Friday, May 17, 2024 11:12 a.m.

For a small, quiet little Midwestern town, things were getting pretty crazy for a late Friday morning. The low rumble of machines had thundered along the pavement of Main Street like a parade of monsters. Great metal jaws with once-yellowed teeth now covered in rust and dirt chomped at the bit, eager for a taste of destruction. Yet no familiar metal ball hung, pendulous at the end of a steel cable ready to take its first swing. The street was too narrow and there was too much risk to the surrounding buildings for that to happen. An implosion specialist had been consulted so a carefully planned set of explosives could go off so that the falling building wouldn't damage any of the "wanted" buildings in the downtown area. Perhaps the town council wanted to destroy it so utterly and with as little damage to everything else as possible so that it would seem like the Phoenix had never existed at all. Yet this expert had determined that it would be too costly, impractical and dangerous to attempt on such a small building. A fire truck was at the ready in the yellow-painted parking zone across the street with its sirens silent, but lights flickering. The end had come for 312 East Main Street.

Or at least it would have at precisely 11:00 a.m. if not for one tiny detail.

"What are you, crazy? Lady, get out of the way!" The man with the backhoe shouted, being completely overwhelmed by the engine of the machine he was riding.

"Nothing short of hell opening up and swallowing me is going to move me from this spot! This place is worth saving!" The woman stood with her arms spread out as if ready to block the machine as a goalie blocked a ball or a puck. Except in this case, the puck was moving slowly and outweighed the goalie by a few tons.

A man in a torn red sweater stood at the sidelines a good distance away, tensing and leaning forward as if ready to run into the fray. Yet he seemed like he couldn't decide whether to join her or just pull her out before she got hurt. A salt and pepper-bearded man stood next to him, looking on quietly.

"Here for the show?" Red Sweater asked above the din.

"Not really." Greybeard continued staring at the building.

"On break for lunch and just came over to see what the fuss is about?"

"No."

After a solid moment of the bulldozer coming to support the backhoe in this odd confrontation, Red Sweater spoke up again, pulling at the sagging sleeve of his shirt.

"You know, she made this for me once."

"I beg your pardon?" The bearded man perplexed, but curious, turned to face the other stranger in the small, but growing crowd.

Red Sweater nodded, gesturing toward the woman chained to the front ticket booth. The once-recently added glass wall and doors had been removed for the occasion.

"You know that woman?"

"I'm her-"

"Husband?" Greybeard offered.

"Not exactly."

"I see." He smiled. "Love is often much more complicated than simple titles or roles we assign to others."

"Mira would like how you said that."

"Mira? That is a beautiful name."

"She would like that you said that too, but I'd probably get a bit jealous if she heard that. You understand, right?" He laughed, more of an awkward cough as opposed to anything resembling lighthearted mirth.

"Of course."

The two men looked away from each other and back at the unfolding scene. As passionate as the woman was and as cold and as indifferent the machines were, the events really weren't that interesting or exciting. It could be easily compared to 24-hour news coverage of something that would be more exciting for at most an hour out of each day. Yet the only media outlet which had bothered to cover the event was the campus newspaper, and even the budding young journalist was glancing at his watch and wondering if he could get away with running off to the diner down the street and picking up a sandwich and come back in time for something, just anything to happen. It wasn't that he wished the woman any harm or particularly cared if she was able to save the Phoenix. He just needed a story by that evening so it could print the next day.

By the quarter-hour point, the woman was starting to realize that perhaps she should have brought water or food of some kind to help her outlast the machines and thus help the Phoenix to outlast the machines. At the very least, she should have brought water. Her voice was completely gone now, yet she could still manage a solid defiant glare out to the men in their machines. For a moment, she snuck a warm smile to the man in the red sweater.

"Hi sweetie." He said quietly and waved his hand at the wrist mechanically.

Suddenly the rumbling engines ceased as their operators listened to their handheld radios for further instructions. For a moment, the two sides were at an impasse.

"She must love this place very much." The bearded man sighed.

"I know what you mean." Red Sweater agreed. "If she's willing to go through all this just for a building-"

"It's obviously not just a building to her."

"You're right about that. I've known her for a few years, and I still don't quite get why she's so drawn to this place."

"Have you ever been here?"

"It was shut down by the time I got here. I mean, I've walked by it a few times-"

"I mean, have you ever been inside it?" Just the way the bearded man said it with an emphatic tone, but with an almost hushed, low voice made Red Sweater realize that the Phoenix probably had another supporter, even if he was not chained up alongside the woman whom the man in the red sweater loved, but never quite understood.

"No." He paused and looked at the bearded man cautiously. "You never did answer my question about why you were here."

"Yes, well, I just came to say goodbye, of sorts." He explained.

"So you're attached to the Phoenix too?"

"In a way, yes."

Red Sweater had the strange idea that his new acquaintance had reasons to not be so forthcoming in answering the questions posed to him. Yet he figured it would be best if he didn't push him. It was hardly his business at all, but then again, he still told the bearded man about why he was there, hadn't he?

"Do you think I should stop her?" Almost changing the subject might help.

"Do you?" Perhaps not.

Now a sizable crowd had formed a safe distance away from the Phoenix. It seemed like the more quiet things got, the more people were drawn to it. Perhaps it was the opposite of conventional intuition that people are drawn to noise, but this now-silent woman surrounded by now-silent machines provided for a much more interesting even to gaze upon than the lumbering machines would have for all of their sound.

Women much older than Mira seemed to be more in awe that the Phoenix was still standing at all, as if in complete surprise that it hadn't been torn down much earlier. They whispered to each other wondering why such a brash young woman would bother with such a thing. Back when they were younger, the place had a bad reputation for showing licentious films. Why would anyone want to save something like that?

Some kids who lived in a nearby apartment building watched in morbid curiosity to see if the machines would rev up again and just plow her down along with the building on top of her. That would have definitely made things more interesting in this boring place. They soon lost interest and went back home to watch television. School had gotten out early that year due to the lack of snow days, so at least they could look forward to an early summer. One of them was at the age where parents expected her to find a job. The only options were at the mall or the movie theater. Like hell she was going to work at a restaurant.

The men in their machines continued to exchange glances at each other as a booming voice came in muffled on their radios. The woman continued standing, bracing herself for any reprisal. Some police cars pulled up, yet none of the officers bothered to get out of the car. Another car pulled up as a woman got out of the car with a radio in one hand and a folder of plans in the other. She briskly walked toward the woman chained inside the theater. The two exchanged a few words. Even if nobody else could hear what was going on, it wasn't hard to guess that these were hardly friendly words despite the civil appearance of their interlocutors. The chained woman gestured to her coat pocket. The other woman pulled out a piece of paper, scanned it quickly, crumpled it, and tore it into pieces before storming off. The men in their machines watched her pass with the same amount of disinterest they had about the entire affair. Either way, the building was going down, even if they had to go home for the night and come back the next day. Sure, the woman inside looked like she could stand until doomsday, but everyone knew that the end was inevitable.

Perhaps deep down, the woman herself knew that too. But for now, she was going to give them hell. After all, she knew for a long time that anything was possible at the Phoenix. She had taken the good with the bad over the years and hoped that there would be someone else who could help her carry the weight of its preservation.

As the woman with the radio drove away, the man in the red sweater looked at the bearded man once more.

"So, what's your story with this place?"

Greybeard gave the "well, you've caught me look" full with his eyes crinkling and revealing his years. He was probably younger than Mira, but still seemed matured, like the sum of his life experience had been condensed in a few years.

