Does it really matter?

John Rutherford
3-15-06
William Trevor parody
Malena Watrous

The Forty-seventh Saturday Evening

Alan Banfield fell asleep knowing that when the sound of the flapping reel from the little square window behind him woke him at the end of the picture, Mr McCarthy would be in the seat next to him. It will be the forty-eighth, no the forty-seventh time, he thought lazily as his lowering eyelids dimmed the large screen in front of him. The two gentlemen had indeed met forty-six Saturdays ago, when they had found themselves alone in the balcony of the Odeon’s large cinema hall. The movie that day had been particularly awful, and they struck up a conversation after exchanging initial jeers and witticisms directed towards the screen. They had made it a point to meet up for the five-o-clock picture – whatever it was – and heckle quietly from the back balcony row since that first Saturday.
‘Cup of Earl Grey,’ Mr McCarthy instructed the counter assistant, and, once it was produced, ‘Cheers, how much now?’
‘Two and four,’ piped the young girl.
‘You guys been upping the price lately? I thought it was two pence less last week.’
‘I’m not sure, sir, this is only my second day of work,’ the assistant offered, pulling on her red pigtail.
Mr McCarthy grumbled and paid the sum, laying the four pennies out with great solemnity. He left the store for the theatre across the street, and he felt decidedly less peckish than when having entered the shop, he decided.
Palm trees and a white beach stretched across the poster advertising the five-o-clock. ‘Stranded’ was the title. Mr McCarthy drank half of his Styrofoam cup of tea as he examined the poster and the list of actors featured in it, then paid for his ticket at the window – the same cheap price as always, he noted.
He found Alan Banfield dozing in his usual spot and sank down in the red cushioned seat next to him. Relief pulsed through Mr McCarthy’s veins and, appreciative of this, he sank lower in the seat. It was always a relief to talk with Alan Banfield following his afternoon at Mavie’s, where he always had to be on guard with his lies and keep them straight. Mavie had started prying, too, today, trying to imagine a Mrs McCarthy in the bedroom. But it was worth it, he thought, imagining her ribs under his hands again. And he got to go to the pictures afterward.
The credits finished rolling for the previous picture and the screen flashed bright white as the film came off the spool and flapped around in a circle. Alan Banfield awoke with a start at the noise and, looking to his right, managed a greeting between his yawns and stretches.
‘Hullo, Alan,’ returned Mr McCarthy. He waited for his friend to settle and finish rubbing his eyes. ‘My Mavie asked about Mrs McCarthy today.’
‘Oho, did she now? Well, you’ll have to do something about that, won’t you, mate? Slap your rag doll honey around a bit if she does it again.’ Mr McCarthy dropped his jaw, but could not contain his smile. ‘Don’t bloody her lip or nothing, just grab her wrist hard and slap her smart on her britches. She’ll forgive you quick enough, you got her on your finger.’
Mr McCarthy guffawed at his friend’s misogyny, enlivened by the political incorrectness of it.
‘That’s why I’d never get married,’ mused Alan Banfield. ‘Can’t keep women where you want them, so you have to waste all your time putting them back in place. I don’t even know why you pretend you have a wife.’
‘Oh you know why, I’ve told you before. Otherwise Mavie wouldn’t think this was special and daring. Oh, she can only handle a small bit of excitement.’
The reel had been changed, and ‘Stranded’ sputtered and flickered to life. The pair quieted. The opening scene panned across the same beach shown in the poster.
‘Reminds me of Panama,’ whispered Alan Banfield. ‘Went there with the navy.’ Mr McCarthy nodded eagerly. They had conversed extensively about Alan Banfield’s time in the navy, and Mr McCarthy had listened in awe of his exploits – his quick rise to officer status, his victory in the fleet-wide bare-knuckle boxing tournament, the destruction of a merchant pirate ship. ‘Had two girls at once there,’ he added, lowering his voice.
‘Two girls? You mean two girlfriends?’
‘No, no, in the same night, at the same time!’
The idea dawned on Mr McCarthy slowly. ‘How…how do you manage that? What do have to you say to them…?’
Alan Banfield gave a mischievous look and said, after a dramatic pause, ‘You don’t have to say a single thing.’ He laughed and turned back to the screen.
Mr McCarthy stared in admiration at his friend’s profile. His weekend endeavors with Mavie seemed like petty change compared to the adventures – sexual or not – of Alan Banfield. Mr McCarthy had found early on in their picture-going relationship that he could tell him the most personal of secrets. Things about Mavie, about childhood pets, about his thoughts on religion and politics, about his insecurities. He had never been so honest with anyone. There was some sense of trust he found in this man, deriving most likely from his gallant personality.
The picture was predictably was bad, filled with b-rate actors whom Mr McCarthy and Alan Banfield had seen in past Saturday pictures. They exchanged comments and barbs throughout, growing bolder and louder towards the end, so that some theatregoers looked up towards the balcony to see where these insults were flying from.
Upon the conclusion of the final scene, Alan Banfield excused himself of his friend before the lights went up, mentioning that he had his own Saturday appointment to keep. He gave an exaggerated wink and softly punched Mr McCarthy on the shoulder. Mr McCarthy wagged a finger at him, laughing to himself as his friend disappeared up the stairs. He thought of the Saturday night fling Alan Banfield would have. He would perhaps take his lady to a fancy restaurant, and have something better than mackerel in a garlic custard sauce, then woo her to bed after a witty and suggestive conversation about jazz. He imagined him seducing a second girl while waiting for a cab, so easily, and the three of them heading back to his apartment. His eyes lingered on the chair where Alan Banfield had just sat, trying to take in the last remnants of his enormous presence. ‘He is a great man, a man’s man. I am lucky to know him,’ Mr McCarthy thought. Behind him, the loose end of the film flapped unceremoniously.
Alan Banfield checked his watch on the way out of the theatre, squinting his eyes against the bright light. Four minutes, he could make two and a half blocks if he hurried. He caught the bus just as it pulled up. He calmed his breathing as he sat down, and chuckled at the new lie he had created. Alan Banfield had told Mr McCarthy more lies than he had ever told anyone else. He didn’t know why he had always lied to Mr McCarthy, and why his playacting had made him appear to be someone so different from himself; most likely he had used it as a defense mechanism initially, and couldn’t stop. It was entertaining, he reasoned, and harmless. The bus let Alan Banfield down in a residential neighborhood. He felt in his pocket for his keys and counted the decreasing apartment numbers as he made his way down the street. He arrived at his door and opened it with a latchkey. His wife greeted him, a big, dark woman, along with his young son and two dogs. She upbraided him playfully for leaving the grounds in the coffee maker that morning, for which he apologized as he followed his son to the entertainment room to play Battleship, as always on a Saturday evening.