"The Golden" by Ron Cassano

My name is Finn Ramey. I’m twelve years old. I was born February 5th, 1940. The story I’m about to tell you is true. I swear. Well, I can’t swear to it. Not now anyway. You’ll just have to take my word, for now. 

There was nothing that led up to the beforehand, nothing I can remember anyway, I was just sitting at the dinner table with Mom and Dad and baby sister, Merle, when I saw Merle’s bowl fly off the table and shatter on the parquet tiled floor. 

I saw it before it actually happened. That was the first time I saw the future. 

I called them beforehands because I didn’t know what else to call them. Visions? Dreams? Prophesies? Those words seem a little farfetched and a bit too serious for what the beforehands actually were. They were just thoughts that I saw in my head. Thoughts that flashed quickly in and out like a distant memory, there one second and gone the next. I was never exceptional. Never was the best at anything. Didn’t have a wall full of trophies or ribbons. I was about as average as you could get. Below average, really. Even my parents treated me like I was some kind of mental cripple, buying me Scholastic books a grade or two below my reading level and keeping me well stocked in crayons even though I had clearly outgrown them. Well, mom did anyway. Dad never really took an interest in me. There were times when I spent the whole day reading comics or watching Dragnet or The Lone Ranger and never even realized he was in the house. Morning to supper and bedtime without a word spoken between us. He came back from the war in the Pacific changed somehow. I’d never get a chance to find out how much.

It was a Thursday night. Pasta night in the Ramey household. Mom and Dad were talking - Dad drinking milk; Mom sipping her red wine. They were talking about money like they usually did. Seems there was never quite enough of Dad’s paycheck to cover all the things Mom wanted for us. Dad thought things would improve after Truman was run out of the White House. He’d dropped the bombs on those two cities in Japan, Dad said, maybe he’d drop one on us next. I assumed he was talking about our whole family. Dad had a way of saying things that sometimes sounded like he wasn’t including Merle and me. I wondered if we weren’t accidents, unintended. I wasn’t quite sure how things worked back then. I knew Dad had his thing and Mom had her thing and sometimes they put their things together and poof! there was Merle and me. We had more fun with Mom. Sometimes she’d take us to the Green Stamp store and we’d watch her pine over the newest blender or swanky lamp. She said she’d buy them one day, with or without having enough stamps to do it. 

Merle was sitting in her highchair, her face covered in red sauce with strings of pasta all over her tray top. I was twirling the pasta on my fork, thinking about the things most ten-year-old boys thought about: The Adventures of Superman, riding my bike to the Rex-All to buy comics, and if I’d be getting a View-Master for Christmas. I was absently thumbing through a Field and Stream, looking at pictures of how to catch sac-a-lait, when my eyesight swirled for a few seconds, like my eyes were watering and I had to refocus. Before my vision became clear again, I saw Merle throw the bowl of pasta on the floor, the bowl breaking into pieces. When my eyes cleared, I looked at Merle and she was still eating pasta from the bowl. Mom and Dad were locked in their never-ending discussion. I knew what was about to happen. Before I could react and prevent it, Merle slapped at the bowl, sending it skidding across her highchair tray top. I managed to scream out “Merle! No!” before the bowl tipped off the tray top. Mom and Dad looked up just in time to see the bowl tilt and fall to the floor. Merle froze. Mom and Dad froze. I froze. Everyone looked at me, not quite believing if I’d called out the accident a split second before I should have been able to. Merle started crying. Mom got up and saw to the mess. Dad stared at me, knowing something wasn’t quite right but unable to place his finger on it.

I never told them about my beforehand. In truth, I didn’t know it was a premonition. I thought it was a quirk that would never happen to me again. Boy, was I wrong. 

Things went back to normal for about a week. I put the beforehand out of my mind. In fact, even the memory of the premonition became murky. It was like trying to remember a dream or an episode of déjà vu, where you’re not even sure it happened in the first place. And then there was Buddy. 