"I met my wife here."

It was such a simply constructed sentence. Subject, verb, direct object and a preposition. Yet the weight of it could probably support an entire building. Red Sweater pondered that perhaps if he had met Mira there, things would be different. Maybe he would have been able to understand her.

"You should have seen it. This place used to be beautiful." His eyes fogged over as the memories of the wistful often do. "I know that much earlier, it was a movie theater, but when I met my wife, it was a wonderful Indian restaurant. There was even a laundromat in the back to appeal to the college crowd, but by then I already had started my residency at the hospital and rented my own apartment with a washer/dryer unit."

"Mira never told me that." Red Sweater mused. "Are you Indian?"

"No, actually." He shook his head. "I'm Persian."

"Ah." It was an interjection of understanding, but the answer really didn't explain much of anything if there was anything else lying in the initial question.

Greybeard looked on as the machines started up again. "It looks like these machines are as tenacious as your Mira."

"She is strong, but I feel like I should be trying to protect her." He looked up at the clouds gathering. "Yet as long as we've been together, I was never really able to claim her or the idea that we belonged together."

"But you are still together, right?"

Red Sweater realized that the man's wife was not with him. Along with the earlier statement of "saying goodbye," he came to the conclusion that the man's wife had died.

"Yes, we're still together." He wished he could be more eloquent in asking his new acquaintance such a sensitive question, but felt it would be best to just jump right into it. "Where is your wife now? If you were going to say goodbye to the Phoenix, you'd do it together, just like how you first met, right?"

Greybeard stared at the now dim marquee. "She died of cancer a few years back. She always told me that she knew I'd outlive her, and not just because I was younger. Like any husband, I would have loved to prove her wrong. No one wants to go through life alone."

"You weren't alone for all of your life though. At least you had her with you for awhile."

"You're right, I did." He smiled wanly.

"Does it hurt to see this reminder of your past destroyed?"

"Strangely, no. Maybe I needed to see this happen to finally accept that she's gone." Red Sweater could see tears slightly blurring Greybeard's eyes.



It was then that Everett realized what he had to do. He always knew he was never meant to help Mira save the Phoenix. Of course, he would take no joy or satisfaction from its destruction, but at the same time, he wanted to show her that she could live in the present. As cheesy as it sounded, he wanted to explain to her that the place would never be gone as long as she remembered it for what it was. Of course, Everett was never really the eloquent type anyway.

His lungs puffed as each step hit the pavement. He was never used to running, but felt that the occasion was urgent enough to warrant it even if the machines still had made no progress toward their goal. It was surprisingly easy to lift Mira's arms and pull her up so the chains fell at her feet. Before she could protest or hit him with a mysteriously-drawn placard, he pulled her out and dove out of the way so the machines could finally crash through the building.

There was a crunch and scrape. The sound was so loud varied in pitch that it almost sounded like human screaming. As Everett covered Mira with his body as if to protect her from the sight as well as potential flying debris, he could feel her fists against his chest as well as the sound of her yelling and sobbing as she collapsed into him. The machines reversed and rammed again and again until the roof caved in, taking the walls with it. Everything seemed to crumble from within much like the imagined controlled implosion could have been. The whole thing seemed almost too easy, like the building was just waiting for the right opportunity to fall apart. What had taken years to build and rebuild, decades to decay, had only took several moments to render asunder.

As the dust cleared, Everett coughed and looked down at Mira who was still in his arms on the sidewalk several yards away. "Wanna go get something to eat?"

She glared up at him, as if thinking about punching him in the jaw, but instead patting the dust out of his hair.

"Ok."

Final Interlude

The walls are coming down all around us. All our lives, we've been raised to know that the end of the world will come with explosive fire, razing everything, scorching the earth so nothing grows again. This same heat will melt the very flesh off of our bones like tallow around the wick of a candle. Even if it is instantaneous, we still feel the agonizing torment of knowing that after this, there shall be nothing.

Yet this is not the case if our entire world lies within the confines of four walls or just one building. The end is much less dramatic. A slow, low rumbling crumble. We have not seen the sky in such a long time, some of us for years. Others of us have not felt the stroking rays of sunlight for decades. Such things are as easy to forget as names and dates. Perhaps the roof will open up and before crushing all beneath it and burying us once and for all, we will get a taste of that simple joy once more. As far as heat to burn off our flesh, that won't happen. For one thing, it feels just as cold and nothing-like as it ever did in here. Also, it's hard to sear the flesh off our bones if none of us have any flesh or bone to speak of whatsoever.

Perhaps this is more florid and ornate than necessary, especially compared to before. Then again, it is easy to get a bit melodramatic at the end of everything. Allow me to clarify, I use the collective "we" in the sense that we are all finally aware of each other as opposed to the usual fleeting glimpses. There is a woman dancing in the balcony, her long skirt whipping up around her legs and her arms waving in the air. I now know her to be Olivia, and myself to be Jack, after all of this time, I have found her. I suppose it makes sense that I'd finally find her just as everything is about to be completed into nothing, much as it was before.


And I see the man with his broom and the girl with her broom. I know the man to be Jack, but I do not know the girl. I probably wouldn't have noticed them at all if I hadn't stopped dancing. I used to love it so, but now my feet hurt, or as close to feeling pain as someone in my position could feel. Perhaps I do it because I cannot sing anymore. For decades, I had no voice, always feeling the twist of the rope around my throat, each sinew tightening, digging into my flesh. I was always dancing, whether at the end of that rope or in the balcony itself, completely aware of nothing. As far as I was concerned, the rest of the world simply did not exist. Maybe I needed it to be that way, but now I understand how foolish the whole thing was. I only hope that Jack has forgiven me for my part in all of it. From the creases around his eyes to his smile, I know that he has. Even after all this time, he still looks at me with that same look of longing, as if he couldn't simply walk up to the balcony to reach me. Perhaps it is not love that I feel for him, even after all this time in isolation, but something else they haven't any words for, or at least they didn't have words for it in my own time.


I notice the girl down in the aisles with me using a broom very much like my own. She still seems lost in her own world, listening to her loud music. I do not know her name. Even after observing her interacting with others, even with ones outside of her own time, I still do not know her name. And as the earth beneath our feet continues rumbling, it hits me, just as the first few points of light come through the cracks in the roof sting my eyes or whatever method I use to somehow experience vision. She does not belong here. She never did. She may as well have not been here at all, but at the same time, I know that she exists as she should somewhere else. She is exactly as she was meant to be just as I am as I was meant to be. Yet this is impossible. Yet by all rights, this entire situation should be entirely impossible. Yet it only makes sense that at the end of all things, at least for us, all those rules and barriers should fall like so many bricks and pieces of timber and clay around us.

It was strange that even if we managed to transcend the barriers of our bodies, we paid for it by having to remain in the confines of the Phoenix. Of course, I highly doubt that transcending our bodies was what any of us had originally set out to do. We all wanted to find something, someone here, but couldn't seem to.

I remember the woman, the living one who had come here searching for her brother. It seems like yesterday that she came here, although for all I could know, it really was yesterday. For once, I can safely say that he was not and never was here. Even after all this time, I am not entirely sure how the rules work. It's not like I would be able to tell her that, but I still feel a bit better knowing what she probably spent her life searching for. She could be just as dead as me for all I know.


