At first Miguel appeared flustered. He greeted them with the words, “I thought you were coming tomorrow.”

“We were out gluing up flyers for our gig and since we were passing we wondered if we could check out the sound system,” explained the smaller one.

“It’ll only take a moment,” concluded the other. I moved in closer to inspect the mohawks. They were spectrum-colored with glistening speckles. I could see that they were erected with the help of Elmer’s glue.

“Okay,” Miguel consented nervously. So they left their glue buckets and flyers in the box office and followed Miguel into the theater.

As Miguel and the taller one quietly led the way through the dark theater, I walked alongside the diminutive sidekick. He had what resembled the coastline of Asia minor shaved carefully into his bristled scalp; I could make out the Aegean fingering into the Bosphorus. In conversation with the punk, Miguel unlocked the projection booth. The projector was on, but there was no operator present. The two punks quickly went through a checklist and at one point I overheard the head punk whisper to Miguel, “1 didn’t get you in any trouble, did I?”

“No, no,” Miguel replied calmly, “everything’s still in orbit. Only, as a rule, try calling ahead.”

Miguel then introduced us. “This is the new manager, but he’s real cool.”

We all shook hands and Miguel explained that these were two young vanguard filmmakers. Apparently Miguel had many acquaintances from both the NYU Film School and The School of Visual Arts. Since the Zeus Theater had a superb 16mm projector, Miguel rented the theater for private functions at a nominal cost.

Since Hans—the taller one—and Grett—the smaller one—were collaborative members of an important local band called Slap, and since they were able to get Miguel on the guest list of several local after-hour spots and clubs, he was going to let them view their film for free. It was going to be screened the next day, when I wasn’t working.

Miguel talked with Hans awhile, and Grett watched the dirty film. In a moment the two had concluded their business. Hans and Grett exited, but before we could retreat back down the steps, a small door whipped open and out jumped a cute young lady wielding a crow bar. It was the same girl that I had bumped into a couple of days ago when I first got the job.

“What the fuck’s going on here?” she demanded, lowering the bar.

“I’m sorry,” Miguel replied, “I should have buzzed first.”

“If it’s not asking too fucking much!” she yelled back. “I thought you were a rapist. And besides, it’s in the union contract with all theater owners, ‘the projectionist must be duly notified before entry is gained into the booth…’”

Miguel apologized profusely, but as he did, she turned her small back to him and suddenly glared at me. Trying to ease the tension, I introduced myself.

“You’re the straight one,” she said.

“What?” Miguel cried with astonishment. Turning to me, he asked, “You’re straight?”

“Of course not.”

“He specifically told me he was straight,” the projectionist replied. “I bumped into him downstairs. He grabbed my tits and all he could say was that he was straight. Then he runs off.”

“What?!” hollered Miguel.

“Wait a second,” I replied. “I bumped into you, I tried to prevent you from falling and said I was late, not straight! That’s why I was running. Why the hell would I say I was straight?”

“To show why you were molesting me is why,” she explained.

“She’s crazy,” I pointed out.

“Then you are gay?” Miguel asked. They both peered at me like a spy on foreign soil. After years of institutionalized bias, I was sympathetic to certain cases of reverse discrimination. But despite my sympathies, I still needed the job.

“I’m nothing,” I finally replied.

“He might be nothing, but he’s a straight nothing,” she replied.

“What do you…you know…do?” Miguel asked after a period of silence.

“Quite frankly, I don’t penetrate anymore.”

“You don’t what?”

“I stopped penetrating.”

“Well, what the hell do you do?” she asked.

“I…I guess I just fondle.”

“But what do you fondle, guys or girls?” he asked.

“Guys, I guess.”

“You guess?” the projectionist said. “What do you fondle, ears?”

“Guys,” I declared, “with guys.”

“So then you are gay?” Miguel added.

“Well, I’ve fondled girls, too. What the hell is the big deal?” I finally got tired of being cross-examined. “Is it a crime to be straight?”

“We’re still something of a persecuted group,” Miguel stated, “and quite honestly, I just feel that for this particular job I believe a gay person is more fit.”

“How about you?” I asked the cute projectionist. “Aren’t you straight?”

“No longer,” she replied plainly, and then added in a kind of disturbed and distant way, “I don’t involve myself with…anyone anymore.” Small wonder.

We went back downstairs to the office where we continued with the routines of the night, but periodically the issue reared its ugly head.

“Look,” Miguel said sanctimoniously, “it’s not that I’m anti-straight or anything. I really have no hang-ups there. But this is a gay porno theater, and a certain understanding is needed, an understanding that comes with being. And besides, if you were straight, working here might be…”

“Dangerous to my health?”

“Disorienting, that’s all.”

“You make homosexuality sound like leprosy.”

“It’s like trying to explain color to a blind man.”

“That’s no answer,” I replied and then declared falsely, “I’m gay, I should be able to understand your argument!”

“Because it’s a violation!” he insisted. “When I was in high school, I didn’t mind the kids who disliked me for being a faggot. But I hated the bastards who claimed to be friends. The ones who were interested in how it was done. Who looked at you like a lab rat they were studying. Condemning it on one hand and getting off on it with the other. It was pure deceit!”

“I’m not straight!” I insisted.

“I suppose not,” he finally concluded and added, “Tanya doesn’t deal with straight guys.”

Soon it was closing time, and quietly we did the nightly tabulations together. Miguel subtracted the amount of people that came during the night from the amount of people that came during the matinee, then he multiplied the sum by four. While in the midst of further calculations, I got up to take a piss. “I’ll pick up the money on the way back,” I offered.

“That’s all right,” he said, “I’m responsible for it.”

“It’s no problem.”

“No!” he was suddenly angry. “Only I’m allowed to deal with the money!”

Perhaps he was still angry over the night’s argument. I pissed quickly to the copulating moans in the abutting stall and wondered why Miguel was so touchy. Miguel returned to the office and put all the night’s money into the drop bag and locked it. After looking at the tally sheet, I was surprised to see that the theater had only earned four hundred bucks. That meant that only a hundred people had come—but the theater was full all night.

While locking up the place, Miguel said that he felt there was still a tension between us due to the discussion, so he invited me for a beer. Instead of going to a bar, though, we stopped in at the Korean deli on the corner and got a six pack. Miguel explained that three nearby theaters were showing midnight films. The Saint Mark’s was showing Blade Runner, the Eighth Street was showing Rumble Fish, and the Waverly was showing Stop Making Sense. Miguel knew Ian, the manager at the Eighth Street, so we could get in free. I didn’t want to deal with Pepe, so we swigged beers and walked to the theater.

While watching the film, I wasn’t sure if it was the beer or the picture but the image seemed liquidy and unsteady. Either I or the film was drunk. When it was over, we decided that we were both still thirsty.