Buddy belonged to our neighbors across the street, the Rosenstein’s. He was a small brown-haired Cairn terrier who liked to journey across the road and conduct his business in our front yard. Dad would get so mad, he’d shovel up the mess and fling it back across the street into the Rosenstein’s yard, showering Mrs. Rosenstein’s perfectly manicured flowerbeds and her prized hydrangeas.

We were watching Texaco Star Theater in the family room. Milton Berle and Fatso Marco were pratfalling their way across the stage. Merle was crayoning in a coloring book. I was sitting next to Mom, flipping through a Reader’s Digest, only half-interested in the television show. Mom was crocheting a doily and Dad was sitting in his chair, fast asleep with the newspaper draped across his chest. 

Then it happened again. 

My eyes teared up and my vision swirled again. I looked at the television but instead of Uncle Miltie I saw a grainy image of our front yard from the vantage point of the Rosenstein’s driveway, the road in full view running between our properties. Then I saw Buddy, hunched on his back paws, completing a transaction on our front lawn. When his business was done, he trotted back across the road with that satisfied look dogs get after they’ve relieved themselves, especially on a patch of grass that doesn’t belong to their humans.

Next, on the television, I saw a Plymouth Belvedere barreling down the road as though the driver were in a hurry to get someplace, the bulky ride topping out every bit of its flathead straight-6 engine. Both the car and the little rapscallion mutt were completely unaware of each other. Their trajectories plotted like missiles that, once fired, couldn’t be taken back.  

I knew what was going to happen before the television showed it to me.

I screamed “Buddy!” and leapt of the sofa, spilling mom’s crochet basket and snaring her yarn in a tangled bird’s nest of knots. Dad woke up, throwing his paper down, angered that he’d been woken up. Mom and Merle froze, watching as I ran for the door. I ran out into the front yard as fast as I could, not realizing Dad was only a few steps behind me. 

I got outside just as Buddy was finishing spoiling our lawn and beginning his trot back to his side of the road. I looked down the street. The Plymouth Belvedere was closer than the television had suggested. Seconds away from disaster. I bent down and picked up a rock lying along the walkway connecting our front door to the street. In a perfect side-arm throw a major league pitcher would’ve been proud of, I slung the rock and beamed Buddy right in the rump, causing him to jump-skip quickly to the other side of the road and onto the safety of his own front yard. The Plymouth Belvedere raced past, ignorant of what had almost happened. 

I stood for a moment, breathing heavy and letting my adrenaline settle back down. When I turned to go back into the house, there was Dad, staring at me in disbelief. All he could say was “What the hell?”

The next several weeks were normal. No more beforehands. Dad still didn’t say much to me, but I started catching him looking at me – at the dinner table, in the garage, in our backyard. He seemed to always be watching me. I didn’t mind it. At least it was something.

Mom and Dad kept on not talking. Their distance seemed to get further and wider, until it was a shock to see them in the same room together. Usually, it was Dad that found somewhere else to be - a project that needed finishing or something that needed to be tinkered with. 

Mom had grown used to her personal time too. She had her lady friends, other women with husbands they didn’t like talking to, she’d meet at their homes for an afternoon of tea, cards and quilting. Dad wasn’t much of a babysitter, so Mom had to find something else to do with us, something to keep us occupied so she could have her time with her friends. She found a play center for Merle, a place where she could play with other kids. She just had to figure out what to do with me.

She was flipping through the paper one day when she came across the movie page. Our small town had three theaters. They weren’t exactly movie palaces like the Regent or the Strand or the Bijou, but they played the newest films plus second-runs and revivals. My favorite theater, the Golden, was within a short bike ride from our house. My first movie there was The Cimarron Kid in which Audie Murphy uttered my favorite line: there will be no killing unless it's forced upon us. Chills.  