This place used to be beautiful to me once, an oasis of culture in the middle of nowhere, a legitimate job compared to just completely giving up and going home. Instead of paint on the walls, now I see blood. It is not merely a layer of cobwebs and dust I see settled over the furniture, but rather, the entire building was held up for so long merely by all this rot. I do not know what is causing all of this destruction. All I know is that this end is as welcome to me as the beginning once was, when Peter first took me in as a chorus girl after my bus broke down halfway to the city. Of course, it was this initially kind act which doomed me to remain here forever, just as Jack's misguided love doomed me here. Maybe I'm just laying the blame on everyone, but some part of me knows that I deserved to die here, even if I still can't quite accept it.

I am no longer dancing on the balcony, but dangled from the rope again. As the balcony caves in, I am finally able to come down, the rope snapping beneath the crushing and grinding of everything above falling. Yet I only find myself trapped once again, next to Jack. He looks at me, the same lingering, longing look and then reaches out. The light hurts our eyes, but we can tell that there are people watching this grand, albeit horrific spectacle. If I were standing, I would take a bow. I never really had a chance to bow at my first "final" curtain call, and it looks like I won't be able to take one for this second one.

"Olivia?" He takes my hand. It feels oddly warm, but for all I know, I am just imagining it.

"Yes?"

"I am so very sorry that I could not find you sooner."

"It doesn't matter." It really didn't. I wasn't looking for him, although I wonder if I did, all this would have just come to an end much sooner.



If I could have caught her, I would have. I was distracted by the edges of our times completely blurring. I could see the men in their dark fornication, expressions glazed over by pale grey light, experiencing the same hollow pleasure in death as they did in their lives, if one could call what they had life. I could see the girl sweeping around, occasionally talking to people who actually paid attention to her. It only took a second for that rope to snap and the balcony to collapse along with the roof to completely cave in. For a moment, it seemed like I had a body again, yet of course, this meant I had the same limitations as before. Even if I was a whole, complete man, I would have never been able to move fast enough. It was like I had failed her once again. Why was this happening?

I pulled myself through all the rubble to be at her side. She looked out into the light. Maybe she was realizing that she had spent most of her limited time living in the dark, with only the artificial glow of spotlights and house lights to warm her. Maybe that was what drew me to her, despite her obvious coldness toward me.

"Olivia?"

For the first time, for pretty much ever, I reached out and touched her hand, taking it in mine. If the world was ending, then at least I could be with her as I wished. Her hands were cold and much smaller than I remembered. I looked around for a moment and realized that everyone else was gone. She and I were finally alone.


"Yes?" She looks at me, almost sadly. Was she looking for me all this time as well? I highly doubt that though. If anything, I think that she's just tired.

I completely forgot what I was going to say. It probably wasn't that important anyway. "I am so very sorry that I could not find you sooner."

This probably sounded completely ridiculous, but for some reason, it felt necessary. After all, at the end of all things, it couldn't hurt.

"It doesn't matter."

I wanted to ask her why. As much as I wished for her to discover that her feelings really had changed over time, that she somehow realized that she was meant to be with me, I had been around long enough to know that could never be true. Most likely, she just meant that it didn't matter considering how all of our wasted time would just go back to nothing either way.

I wanted to ask her why, but the last wall completely came down over us before I could get any sound out at all.

12:04 p.m. Wednesday, May 8, 2024

Everett got out of the car and looked for traffic on both sides despite knowing there wouldn't be any. For one thing, most people preferred to use the large parking lot at the end of the block and enjoy the small downtown area's quaint charms on foot from the sidewalks. At least that was what the tourists did. Even though he had been a somewhat-recent transplant in town, what with after about five years, townies still referred to him as "the new guy," Everett was certainly no tourist. The Chamber of Commerce considered it a lucky break that people passed through at all and spent a few much-needed dollars there before driving up to the city. That was the problem. With all of the new traffic, the town decided it would be best to "re-beautify" the area by tearing down all the "old eyesores" to attract tourists. This was precisely the problem, potential new beginnings only benefitted at the cost of the old stand-bys. Or at least, that was the problem to Mira.

Naturally, hers was the only figure he could see standing on the sidewalk. If anyone was out at all, they certainly were walking about for business or leisure purposes. They definitely weren't standing stock still with a placard reading "Save the Phoenix" in huge, bright crimson letters. Granted, they were hand-painted, but with Mira's meticulous nature, it was only natural that the letters were as neat as they were bold. Yet even with her nitpicking about everything around her, Mira seemed to forget herself a lot of the time. As Everett approached her, he saw that one of her seamed stockings had rolled down around her left ankle from beneath her grey pencil skirt. The slumped stocking wasn't quite the same shade as the other one on the right. One was more of a dark chocolate color where the other was more of a coal black. Her wavy black hair sat coiled in a bun in the back of her head, with plenty of white streaks poking out from the dark. Part 1960's protestor, part turn of the century librarian, part collegiate historian, part modern lawyer, Mira was a complete anachronism.

"Mira, what are you doing here?" Everett sighed. "Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Oh honey, you know that I always come out here on my lunch break." She didn't bother looking at him. Instead she just stared straight ahead like she was expecting the king of the universe or something to walk by so she could yell at him properly and set him straight.

"You should really eat something though. You're not as young--"

"You're one to talk gramps." She scoffed before actually turning to him. "Now are you gonna help me or not? I've got some markers and posterboard over there from the store."

"No." Everett scratched his head. "Why did you get all that? Who is it for anyway?"

"You know, dear." A high lilt flew from her voice. "For the kids."

Everett frowned as a truck drove by at a speed much too fast for a pedestrian area. "What kids? Do you honestly think that those college kids would give a crap about this place?"

"It wouldn't hurt. I mean, I posted fliers, so it only seems fair that I'd prepare in case some of them showed up." She explained as her skirt fluttered a bit in the wind.

"That's where you went on Saturday when I asked you to help me clean out the gutters?" Everett pulled a bit more at his curly hair. It was a wonder he had any left after living with her for almost a decade.

He watched her eyes go up to the left corner the way they did when she was usually feeling guilty. "Well, yes. But don't you agree with me? This place is important and should be saved."

"Important to who?"

"Whom, dear."

"What?"

"When you use the pronoun 'who' after a preposition, you use it in the form of 'whom.'" She explained.

Everett closed his eyes. "Whatever. That doesn't matter. This doesn't matter."

Mira bopped him on the head with the placard. "Of course this matters!"

He rubbed his somewhat splinter-riddled forehead. "It only matters to you! That was what I was trying to get at. This only matters to you! No one else cares."

She glared at him, the hurt visibly glazed over her dark eyes. Aside from the usual crow's feet, they still looked like the bright eyes of a young girl. Mira said nothing and went back to staring out across the street.

Everett stood behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, partially to comfort her, partially to ensure that she wouldn't hit him over the head with the sign again. So much for that.

"Ow. Mira, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." He rubbed his nose and made sure he didn't get any splinters in his eyes.

"Yes you did." She insisted, standing so still that Everett knew that she was trying to keep him from knowing that she was crying. "And so what? So what if it's true and I'm the only one who cares now? If I stand here long enough, someone else might care."

He walked around again to face her. "Well, at the very least, you managed to talk me into this whole crazy deal."

At least that much, Mira knew was true. They had met in the city, working at the same law firm. She had already established herself in the rather perilous world of litigation whereas he was barely able to grab a hold while first starting out. Their romance was the most puzzling in the firm's history, especially considering how much interoffice dating was discouraged. Not to mention their rather obvious age discrepancy. Then again, more often than not, Mira seemed much younger than her counterpart, often dressing in eccentric and sometimes provocative clothing. Yet despite her odd wardrobe and strange behavior concerning relationships, people took her seriously and even respected her well. For one thing, she could almost get anyone she conversed with to see the other side of any argument.

