Silver Light and Change

Sometimes, in his dreams, he could remember the smell of the place. The smell, unpleasant, but one he liked. It smelled not of one thing or another; hints and traces, faint whisperings afloat. An undertone of burnt caramel would be in the air; the center aisle of the third row where he would always sit.

There would be no one, at first. The room would be half-lit and all about him the sea of red seats would stretch away forever on either side into the darkness. For a while he would stand perfectly still. And he would catch something out of the corner of his eye, almost. A shadow. Or not.

And then his senses would be filled with the enormity of the blank space and the weight of expectation would settle in the pit of his stomach. With every passing moment it would grow.

And then in the darkness he would sense his family. First, most times, was his father. His father with his enormous full-moon glasses pushed up his forehead. His father, with his unbuttoned shirt and his aging undershirt and his faded shorts. His father, who would sometimes smile and sometimes wave. His father who never sat with him. His father who would pass and sit two rows ahead in the darkness.
Afterwards a hand would reach out from the darkness and pass him a pack of peanuts or a guava. And he knew they were from his father.

If he turned in his seat he could recognize the others. The man who stirred the Khao Soi pot in the shop across from school shared a hand-rolled cigarette with the grocer woman who handled the register. The beat policeman who, hat in hand, dabbed his white handkerchief on his forehead and folded it up. The eighth grade Literature teacher, with her hair in her tight bun, who would catch him looking and then smile, slightly, so that he could never tell what she was thinking. And his neighbor, who he had seen kiss the landlord’s son, once, and the dark mood that plagued him for days. That girl he would see, sometimes, crossing the street, who had smiled to him, once, one late summer day.

And then it would be his mother and grandmother. Both dressed formal, but his grandmother did not wear her glasses, not today. They would walk slow down the steps and then his grandmother would sit next to him and his mother behind him and his mother would lean towards his ear and whisper:

“Your brother is sitting across the hall because he wants to play. Keep an eye on him.”

And as the words were spoken the lights would dim until he could see nothing on either side. Inside him excitement would mount and he would grip the armrest hard. Sometimes his grandmother would hold his hand to calm him down and then somewhere in the back the old man with the cap would say:

“You all have a good night.”

And then there was silence and darkness all around for what seemed like an eternity. And out of that darkness would come a click and then flickering. And the screen would light up and he would look up, into the light.

And then after it was over, they would all meet in the aisle. The policeman would shake their hands and say good night. Sometimes his eyes would be watery and red, especially if it had been about the war. And as he marched out into the heat of the night in his uniform he would be the most handsome and brave man the boy could ever imagine. The teacher would smile her enigmatic smile and turn away, already lighting her cigarette. The grocer and the cook would say hello and the cook would always have a hot pot with him. He would give it to them and the two would walk out hand in hand.

And then his neighbor would sit beside him and he would make her laugh and she would be invited to eat with them and the girl would pass by and for a moment their hands would touch and he would feel a charge pulse through him and she would turn and smile, for a moment, and she would be maybe blushing, just a little, and then she would be gone.

And then the five of them would eat: his grandmother ladling out the soup, his mother handing out the bowls, his father opening a newspaper and his brother making them laugh with his tricks. They would talk and laugh and once he remembered his neighbor leaning against him, resting her head on his shoulder and he turned his head, surprised, and his nose had burrowed into her hair and she had smelled of crackling autumn leaves, fresh grass and warmth. And then they would go, one by one, his mother first and then his grandmother, a kiss on each cheek from both and then his father who would fold his paper and tousle his hair, and who would laugh when he frantically tried to fix it.

And then there would be the three of them and he could feel her deep breathing and knew she was asleep and he would watch his brother as he turned cartwheels on the rug.

And in the morning he would wake and sometimes he would not remember them at all.