The Golden looked like a typical box office in the front - tiled entrance with a closed in ticket booth set back under the marquee; movie posters encased in glass frames on either side of the large walkway leading up to the huge front doors; bright fluorescent lights (gold of course) highlighting the entire affair; and that great marquee - a neon masterpiece with changeable letters showcasing the latest films. For me, the movie-going experience started when I stepped into the bright lights of the entranceway. It was the portal that transported me to another world, another time. I loved everything about the Golden, and some of my favorite movies were seen there as first-runs: Destination Moon, Samson and Delilah, Treasure Island, The Day the Earth Stood Still. Something about the theater seemed unreal. Even the lobby was like something out of a dream. From the burgundy and gold lines of the expansive carpet, to the chandeliers hanging from the ceilings that seemed tall as the pecan trees in our backyard, to the concession counter that housed every known confection Mom said would rot my teeth, not to mention the popcorn and sodas – the Golden was a place I didn’t want to leave. 

The first-time Mom dropped me off there to use the Golden as a babysitter, my dream turned into a nightmare.

Mom said she’d found the perfect movie for me: Abbott and Costello in Jack and the Beanstalk. And it was playing at the Golden. She didn’t worry about getting me there for the start of showtime. Movies ran continuously with newsreels and cartoons at the beginning and a long intermission in the middle. Movie houses were used to people arriving all throughout the movie and staying until the film circled back to where they had come in. When Dad was in the garage, Mom called her friend, cupping her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and saying she could make it the next day. She would bring me to the movies and have all afternoon to spend playing cards and talking. 

Mom dropped me off, giving me a dollar bill and a handful of change for concessions and telling me to stay in the theater until three o’clock when she would be parked out front. The woman inside the ticket booth was young, a girl with bright red hair curled up like Lucille Ball. Her name badge said Jeanine. She was sitting inside the booth chewing bubblegum and reading a torn copy of The Old Man and the Sea. She smiled at me when I gave her my forty-six cents. She passed me a ticket and told me to enjoy the show before going back to her Hemingway. 

I bought a soda and a box of Red Hots, then handed my ticket to an older gentleman standing at the entrance to the theater. His nametag said Mr. Mike and he scowled at me as he handed back my torn ticket. With my soda and candy, I settled into the old theater. It was a matinee show, so there weren’t many other moviegoers – a few couples, but mostly singles, like me, glad to have something to do to fill the time. The cartoons were just finishing. Mom had gotten me there in time for the start of the movie, by mistake, but I was still glad to see it from the beginning.

When the movie started (and this is where it really gets weird) instead of Abbott and Costello, a nightmarish cemetery showed on the screen. A graveyard at night with flashes of lightning briefly casting a glow on the tombstones. Too fast for me to catch any names. I was intrigued. Mom and Dad never let me watch scary movies. Whenever we went to the show, it was strictly comedies and cartoons, never graveyards. I sank into my seat, not wanting anyone to see I’d wandered into the wrong theater. I wondered how long I could get away with it. 

My interest quickly went away when hands, rotten and bony, began digging their way out of the graves. This was too much! I quickly ran out of the theater, spilling my Red Hots and splashing my soda, still clenched in my white-knuckled fist. I ran through the concession stand, past Mr. Mike, and out to the ticket booth. I looked up at the marquee, expecting to see the horror show title had replaced Abbott and Costello. But no, there in big bright blue letters Abbott and Costello in Jack and the Beanstalk.

Jeanine was still inside the booth, reading. She saw me looking bewildered and asked, “You okay, squirt?”

I looked at the movie posters inside the entranceway to the theater. There were no scary movies advertised at all. The Greatest Show on Earth. The Snows of Kilimanjaro. Ivanhoe. No scary movies. Jeanine tapped on the glass of her booth, finally getting my attention. “You okay?” 

I nodded my head. I didn’t know what else to do. I pulled out my ticket stub. The Golden had old-time tickets that displayed the name of the movie. They weren’t like the cheap generic drive-in stubs that only said Admit One. My ticket clearly had Jack and the Beanstalk printed on it, the half I could read anyway. I decided not to go back in. I’d seen enough for one day. I walked down the sidewalk and sat at a bus stop bench to wait for Mom. 