Yet this was what got her in trouble outside the city. As soon as she had randomly come across the article on the internet about the pending demolition of the Phoenix Theater in her old hometown, she packed up everything and moved down there. Granted, the small law office seemed glad to get new blood despite the lack of any real work in such a small town outside of the usual civil dispute involving the college students. Yet the city council did not seem nearly as understanding as she hoped concerning her main cause in her homecoming. Anyone else probably would have packed up and headed back to the city where they belonged, but not Mira. This is where she stands now, in front of the Phoenix Theater with sign in hand as if ready to push back the wrecking ball and protect the building until her very last breath.

Everett was still getting used to the idea of having to cook his food instead of ordering in, not to mention the joys of yard work after spending most of his life in a city where he rarely saw a leaf, let alone an entire tree which could drop a yard-full of leaves seemingly in an instant. It didn't help that he rarely saw Mira anymore. He loved working in the city and felt that he had finally gotten the hang of things, but at the same time, he felt like he owed that to Mira. The one thing he didn't count on was that this fight would drag on for almost half a decade.

"Mira, it seems like every day we do this, and every day, this accomplishes absolutely nothing." He sat down on the sidewalk with his legs dangling in the gutter. He noticed that his jeans had a hole on his right shin. Five years ago, he wouldn't have had jeans with a hole in them; he wouldn' t have had jeans at all but tailored suits from moderately-priced material and labor.

Mira continued standing, just as the building seemed to continue standing, if only for whatever little time it had left. "Well then honey, what do you propose we do? Just give up, pack everything in the car and go back to the city? I can't do that."

"Why not? You gave up almost everything. We gave up everything."

"You mean you gave up everything." She stormed, glaring down at him. "If you hate it here so much, then I don't see any reason why you shouldn't leave."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

Everett felt the creak in his neck again and slumped his head forward between his knees. What was he doing there? At first this whole thing seemed like fun, just some grand adventure since he had never been anywhere outside of the city before and wanted to know how everyone else lived. From what he saw, all he could understand was the desperate actions of several people to save their town at any cost. Granted the Phoenix Theater looked nice on the outside, not to mention they had fixed up the inside on several occasions, but it was obvious there was just no interest anymore for old-style movie theaters. With everything digital these days, it just seemed pointless to keep such an old relic standing. Yet Mira was as tenacious in this rather futile fight as she was in any courtroom battle. She had even offered to buy the building from the current owner who had pretty much let it rot over the past decade. Yet the guy seemed pretty firm in letting the wrecking ball have it.

No matter how hopeless it was, Mira still stood firm. Everett couldn't understand for the life of him why she did, but he knew it was one of the reasons he had followed her. He wanted to learn why and how she could be so firm in her convictions. He knew she wasn't religous, so maybe that was why, just a different channel for all that fanatical passion. Then again, he wasn't religious either and wasn't that passionate about anything at all. Part of him envied that about her, how she could fall in love with an old dump like the Phoenix. He had walked past it and stood in front of it with her numerous times but never really understood what the big deal was. For one thing, she never had really talked about herself much, at least where her old life in the small town was concerned. At the very least, he wanted to learn that, but now it looked like he'd be leaving completely empty-handed.

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder. Everett turned around and looked up to see Mira leaning against the wooden post of her placard. She was smiling, but very tired-looking despite it being so early in the day.

"I didn't mean that." She helped him up. "Let's get some lunch, ok?"

Everett nodded and felt his shoes dragging on the sidewalk. These days, they felt so big sometimes, like they were almost hollow. He didn't remember his feet being so small before, but it wouldn't have surprised him if Mira accidentally got him the wrong size shoes. They were old and a bit beat up so that the size had been worn off the bottom. Still, Mira had picked them out from the local thrift store since she thought they'd fit him.

Maybe he'd feel better after eating something.

Saturday February 27, 1993 11:08 p.m.

Mira finished tying a double knot in the last black plastic bag full of empty bottles and various other bits of floor debris. She was always surprised at the amount of garbage the other kids left on the floor. If anything, she had expected the cold weather to detract from the weekend nightly draw. But no, they came out in an even fuller force, as if they all crowded together for warmth and just needed the space as an excuse to crush up against each other for heat and sensation. As an added precaution, she carefully lifted the now hefty bag and placed it into an empty one. Mira was a firm believer in double bagging even if Lester just thought it was a waste of money. The last thing the Phoenix Ballroom needed was a raccoon problem from bags coming open and leaking even more beer leading a trail from inside to the back. Nonetheless, the idea of drunken raccoons amused Mira, considering they probably wouldn't find much else to consume other than stale beer soaked in the floorboards.

As she tiptoe-waddled her way out the narrow back emergency exit door, Mira also remembered that Lester thought that recycling was a waste of money too. If not that, he usually just dismissed Mira's requests to get recycling pickup and a green bin for the back alley as simply "playing into a fad." Lester could be funny like that sometimes. Still, he kept mostly to himself and didn't really talk to anyone, let alone people his own age. Mira knew her parents didn't like Lester all that much, but for whatever reason, they still let her work there even if "nothing but degenerates" frequented the local hangout and show venue.

The back alley didn't have the same simplistic grace of the front. For one thing, nobody bothered covering up the red bricks with the gold clay used for the front facade. Being exposed to the weather and various other abuses only caused the grey concrete mortar to crumble between the bricks. Even though it was dark, the flickering overhead light outside swayed, casting an arc of pale gold light onto the walls. Even if it hadn't rained, it was always wet back there. Something dripped from the roofs and walls into puddles on the cracked pavement ground. Whatever that "something" was, it usually smelled awful. Sometimes Mira couldn't help but wonder if the apartment building behind the Phoenix didn't have any proper indoor plumbing, so people just threw their waste from the roof and out the windows. Then again, that particular apartment building had been built years after the Phoenix first took hold as the center of the small downtown area.

As Mira stood in her own wavering pool of light, she peered down the rest of the dark alley for any signs of life. The last thing she needed was a heart attack from some random raccoon or squirrel crashing around in a dumpster down the way. Or worse yet, she didn't want to get caught off guard by some homeless person or something worse. She always got a sick feeling when she went back there these days despite how it had been when she first re-discovered the place of her birth. Nobody ever gave her any grief about the fact she was born in some stinking back alley to a homeless prostitute. Even then, Mira didn't know if her mother was really a prostitute and that was how she got pregnant or even worse, was raped by someone in an even more sick state of mind than she was. For all anyone knew, the parents she lived with were her real ones. They were real enough to her, considering. Still, Mira always had the strange feeling that everyone knew there was something not quite right about her.

So it seemed, the coast was clear. Mira shrugged and hoisted the heavy plastic bag inches above the ground with both hands, took a few meandering steps in a circle, building momentum as the bag swung higher and higher, and released. The bag crashed against the brick wall just a few inches away from the dumpster and fell to the ground with the tinkling sound of broken glass.

"Shit." Mira was always terrible at the hammer throw anyway. As her coach once told her before the days of sexual harassment lawsuits, she was all legs and nothing else.

