“You don’t believe that, do you?” I said that I certainly did, and I had to catch a bus. “Would you mind telling me why, exactly why?” I said that the bus— “I mean it. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me just what’s wrong with it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” I told him. He waited for me to go on. “Well, for one thing, pictures like that aren’t made for the sixteen millimeter trade. You’ve got a reduction from a thirty-five millimeter master,” and I gave him a few of the other reasons that separate home movies from Hollywood. When I finished he smoked quietly for a minute.
“I see.” He took the reel off the projector spindle and closed the case. “I have beer in the back.” I agreed beer sounded good, but the bus—well, just one. From in back of the beaverboard screen he brought paper cups and a jumbo bottle. With a whimsical “Business suspended” he closed the open door and opened the bottle with an opener screwed on the wall. The store had likely been a grocery or restaurant. There were plenty of chairs. Two we shoved around and relaxed companionably. The beer was warm.
“You know something about this line,” tentatively.
I took it as a question and laughed, “Not too much. Here’s mud,” and we drank. “Used to drive a truck for the Film Exchange.” He was amused at that.
“Stranger in town?”
“Yes and no. Mostly yes. Sinus trouble chased me out and relatives bring me back. Not any more, though; my father’s funeral was last week.” He said that was too bad, and I said it wasn’t. “He had sinus, too.” That was a joke, and he refilled the cups. We talked awhile about Detroit climate.
Finally he said, rather speculatively, “Didn’t I see you around here last night? Just about eight.” He got up and went after more beer.
I called after him. “No more beer for me.” He brought a bottle anyway, and I looked at my watch. “Well, just one.”
“Was it you?”