When Mom arrived at three o’clock, I climbed in the car, trying not to look shaken. She asked how the movie was and I lied. Sometimes, I’d noticed, it was better to tell your parents a white lie just to keep them satisfied and incurious rather than tell the truth and invite a whole slew of new questions. It wasn’t that difficult. Mom and Dad didn’t ask too many questions anyway. I was still trying to figure out what had happened at the Golden. Since I didn’t understand, I knew Mom and Dad wouldn’t either. 

The following week, during breakfast, Mom asked me how I felt about westerns. “They’re okay, I guess,” was all I could come up with. Actually, I didn’t much care for them. The shooting was fine but there were long spaces in between the action I didn’t much care for. 

“Good,” she said. “because High Noon is playing at the Golden. I’ll drop you there on Wednesday.” 

The next week we were parked in front of the theater. Mom was telling me to have a good time and once again putting some money in my hands. She seemed in an awful hurry to get to tea with her friends. I found myself standing outside the ticket booth as Mom pulled away from the curb and left me there, the Golden lit up before me in all its glory. Jeanine was once again in the ticket booth. “Gonna watch the whole flick this time, sport?”

I looked at the marquee, making sure Gary Cooper’s name was on it. “One for High Noon, please,” I said, emphasizing High Noon like it was a word I was given in a spelling bee. I skipped the candy counter and went straight to Mr. Mike, holding out my ticket. 

“Hey, Boyo. Gonna make it through this one?” Mr. Mike leaned in close and whispered, “I hear there’s some shooting.” 

I quickly took my seat, anxious for the movie to start. Everything was fine until after the opening credits. It happened again - the same graveyard; the same rainstorm; the same lightning. The camerawork was a little better this time, steadier. I could just about read the names on the tombstones, and then...the hands. The rotten, bony hands jutted out of the wet earth. The other movie-goers seemed to be enjoying themselves, some even remarking how handsome Gary Cooper looked in his cowboy outfit. I recognized some of them. They were people from our town I’d known all or most of my life: Mr Watkins from the hardware store; Mrs. Washington, my 2nd grade teacher; Miss Louise, who ran the counter at the local Rexall pharmacy. They all appeared to be enjoying the movie, none being put off by the zombies I was seeing on the screen. Was I the only one seeing the corpses coming back to life? And for the second time? I managed to stay a little longer, compelled for some reason to read the names on the tombstones, but my nervousness got the best of me and I rocketed out of the theater, past Mr. Mike, who tried to wave me down. I ran out past the ticket booth,; past Jeanine reading a teen-zine and blowing bubbles. 

I waited once again for Mom, sitting on the curb this time as I waited out the couple of hours before my pick-up time. I couldn’t help but think of the beforehands that had happened and wondered if this odd and grotesque vision in the movie theater was linked somehow. The visions seemed to be for good, though, allowing me to prevent disasters of one kind or another. The zombies didn’t seem to involve anything good that I could tell. I chalked it all up to nerves, the stress of being left alone and having to be responsible for the first time. Mom picked me up, right on time, her hair slightly mussed and her lipstick smeared down one corner of her mouth. 

I didn’t say a word all the way home.

At dinner that night, Mom was more talkative than she’d ever been. She said she and the ladies were getting along well and they would be starting another quilt next week. Without asking, she said she’d find me another movie to see on Thursday. My heart beat faster just thinking of the Golden. Dad saw me squirm in my seat and fiddling with the food on my plate. “You okay, Finn?” 

His voice startled me. It had been weeks since I’d heard it, directed at me anyway, and I didn’t quite know what to say. I looked up to see everyone looking at me, even Merle, her face smeared with green peas. 

In that instant, with my entire family looking right at me, my eyes teared up and the swirl came. 