Shuffling a bit, further ruining her favorite pair of running shoes long after she retired them from track seasons due to wear, she made her way over to the plastic bag over in the shadows. Mira gingerly picked it up with both hands, trying to make sure she didn't puncture the bag any further and lifted it slowly in the air, feeling the strain in her arm muscles as she shoved it up into the dumpster. Once again in the ebbing pool of light, she felt oddly warmer. Mira knew that she should have worn her actual winter jacket instead of merely relying on her favorite green hoodie to get her through the thirty seconds of taking the garbage out. For one thing, she definitely heard enough of that kind of talk from Lester and her parents. Usually, when she ran wherever she needed to go, she was warm enough to not bother with a coat. Still, if anything predictable, Midwestern winters are temperamental. The only thing you could be sure of concerning the weather was that you'd probably need to be wearing much more than you had in your closet.

Turning around for the back door, Mira soon realized that it may take a bit longer than the usual thirty seconds or even the minute it took since she had missed the dumpster. Maybe it had closed behind her by accident. No, that couldn't be right. She would have heard it if that was the case. In any case, she would have heard it since the damn thing was so heavy and loud that it would never escape notice. Besides, there was usually a cinder block propping it open, especially when Mira was taking out the trash "just in case." Of course, she understood why Lester didn't like her taking out the trash so late, but she always insisted. Lester really never was one for argument, even if it was something as silly as that.

"Lester!" Mira slapped her palm against the steel door. "Open up!"

She paused a moment and realized he probably couldn't hear her so she balled up her hand into a fist and pounded on the door. "Lester!"

Still no response.

"Come on Lester, quit being a dick!" Chances were, Lester was up front counting money or cleaning up. Still, there was a chance he could hear her, right?

"This is ridiculous." She sighed and rolled her eyes at no one in particular. Mira knew she could always go down the alley and around to the front of the Phoenix and be let in through there. Still, she didn't want to go down that way just yet.

"Lester! Open the damn door!"

A squeak alerted her overhead, where the streetlamp suspended on the cord hovered and wavered even more than usual. Was something climbing across the wires? Mira peered up, but the barrier between light and darkness blocked her from really seeing much of anything. As she rubbed her eyes, she saw green and blue afterimages. At least that was what she told herself as far as the random shapes moving around in the distant darkness were concerned.

A faint scratching sound caused her to turn her head to the right end of the alleyway. What the hell could that be? Most likely, it was rats, but that explanation offered her even less comfort than she originally thought it would.

"Ucch, Mira. Quit scarin' yourself, kiddo." She said to herself, much in the same way she figured Lester would if he was there. Then again, if he was there, at least he'd be able to open the damn back door or at least walk her back out front.

Yet the squeaking and scratching noises continued.

"Lester, please open the door." At this point, she could barely get out a whisper. Now Mira was simultaneously thirsty and terrified, almost as if she didn't want anyone else to hear her in case Lester still couldn't.

She closed her eyes. "Please open the door."

The sounds only seemed to get louder with an even more creeping sensation all around her, like something was almost touching her, but kept passing by her rapidly. Now even her throat went completely dry as her mouth tasted bitter from the acrid smell all around her. How could her mother have stayed in this place? It was abhorrent to even think of that strange woman as her mother. She felt her calf muscles twitching as if attempting to get her started in running away even as she was sinking to the ground with her face behind her knees as she hugged her legs and sat on her heels.

Now whatever it was really was touching her. Its hands felt more like claws as they rushed through her hair and traced her neck. It would have been so much simpler if she ran. Why couldn't she just stand up and run now. Whatever this thing was, it was at floor level. She could easily spring up and run away. Why wasn't she moving? Now it was tearing at her sweatshirt, knocking her on the ground so she fell on her side.

Trembling uncontrollably, Mira sobbed. Why hadn't Lester just opened the door? He was usually in the back to check up on Mira at the end of the night, especially when she was taking out the garbage. Why hadn't she just gone around the building to the front? Or, why hadn't she just run home or caught the bus? Lester knew when she usually left and it wasn't like he used a time clock anyway.

Now she felt the hands at the waistband of her pants. They scratched and clawed at the fabric as if with more of an animal sense of instinct instead of any human awareness of clothing with buttons or zippers. No. Nothing human could do that. Nothing human could do that to her mother or to her for that matter. No. She couldn't let this happen. She was not like her mother. More importantly, she was not her mother. Yet even as she tried to kick, she felt nothing. It was almost like she wasn't moving at all. No.

Think.

No.

What could she do?

No.

Just say it.

No.

Just get up and run.

No.

All she could do was lay curled up and feel the terrifying rush around her. All she could do was shut her eyes tightly and see the light fading beneath her eyelids as the overhead lamp wavered continually.

She felt herself being pried apart. Maybe there was more than one, pulling at each of her limbs as she opened up. This time she screamed, a high, shrill and dry sound from the pit of her sickened stomach up her throat and out, like metal against metal or glass against metal in a car crash.

Mira heard a loud slam and footsteps running toward her.

"Mira! What the hell happened? Are you all right?"

"Leave me alone! Don't touch me!" She kicked and flailed around before opening her eyes. It was Lester. The door had slammed shut behind him. "Lester?"

"Yeah, it's me." Lester helped her to her feet and held her tightly. "I'm sorry. How long have you been back here? I couldn't hear a thing, or I would have been here much sooner."

"Lester, you didn't see anyone back here, did you?" Mira asked warily, looking up at his face.

"No. All I saw was you lying on the ground crying and screaming." Lester pulled back. "Let's get you home. I'll drive you if you want."

"Ok."

Neither of them spoke a word on the drive back to her house. Nor did either even mention the incident after that.

Saturday October 6, 1990, 10:55 p.m.

Small pockets of people dispersed on the floor revealing radius after radius of trash. So much for house rules, right? Sometimes Damien couldn't help but wonder how these kids behaved in their own homes. Did they at least pretend to give a shit and pick up after themselves, or did they show their parents the same amount of disdain as the rather defenseless floor of the Phoenix Theater. From all of the cigarette burns and broken glass embedded in the boards, it looked more like one of the whores Patrick picked up once he was done with her and bid her farewell with a coke-soaked $50 bill and a bottle flung at the door behind her. Instead of putting his share in to help fix the van or even his own piece of shit guitar with the tuners practically screwed out of line and often in need of new stings, Patrick usually spent his share from gigs on shit like that. Hell, he was probably out back offering some teenage girl twenty bucks for a blowjob. With any luck, he wouldn't even have to pay her.

Damien snarled in disgust just thinking about it. Things weren't like this when he was growing up in town. He caught himself. For a moment there, he was thinking like his old man, always wishing that times were like "the time before." What did that even mean anyway? It was funny though since he hadn't even really thought of him much let alone called him and his mom in at least a year or so. It wasn't that they didn't get along or God forbid, his dad didn't approve of his son's decision to pursue a career in music. They just weren't tight like other families. For a moment, he tried to picture his dad's face, maybe imagine it a bit more wrinkled with the hairline making its retreat a bit further. Yet this didn't seem quite right. Damien hadn't been gone that long, right?

Beside the couple kissing goodbye off by the exit, everyone was pretty much cleared out for the night. Damien thought that was kind of sweet and wondered if he should give Jen a call. No, she probably hightailed it the hell out of there after graduation or got married. The last time he saw her was actually at the Phoenix before the Daddy's Little Girl went on their first tour. As she hugged him for what they both knew would most likely be the last time, he could recall something rising above the usual cheap beer-vomit and cigarette smell. He was never quite sure what it was. Maybe it was her shampoo or some perfume she was wearing. Or maybe it was just her deodorant from how hot it had gotten in there that night. Sometimes whenever the band had time to kill before a gig, he'd drop into a local drug store and go around smelling the random items in the hygeine and cosmetics department to see if he could locate it. He never did. Then again, it probably didn't help that he usually left quickly when the store clerks would eye him funny as if they were about to call the cops on some kid hooligan.

