The first kiss on camera occurred in Thomas Edison’s Black Maria studio in 1896. It was around 18 seconds long and took place between the stage actors, May Irwin and John Rice, who were reenacting the final scene from the musical, The Widow Jones. In an age where every third celebrity has a sex tape for sale it might be hard to believe, but Edison’s little movie, this quick peck on the lips, it drove the public crazy and was widely considered immoral, obscene. The Roman Catholic Church, they demanded censorship. Police raided many of the showings. This was all very scandalous.
I sit in my car atop a lookout point with a perfect view of the glistening city skyline ahead, the crescent moon above sliding across the clear night sky like a buttery croissant. Light pollution from the city drowns out all but the brightest of stars, and traffic crawls past me below, the occupants of each vehicle part of someone else’s story. I’m not the only one enjoying the scene here; there’s a whole line of other vehicles, engines idling, headlights shining. Eleven vehicles in total, each encapsulating a scene ripped out of a different film.
In the car to my right, a couple of teens are hooking up. Like, actually making out as if they’re a couple of overacted characters in a 50s movie. Their heavy breathing has completely fogged up the car’s windows. Occasionally, a body part touches the glass, creating a bare spot in the condensation. Me, I’m by myself eating Dunk-a-roos, reading comics, and sipping cold coffee from a paper cup. I chew on the plastic lid, a habit, while Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 plays over the car’s sound system. Ahead, most of the lights in a single skyscraper blink out all at once. That building, it’ll sleep now. The janitors have gone home; they, too, have stories to live.
In the car to my left, the silhouette of another solitary figure sits. A large bearded fellow, the only real movement from him is his hand lifting a joint to his lips. Repeatedly, the orange cherry glows dimly up to his lips, brightens for a second, and then drifts down out of sight. After each drag, he holds in the thick smoke for fifteen seconds or so before exhaling. Though both of our windows closed, I can smell it. This bearded silhouette, he catches me looking in his direction, and the lenses of his glasses flash in the moonlight as he turns his head in my direction. With his free hand, he gives me a bit of a wave. He grins, his mouth full of bright white teeth.
It was the second theme from Allegro Scherzando, the third movement of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2, which inspired Frank Sinatra’s 1945 song, Full Moon and Empty Arms. Me, I sit alone in my car, this movement filling my ears, with the city’s lights spread out before me. Juggling my Dunk-a-roos, slippery stack of comics, and cup of cold coffee, my eyes glance up at the crescent moon above, a gaping hole where its heart should be. I shuffle around the words in the title of Sinatra’s song to arrive at the title of my current scene: Empty Moon and Full Arms. It’s not nearly as poetic, but apropos.
That I spend so much time alone is more a testament of my ability to entertain myself than it is evidence of my inability to be around others. That’s how I see it anyway. And no-one is here to argue. Surround yourself with people who think just like you and you’ll rarely be wrong; keep no-one around and you never will be. I dip a crumbling chocolate cookie into vanilla frosting, take a swig of cold coffee, and select a new comic to read next. This is my story, my current scene. In my peripheral, the stoner to my left, he takes another drag off his joint. In the car to my right, a hand, fingers splayed, slaps up against the rear driver’s side window, leaving a print. The car, a late model sedan borrowed from a parent, it rocks side to side like a ship lost amidst rolling ocean waves.
No comments:
Post a Comment