The dinner table became a kaleidoscope, with the whole dining room changing and becoming another scene altogether. In this beforehand, I was outside, standing in our yard and looking across the street at the Rosenstein’s house. Mr. Rosenstein was on a stepladder working on a tree branch with a handsaw. Buddy was sitting in their driveway barking in my direction. Mrs. Rosenstein was walking out of their house holding a platter that held a glass pitcher of lemonade and two glasses of ice. 

I heard the branch crack as if we were watching it on television with the sound turned way up. Looking back at Mr. Rosenstein, I saw the branch swing oddly and thump his thigh, knocking him off balance. The stepladder tilted and then began to teeter on two legs. Mrs. Rosenstein dropped the platter of lemonade, the glass pitcher shattering on the concrete driveway. In slow motion, Mr. Rosenstein fell off the stepladder and landed with a loud crack! on the ground, his hands immediately going to his hip and holding it tightly like he was trying to keep it all together inside him. Buddy kept barking. 

In another instant, my vision cleared and I was back sitting at our dinner table with Mom and Dad and Merle staring at me. Without realizing I was moving, I was up and out the door, speeding across our yard toward the Rosenstein’s driveway. I was a split-second too late. Mrs. Rosenstein had already dropped the lemonade. I watched the glass pitcher shatter on the driveway and the platter and cups bounce a few times before coming to a rest in the nearby yard. Mr. Rosenstein was landing with that familiar crack! and was already holding his hip. The whole scene was over before I could do anything about it. My beforehand had prevented nothing. 

We were standing in our driveway when the ambulance took Mr. Rosenstein to the hospital. Mom held Merle; Dad stood next to me. As the ambulance drove down our street, I noticed Dad had his hand on my shoulder. It was the first time I could remember him doing that. Mom took Merle inside and Dad and I just stood for a moment watching the ambulance disappear. “You saw that before it happened, didn’t you?”

Dad had never been that sincere, that compassionate to me before. I should’ve been more shocked. Maybe it was the latest beforehand or the confusion of the whole scene playing out before I could react to it and change it. Either way, I answered him as honestly as I felt he was being to me. “Yeah.” 

“And Buddy? And the time Merle threw her bowl of pasta?”

I remembered Dad looking at me strangely after both of those beforehands. I just didn’t think he’d put everything together so quickly. I guess that’s what dads do. “Yeah. Both times.”

He took me by the shoulder and spun me around to face him. “Any others?” 

The look on his face was more concern than fascination. “No. No, sir.” 

He looked into my eyes for something and I guess he found it. He turned us both back toward the length of our street and we watched the ambulance finally make a turn and leave our view. He continued to look down the empty street. “Your mother’s cheating on me. Guess you didn’t see that coming.” With that, he took his hand off my shoulder and casually walked back into the house. 

The next week Mom was excited to be spending the Thursday afternoon with her friends again. She’d been combing the newspaper for a few days before, looking for just the right movie to send me to. Dad had read the newspaper first that morning, leaving it in a jumble on the kitchen table before going to work. Mom picked through it, folding it into a quarter-page and presenting it to me as I ate a bowl of cereal. The Crimson Pirate starring Burt Lancaster was premiering at the Golden. She would drop me off just after lunch and pick me up in time to get home and cook supper. She started humming to herself as she sprinted off to do a few house chores before getting ready for her weekly outing. 

I noticed Mom had done her hair differently that morning, letting it stay down and not twisting it up in the customary bun she was used to. She also smelled different. She rarely wore perfume, saving the expensive oils for occasions like church functions or special events. That morning she smelled fresh and lovely, like a bouquet of flowers. She kept prodding me, making sure I’d be ready when it was time to leave. I thought about what Dad had said. I hoped for a beforehand, something that might help me understand all that was happening, but once again, none came. 

Mom dropped me off in front of the Golden. There were more people queuing up at the box office than I’d ever seen. Burt Lancaster was a big star and any new film starring him was sure to draw a crowd. She kissed me and slipped money into my shirt pocket. When she left, the scent of her perfume stayed with me, and I watched her driving away from the Golden the same way Dad and me watched that ambulance carry away old Mr. Rosenstein. 

