The
doors of the Kinema theatre were open.
Cold
air was sucked outside onto the sidewalk.
The
August heat acting as a vacuum.
The
only respite for apartment residents
of
rooms where open windows and
fans
gave no respite.
Pitkin
Avenue, Brooklyn, working-class.
white-ethnic,
and (as the New York Times
described
it) “provincial.”
The
bunting hanging from the marquee
proclaimed,
“Air Conditioned Inside.”
The
sign was superfluous.
The
manager of the theatre was a young
blond
guy:
GAY
as could be, a bespoke Dandy.
The toughs in the neighborhood
labeled
him a “Flaming Faggot”
but
he was well liked as an anomaly.
A
blooming flower in a garden
in
need of weeding.
A
main feature, a second “B” movie, cartoons,
coming
attractions, and a newsreel.
A
pleasant way to spend 2-plus hours dreaming
of
adventure and/or romance.
The
cool-darkened theatre gave us a break from
the
egg-frying sidewalks.
Like
Summer, this escape was temporary.
reality
was past the open doors as we were
sucked
onto the sidewalk with the cold air.
©TPuma/MMXXI
