Issue 134, Spring 1995
It had been a hundred years since Hershleder had taken in a late afternoon movie, a hundred years since he had gone to the movies by himself. It was 5:45. There was a 6:15 train Hershleder could still make. But why give in, why not not do something as inevitable as being home on time for dinner? At heart he was a rebel. Hershleder walked up the avenue to Kips Bay. There, there was a movie house. He could enter the theater in daylight. When was the last time he had done that —gone from a dazzling summer afternoon, when the air was visible and everything looked like it was in a comic book, only magnified, broken down into a sea of shimmering dots — into the dark, cool mouth of a movie theater? It was a dry July day. It was hot out. Who cared what was playing? Porno.
Action. Comedy. All Hershleder wanted was to give himself over to something.
He was drawn to the box office as if the gum-chewing bored girl behind the counter was dispensing pharmaceutical cocaine and he was still a young …