“Hey, runt!” Jeanine said as I finally made it to her box office after waiting for what seemed like an eternity in line. “Got yer running shoes on today?” 

I’d thought about not even going to the movie, walking around downtown for a couple of hours and telling Mom one of those little white lies about how great the show was. I knew that wasn’t the right thing to do, no matter how spooked I was to go back into that theater. “I’ll be okay. Something feels different about today.” I didn’t know if I actually felt that way. The feeling just came upon me after I’d asked Jeanine for my ticket. 

She counted out my money and pushed a ticket through the ticket window. “You start getting jumpy, you go see Mr. Mike. Okay?” 

“Okay,” I said, taking my ticket and reluctantly starting off toward the entrance. 

“Hey,” Jeanine said, stopping me. “Enjoy your show.” She winked at me and started serving the next movie-goer behind me. 

I walked cautiously towards Mr. Mike. He watched me with a skeptical eye, as though he expected me to bolt out of the Golden before I even made it to the theater. “Little man. Ticket, please,” he said, extending his hand. I gave him my ticket and he tore it in half, offering a torn piece back to me. Despite how busy the theater was, he stopped and bent down to me in that weird way grown-ups like to do when they want to have a private conversation with you. “Nothing in there to be afraid of, you know.” 

I looked at his face. It was covered in stubble. Right then and there, I realized there was something sincere about stubble. It made you believe a person. 

“You get a case of the nerves, come out here with me. I’ll let you tear the tickets. Maybe buy you a soda. Deal?” 

I nodded my head, stuffed my half-ticket in my jeans pocket and headed into the theater. This time, I thought I’d save my money and only buy candy and popcorn if I made it to intermission. 

The movie began and there was Burt, playing a handsome, roguish, swashbuckling pirate with pirate ships and high adventure. I watched with reluctance, expecting the graveyard and rotten hands to burst through the earth in the very next scene. I looked around at the other patrons. Everyone reacted the way I thought they should: gasps during the ship battles; oohs and aahs during the swordfights; and pleasant hums coming from the ladies every time Burt lit up the screen in puffed shirts and tight breeches. 

Once again, I noticed some of the townsfolk, avid movie-goers, enjoying a weekday afternoon at the show: Mr. Watkins was laughing and sipping a large soda in between bites of popcorn; Mrs. Washington from the 2nd grade, taking the afternoon off and watching Burt’s every move while chomping from a box of Atomic Fireballs; and Miss Louise from the Rexall, eyes wide as she twisted and pulled bites of Turkish Taffy from a bar she smuggled in from the pharmacy. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the movie and, for once, I thought I was too. 

Then everything went dark.

Caribbean scenes turned into the shadowed graveyard I’d seen in prior movies. Lightning strikes sent flashes of bright, white light like strobes, thunder echoing through the Golden’s loudspeakers. The camera panned across the graveyard floor, the tombstones lit from the bursts of light above. This time, there was no mistaking the names carved into the tombstones. Here lies the body of Joseph Watkins 1910-1952. Here lies the body of Amelda Washington 1922-1952. Here lies the body of Louise Brennan 1886-1952. 

I looked at the tombstones closely. 1952! They all died in 1952! 

As if on cue, my eyes started to water and my vision swirled. The whole of the theater began to circle around like water floating down a drain. When the swirling stopped, I was sitting in the Golden watching The Crimson Pirate, Burt Lancaster, in the middle of exciting swordplay. 

I smelled smoke before I saw the flames.

