snarling faces. Some day they'd meet up again, that's for sure. In his mind, while the movie dragged on, he conjured up fantasies of how that might happen. The hooligans grew restless. "I'm going to get popcorn," the baseball cap hooligan said and he made it a point to bump Gus's chair as he stood up. "'Scuse me, Gus," he said. The other hooligan laughed. "That's it," Gus said. "That's it." "Now, Gus. Don't be that way," Jean said, patting his hand. "No," said Gus. "That's it." Jean opened her purse. "Let me go get you some Milk Duds. You like Milk Duds." "Three bucks for a damned box of candy," Gus muttered. "I'll be right back," Jean assured him and stepped past him before he could protest. She went to the lobby and stood in line behind the hooligan, who was paying for his popcorn. "I wish you wouldn't tease my husband like that," she said to the hooligan. The hooligan turned around, studied her briefly and swung away to get a napkin. Jean bought the Milk Duds and followed the hooligan back into the theater. "He always has a hard time just letting things go," she said. "Get away from me," the hooligan said. "You're creeping me out, lady." "His heart is bad," she explained. "His tough luck," the hooligan mumbled without turning around, and opened the theater door just wide enough to get through. Jean caught the door as it was closing and opened it for herself. The hooligan paused a moment, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark. Jean stood behind him. On the screen a toaster fell in slow motion out a high window. It landed on a fat man's head. The audience loved it. During the roar of laughter, Jean reached into her purse, pulled out a sharp letter opener and plunged it into the hooligan's neck. The hooligan slumped. Jean extracted the letter opener as she nudged him out of the aisle and onto the floor in the last row. His thud went unnoticed. Jean walked back to her seat and handed Gus the box of Milk Duds. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the other hooligan checking the exit for his buddy. "I don't like this movie very much," Jean told Gus. "We certainly don't need to stay here on my account," he said. Before they left, he opened the box of Milk Duds, held the box out for Jean and let her take the first piece. She took it, put it in her mouth and smiled. Gus took the second piece. Jean grabbed hold of his little finger and shook it playfully until he gave her a perfunctory smile. Forty years of marriage had taught him this courtesy. Marriage, after all, is a give and take. ### Larry Tyler lives in central Maine where he works as a therapist and writer of journal articles and short stories.