As Damien looked at how young the kids looked, at first thinking they couldn't be any more than 14 or 15, he soon realized that most of them were at least 16 or 17. It made him think that he was getting too old to just be some "kid hooligan" in a drugstore and more of a "creepy perv." That thought made his stomach twist slightly, but not as much as the thought that Patrick actually deserved that label more than he did. Still, Damien wasn't really that old, was he? Hell, at the very least, he felt like it.

A faint rustling sound growing louder in his direction drew him away from his thoughts. It was the same girl from earlier. What was she still doing there? Even if this was an all-ages show and even if she was technically working, the curfew for kids like her was much more stringent than the 16 and 17-year-olds who could sometimes pass themselves off as 18. He was surprised that her parents allowed that sort of thing. Then again, it wasn't as surprising as his own father pretty much giving him a pat on the shoulder and a nod to "go on ahead and do what you feel you need to do."

He had hung around the Phoenix through the whole night after Daddy's Little Girl's set, scanning the crowd for the familiar ugly green sweatshirt. If anything, maybe the girl saw him, Alex or not. Either way, Damien had to find out before he left town again for another long stretch, otherwise it was just going to drive him nuts. Maybe he had already gone nuts after going for so long without sleep and a proper meal. Damien debated about dropping by his parents' place just to see if his sister was still around and maybe for a quick, more food-like bite to eat than the usual rest stop and gas station fare. Even if he knew he would always be welcomed home, it was still very late. The last thing he needed to do was to cause a false alarm as his first reunion with his family in years.

Damien watched the girl with the broom go past him. She was wearing a green sweatshirt over the t-shirt he had on earlier, probably since it got considerably colder. It wasn't the same horrible pea-soup color as Alex's usual one though. It was still worth asking, even if she would undoubtably think he was insane for even asking. No, wait, the girl didn't know Alex was really dead. For all she would know, Damien was just looking for a friend out in the crowd. So, it couldn't hurt.

"Excuse me, miss?" He tapped her on the shoulder, realizing that doing so would be much more effective than trying to address her formally due to the fact she was wearing the large loud headphones from earlier.

She shrugged and lowered the monster phones around her neck, catching a few strands of black hair on the plastic arch. "Yes? Can I assist you? I mean, I'll try to help if I can, but we are closing up for the night."

"I know, I played the opening set." Damien saw the girl's lips pucker and eyes widen slightly out of embarassment. "I was wondering if you saw a guy about my height, five o'clock shadow and in a really ugly green sweatshirt."

As soon as the girl looked down at her own hoodie, Damien raised his hands in a quick defense. "Not like yours of course."

The girl seemed to realize that both had evened up the score for par on public embarassment. "I think I saw him momentarily, but there was something a bit weird about it."

So, Damien wasn't going crazy after all. Or maybe it was possible for two people to be crazy at the same time? "Really? What was weird about it?"

"Well, I had just gotten done cleaning up in time for you guys to get started - great set by the way." She looked up at the stage. "So I look over and see this guy standing by himself between the clumps of people up front."

"What's odd about that?" Damien shrugged. "People go to shows by themselves sometimes."

"If you let me finish, I'll get to the weird part." She seemed a bit more humorous than impatient with him. "So yeah, anyway, I look around for a second and then the guy is completely gone when I looked at the same spot."

"Are you sure he didn't just leave or go somewhere else in the theater?" Damien awkwardly reached down to her shoulders and looked her carefully in the eye.

"I'm certain." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Besides, I would have seen him if he left through the back. I got used to looking all over the place after working here for awhile."

"Are you positive?" For all Damien knew, Patrick was just being a dick and paid this kid to mess with him. Then again, even if Patrick was a dick, he wouldn't have been smart enough to think of a prank that elaborate.

"Yeah." Now she probably thought he was completely insane. "You're the one who asked me first, anyway. What's the deal with this guy? He owe you money or something?"

Damien released her and looked at the exit and began to walk toward it. "You could say I owe him something. Thanks for the info."

"Hey." She grabbed him by the wrist. "I wasn't done yet. As if that wasn't weird enough, he turned up during the last song on your set and said something to me."

Damien turned around and walked back to her, reeling slightly. "What did he say?"

"He said something like 'tell Patrick to watch the B string' or D string or something like that." She shrugged, spinning the broom inches above the ground. "I really couldn't hear him above the music you know."

"Well I'll be damned." He muttered.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, it's just that Alex's guitar always had a bit of trouble tuning the B. It would always go sharp or something."

"So now Patrick's got his hands on it, he ain't so careful with it?"

A loud slam alerted their attention to Lester's stern face staring at them from down in front by the now closed emergency exit door.

"Yeah, you could say that. When Alex di- I mean, when he left, Patrick sort of took over for lead."

A moment of clarity spread across the girl's usually placid, yet indifferent expression. "Die hard fan, right? Even if he did leave you guys, he still keeps tabs on you when you're in town."

"Yeah, but the weird thing is that he 'left' us in a town all the way across the country from here." Damien didn't dare mention death anymore. This conversation had become way too weird for him to comprehend besides that. He was talking to some teenage girl about seeing his dead best friend wandering the Phoenix theater during their set.

"If you ask me," she confided, "The Phoenix is a funny place."

"What do you mean?"

"The only way I can explain it is that it seems like sometimes people can become so attached to a place that they can leave a piece of themselves there, no matter how far they go from it." She explained. It made no sense whatsoever, but Damien was willing to accept it compared to no explanation at all. "Do you know what I mean?"

"To be honest with you, no, not really." Damien started to walk toward the back exit to the lobby.

"I never said it would be easy." She gave the "don't look at me, I'm just a kid" shrug. "For example, even I'm not sure why I spend so much time here. But for some reason, I always got the idea that I'd be here forever."

"Why is that?"

"Because I was conceived in the back of this same theater. I was born in the back alley where your friends are probably looking for you. Most likely, I'll die in this place."

"That's a pretty morbid thought." Damien ran his hand along the stretch of wood paneling in the lobby, causing some chips of paint to flake off onto the mud and beer traffic-stained carpet.

"Maybe, but this place ain't so bad." She sighed and held the door open for him. "You know, sometimes I wake up at home and never remember when I left or even wake up here."

"Why are you telling me all this?" He paused as he heard Mac honking the horn of the van telling him to get his ass moving.

"Maybe so you'll be able to tell me why you're so interested in this place and why your friend would be here despite 'leaving' the band." She looked up at Damien, suddenly not seeming so short after all.

"Maybe some other time." He backed away and hopped into the open side door of the van. "After all, I might have left quite a bit of myself in there as well."

"Some other time, then." The girl walked back into the lobby and locked the door as the lights completely shut down, the turquoise neon of the marquee flickering before fading to black, leaving a crimson after-image in Damien's eyes as the van pulled away into the night.

Saturday October 6, 1990, 10:47 p.m.

"Guuuuuuuuuuuuet out!" Oren, the lead singer of Mandrake emitted his usual guttural growl solo before the usual thrash of guitars and drums kicked in.