I turned my head towards the smell and saw the curtains going up, lit from the bottom, a bright orange flame dancing rapidly towards the Art Deco-tiled ceiling. People were already running towards either of the two exits on the ground floor. Women were screaming. Men were yelling at each other, everyone trying to figure out what to do. The rush of people jammed the inward-opening doors and made it impossible for anyone to open an escape route. The flames spread across the ceiling as if it were covered in gasoline. The Golden was an old theater with precious few updates to its fire code over the years. Exposed wooden support beams, far too few sprinklers, curtains made of wood pulp mixed with asbestos fibers (but mostly just wooden pulp), and no emergency lighting added to the chaos. From my theater seat inside my head, I watched everyone in the Golden burn. 

Another swirl brought my vision back to the here and now. I was once again sitting in the theater with the townsfolk, watching and enjoying the show. I looked around, trying to see where a fire might start, but I saw nothing. Everyone was laughing or fawning over Burt Lancaster. It seemed to be a pleasant movie in a pleasant theater on a pleasant afternoon. 

Then I saw him.

A young man of twenty or so, sitting in the back of the theater, lighting a cigarette. His Zippo wouldn’t catch, and he was only able to get sparks coming off the flint. His Zippo finally lit and he touched the flame to his smoke, taking a huge inhale that burned up a quarter of his cigarette in one puff. He tapped the cigarette on the edge of his seat’s armrest and the cherry tumbled out, falling to the carpet just below the edge of the curtains. The wood pulp did the rest. 

People were screaming by the time I was able to make it out of my seat and run towards the double exits, crammed ten-deep with movie-goers already. The fire started on the curtains where the young man (now long gone) was sitting and was now directly over my head and moving rapidly to the opposite side of the theater. We were all being enveloped in a blanket of fire. The air was getting heavier and heavier, with particles of fabric from the curtains, carpeting and chairs floating into my every breath. 

The screaming became deafening, with everyone in the theater shrieking loudly for help or mercy. I wondered if Mr. Mike and Jeanine were on the opposite side of the doors, desperately trying to push them open against all that body weight. They must have been successful because a quick blast of white light exploded into the theater, engulfing the Golden from the outside the way the flames were engulfing the Golden from the inside. 

When I finally opened my smoke-filled eyes, we were outside, standing in the street across from the burned-down theater. The marquis was gone and so was the box office. I couldn’t even tell exactly where it had been, and I didn’t see Jeanine or Mr. Mike anywhere. I hoped they had gotten out okay like the rest of us. I looked around and saw Mr. Watkins. He was still holding his soda, empty now, of course. His hand was shaking as he stared at the burned building. Mrs. Washington and Miss Louise had made it out too, both ladies crying and trying to wipe the soot from their eyes. I was glad they were okay. I wondered how many others weren’t. 

The three of them seemed to be looking around, as if trying to find someone. I thought I might be able to help, find whoever it was they were looking for. I started to walk to them, then stopped in my tracks. All three of them seemed to turn at the same time and look directly at me. They appeared relieved when they saw me, as if they’d just found who they were looking for.  Mr. Watkins walked towards me, flanked by Mrs. Washington and Miss Louise. They approached me with a strange look of calm on their faces despite the devastation in front of us. 

Mr. Watkins extended his hand to me. “Come on, son. It’s time to go now.” 

The ladies behind him looked at me and smiled, slightly nodding their heads. With no reluctance at all, I took his hand. The three of them began to lead us away from the hollowed-out Golden. I turned my head to look at the old theater one last time. I saw Mr. Mike and Jeanine standing in front of the smoldering remains. Jeanine was crying as the firefighters brought out bodies one by one. Mr. Mike was quickly inspecting them as if he were looking for someone, too. One of the bodies was small like me, about my height, wearing sneakers and jeans just like me. 

As we began to fade into the smoke-filled air, the young man from the theater fell in line behind us, trying to light another cigarette with his Zippo. There were only sparks. 

Ron Cassano is a writer living in Baton Rouge, La. His stories are thought-provoking narratives that flirt with the borders of magical realism, historical fiction, sci-fi, mystery and horror. His stories have appeared in Dig Baton Rouge magazine, Dark Horses magazine and the Freedom Fiction Journal.