The walls seemed to bulge out and cave in like speakers about to blow out. Phil knew that the theater was painted in a red and gold sort of scheme, but during the show, all he could see around him was black. From the floor to the ceiling and all around the wall, it seemed like everything was black, or at least a really dark shade of gray. Even most of the people around him were wearing all or mostly black. It was enough for him just to be there and get into the music as best as he can, despite not playing an instrument or really knowing all that much about music. It wasn't like going to church where you had to get dressed up and act a certain way, performing certain rituals. In fact, that was what he liked about it in the first place. Even if he didn't dress like those around him, they didn't give him funny looks or even approach him. They all just stood in mutual silence more or less. It was like some sort of unspoken neutrality agreement on the otherwise complicated high school battlefield. All everyone was expected to do was just face the stage and lose themselves in the darkness.

Maybe this was what it was like to be inside the guitar and bass amps, this constant surrounding by sound, circulating the air like an indoor whirlwind. Rafe thundered as usual on the bass, fingers almost as blur-paced as the guitarists during the song "Escape." Phil loved this song. He usually knew it to be one of the next-to-last on their usual setlist. It was a nice touch that all the doors got propped open as soon as the song started.

The gust of air blowing into the Phoenix Theater called attention to the fact that as soon as the final act winded down its last chords and feedback, everybody would be swept out as the autumn leaves would be blown in. Of course, these leaves would be swept out by the next show along with empty bottles and cigarette butts, but nobody really seemed to notice. Phil was still glad that the door was open. Even if he liked the local venue for its cheap shows and outlets for whatever aggression he imagined that he had, he had little appreciation for the venue's typical atmosphere of cheap beer and even cheaper cigarette smoke. On occasion, he looked over to Cindy and her platinum-blonde hair with minor disapproval as she lit her cigarette and took a drag from it. She had managed to get it from the guy on the other side of her who seemed to only give it to her so she'd leave him alone.

Phil couldn't help but laugh as Cindy coughed and made a face before nonchalantly dropping it to the floor. Who did she think she was kidding anyway? She certainly knew that she wasn't a smoker, and it was all too obvious to Phil that she wasn't as well. On the rare occasions he could get conversation outside of the usual "fuck off" or even the more toned-down on school grounds "buzz off" out of her, she seemed pretty cool. Just the fact that she toned down her language at school proved that this whole "bad girl" thing was just an act, but for whom? Even the actually "bad" kids seemed to pay little attention to her. Then again, when it came to their own circle, it often seemed like if one of them got torn apart by rabid wolves, the rest would stare on blankly and light up their cigarettes by the dumpster after school.

By the middle of the set, a crowd had formed in the center of the floor. Some guys started moshing, but not like Phil had seen at the city shows in the sports arena. This was more like disaffected pushing each other around with no real release of anger or tension. There wasn't even a rhythm to it, let alone a rhythm matching the beat of the music. Naturally feeling protective, Phil had tried to pull Cindy to the side so she wouldn't get hurt. Not to mention that if she moved too much, her skirt would have fallen off. Whenever it nearly did, Phil instinctively looked away.

Usually when Phil would take her by the arm and subtly nudge her to the side, she would glare at him as if he were depriving her of something great. Once, he actually let her get in the circle. She held her own for a good few moments before tripping in her large boots and falling over, giving everyone around her a clear shot of her white panties after her skirt slid off. As Phil helped her up, Cindy pushed his hand away as soon as she stood up, continuing to give him the glare of death. If anyone could hear anything against Mandrake's roar of gut-vocals and guitars, it would have been Phil's continual sighing. There was just no pleasing some people.

Phil had tried to help Cindy by keeping her out of harm's, or more likely, embarassment's way. He even let her in just so she'd learn for herself not to bother. He had even paid her way in. Then again, it wasn't like he was expecting anything in return. He shuddered to think of the sort Cindy would have ended up with if he hadn't come along. Granted, she probably had her own fare, but the way she was looking at the lead singer of the opening band put Phil ill at ease. He wasn't exactly sure why it bothered him so much. It wasn't just because the band was so damned awful. Or maybe the band as a whole wasn't awful. It seemed more like the lead singer was just a guitar player trying to get used to singing lead and playing guitar at the same time.

Still that wasn't entirely bad considering that he liked the other two band who played. In his mind, putting together a punk/hardcore show was never easy since it was rare that either party would be happy, let alone both. Then again, he knew full well that people didn't really go to these shows to be entertained. All the kids in this town, like himself to a certain extent, just went because there really wasn't much to do in the town if you just had five bucks in your pocket. Then again, even if you did have money, like he did, the town wasn't that much more alive in comparison. His parents were by no means millionaires, but he was brought up with the idea that he would go to college and eventually get out of this place. A lot of the kids he knew were of the mindset that they'd probably just graduate from high school and take a job at the factory like their parents did.

After wandering around in his own head for awhile, Phil almost failed to notice that Mandrake was closing their set. This meant that the night would be over and he'd pretty much have a week of church and school to look forward to until the next all-ages show on Saturday.

"So, what did you think?" Phil shouted, right as the final guitar chord rang out in the amps mixed in with an ample side of feedback.

"It was certainly loud." He could see Cindy's nervous smile shine in the dark beneath the ray of spotlight from the back leading to the stage.

Phil knew that look. The last girl he had taken to a show had that same look. It was a look that asked "What am I doing with this guy? How could he enjoy this dreck?"

Nonetheless, he played it off, giving her a playful shove. "I thought you were into this sort of thing, Snakebite."

Cindy rolled her eyes. "Please don't call me that."

"Why? I thought all your friends called you that." He poked her again.

"You know, you really are an obnoxious little shit." She tried to frown despite laughing.

"Well in that case, you must be an obnoxious tiny shit, considering how much taller I am than you." To prove his point, he stood up straight out of his slouch.

"Fuck you."

"Why miss, I would have never thought you to be so forward." Phil's eyes widened in mock shock.

"I bet you would have never expected me to do this either." Before he could say anything, Cindy kissed him. He could taste the little bit of cigarette she had as he felt the tip of her tongue glide along the roof of his mouth, but he sure as hell didn't mind.

"Thanks for the fun night." Cindy started walking away toward the back. "I'll see you in class, 'k?"

"I-" Phil could barely get that out, let alone a suggestion to go pick up some coffee or early breakfast at the 24-hour diner. So, he figured it would be best to close the evening there.

All he could do was just stand there and watch as Cindy and her too-large skirt and boots walked out the open emergency exit to the back alley. All he could do was watch as the other kids left too, along with the guys loading up their equipment in the vans and trucks out back. His ears were still ringing and he probably smelled something awful, but he didn't give a rat's ass. It didn't matter that everyone was gone or that the bands turned in an almost mediocre show that evening. It didn't even matter that he was stepping in what appeared to be someone else's vomit. He wasn't even sure what mattered about that night, but he was sure it was something important if he couldn't even move from the spot he was standing in.

Maybe rock music really did have a hypnotic, aphrodesiac effect on impressionable young, hormonal minds. Maybe Cindy was done with the "bad girl" act and really liked him. Or, for all he knew, this was just part of the image, a game to confuse and frustrate the ever-living hell out of him.

Well, by God, it sure as hell was working.

Saturday April 7, 2024 2:03 p.m.

Daniel and Matt had stood outside the "employees only" door for almost half an hour, having done little more than scratch their heads and stare at the door. They both knew Amber had gone in there. In all truth, Daniel had stood there for about fifteen minutes before getting Matt out in the lobby, where he was playing a portable video game to pass the time. Daniel had debated about whether or not he should break the door down gangbuster's style, but figured it would be more appropriate for a detective vs. the mob movie and completely inappropriate in this case, where Amber would have just stared at him like he had horns coming out of his head or something. So much for a damsel in distress, he would mutter, and he would just continue staring at her.

"How the hell did this get locked anyway? Are you sure you don't have a key to this door?" Daniel asked for what felt like the redundant-to-the-nth-degree time.

Matt didn't even bother looking up at him from his position on the floor with his back to the wall. "For the last time, no. It was lost years ago and nobody bothered fixing it since they stopped showing movies here anyway. If I did have the damn key, I would have opened the door already. Are you even sure you saw her go in here?"

"Yes. Where else could she have gone?" Daniel pointed up to the balcony. "If she went up the other stairwell, we'd see her up there. If she went out through the lobby, you would have seen her. Besides, I hardly think that she'd be the type to go around playing jokes on people."

Matt lifted his head from between his knees and stared vacantly at the aisle of chairs in front of him. "Yeah, you've got a point there. Let's just break it down. It doesn't matter anyway. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but this place is scheduled for demolition."

Daniel felt a strange sense of depression. It turned out that there really was no point in his being there. Hopping a plane, a bus and renting a car proved to be just as futile as him waving around his electric "gun." Granted, he didn't really find anything there according to his instruments, but that didn't shake the odd feeling he got as soon as he stepped into the Phoenix Theater. He had only been there for hours and felt oddly attached to the place. Daniel couldn't imagine how Amber would take the news, especially considering how she seemed to look at the place in awe, how much the Phoenix had a hold on her.

"Then why call us?" He glared at Matt. "Wasn't the deal that if we found new ghosts or 'historical value' to the place, they'd try to make it a landmark?"

Matt immediately went on the defensive, raising his hands as if to show their spotlessness in the situation. "Don't look at me like that. I love this place as much as anyone. It was up to the city council. Since I could barely afford to keep it, let alone reopen it or turn it into something else, they decided to tear it down. Ironically, it's all part of some sort of 'beautify downtown' campaign or some shit like that."

"You didn't answer my question. If you knew they were just going to tear it down, why call us?"

"I just figured it wouldn't hurt to try."

Now Daniel was sitting on the floor. Even if there weren't any real ghosts here, it had to be worth saving considering how much the place had changed over the last century. He found the documents, the playbills and deeds.

"Didn't some guy own it a few years back, turned it into a real nice hangout for the college students or a restaurant or something?" Daniel asked.

"Yeah. I don't know much about that, but I heard from some people who went to school here that he was a real nice guy, one of those rare kind and generous sort." Matt looked around the theater visualizing its previous incarnation. "Of course, the problem is that usually great men tend to be terrible businessmen. Naturally, the place went tits up."

"So why did you buy it?"

"Nostalgia I guess, even if it wasn't for a time or place I was from." Matt chuckled. Daniel smiled slightly. He could definitely relate to that. "Of course, it was a nice tourist oddity for awhile, but since the factories shut down and they built that new highway completely bypassing the town, nobody really comes here anymore."

"Ain't that a bitch?" For whatever reason, Daniel wanted to take this guy out for a cold beer or two. Yet the task at hand remained. "Speaking of life's little pains in the ass, we should really try to get Amber out of there."

"Heh. Knowing her, she'll be fine and get pissed off at us for meddling."

"On three." Daniel backed up into the aisle leading directly to the door and extended his right shoulder. "And a one, and a two and a-"

It turned out that busting down doors wasn't as easy as they made it look in the movies. For one thing, doors in movies shattered into millions of splinters, leaving a nice man-sized hole to walk through. Either that, or the wood doorframe would give in to the metal lock almost like a piece of paper gave in to a pair of scissors or a letter opener. Instead of either of these two previously imagined scenarios happening, something completely unexpected happened.

"Fuck!" His voice reverberated through the empty theater. Daniel fell to the floor, curled up in a fetal position and cradled his potentially-dislocated right shoulder in his left hand.

"Are you ok?" Matt stood over him and peered down, wincing.

"What the hell does it look like? Of course I'm not ok!" Daniel gritted his teeth, trying not to let so much as one droplet pass through his eyelids. Then again, it wasn't like he had any shred of dignity left after falling to the floor and curling up like a sick baby. "What is that door made out of anyway?"

In all the commotion, they barely heard the clack of the deadbolt or the creak of the doorhinges. "What the hell is going on out here?"

"Amber! We should ask you the same question?" Daniel looked her up and down. She was completely covered in dust. The blood trickling down the side of her face wasn't exactly a good sign either.

Matt ran into the dark stairwell, propping the door open with his foot as if in fear of it slamming shut and locking him in. "There's blood all over the stairs. What the hell happened?"

"The girl..." She murmured, almost dazed, but still only looking like she had been rudely awakened from a much-needed nap.

"We better get you to a doctor." Daniel moved as if to reach for her and take her into his arms, but she batted his arm away like she was swatting a fly.

"I'm ok. I just need a moment to-" She fell, not exactly swooning, but just stumbling backward and overshooting her correction and stumbling forward as if drunk.

"No, we're getting you to a doctor." Matt took her left arm and put it around his shoulder as Daniel took the right.

"He's still in there...he needs me."

"Sure he needs you, but Max wouldn't want you to die of a concussion." Matt chuckled awkwardly. "He'd want you to live so he can spend a few more years of his afterlife without being pestered by you."

Daniel nearly dropped her as he glared at Matt again. "You know, man, that's a really terrible thing to say."

"I hate the fact that any time I try to lighten the mood, it always goes completely wrong." Matt shifted the weight on his shoulders slightly. "Let's get her to the car and to the hospital right now."

"Agreed." Daniel muttered, grunting as he realized that he had picked the wrong side. His potentially-dislocated shoulder hurt like all hell, but he figured it wouldn't take that long to get her the hell out of this place.

It sort of reminded Daniel of those old movies he saw where the hero has to escape from the crumbling temple or haunted house before it fell down on top of him and his love interest. Then again, dragging a bleeding, unconscious girl while hobbling with a throbbing shoulder really wasn't that romantic. Nonetheless, he still got that idea when he looked back at the Phoenix Theater for the last time. It may have been beautiful once, but even with a "restoration," even a few years of neglect made it seem like a mere copy of what it used to be, what it was supposed to be. There was something plastic and hollow about it, even if the wooden chairs were made of real wood and the paint matched the original colors from nearly a century ago.

Matt took a couple of tries to unlock and open his car door. Daniel made the mistake of offering to take most of the weight while Matt opened it wide with both hands. Those few seconds were probably the longest in Daniel's life. Nonetheless, he figured it was worth it to save someone, even if he really didn't know a damn thing about her or even if she wouldn't be that grateful for such a daring rescue.

Daniel turned around after he had secured her in the backseat of Matt's car, seatbelt and all. He took one last look at the Phoenix Theater as he lit a cigarette.

"Maybe it's a good thing that they're finally tearing this place down." He muttered.

Matt threw a tired look at him from outside of the driver's side. "You're not smoking that in my car."

Daniel took a very long drag, sighed and coughed a little before dropping the butt and crushing it under his heel. "Fine."

As he ducked to get in the car and reached up to make sure his hat didn't get knocked off, Daniel realized that he had accidentally left the damn thing in the theater. Perhaps it had fallen off while he was helping Matt drag Amber out to the sidewalk. Or maybe he just took it off and left it somewhere.

"What is it?" Matt looked at him after noticing that the passenger door wasn't closed.

"Nothing." Daniel closed his eyes and leaned back. Let the cobwebs and dust have it.