From up in his booth the projectionist blows her a kiss. He bathes Doris Day in wisps of ectoplasm. His affectionate gesture emits a white plume of Newport secondhand smoke, which lingers, afloat, like a ghost or love that just won’t die. Carcinogenic vapor shrouds the spinning reel in heady menthol, transmuting a light-hearted musical romcom into a complicated collection of nuanced sinister transgressions.

One by one, those in attendance get up to leave. Not even Sinatra’s rich, warm vocals can lure the exiting patrons back into their seats. Minty-fresh corruption is well imbued within the dim theatre space; an odious spell has been woven into the stained upholstery of each cheap seat. Even the Milk Duds plastered to the floor have become intoxicated with ill will. Everyone has felt it, and so they vacate the program several scenes before its intermission.

Alone with Doris Day, the projectionist has created a more intimate arena for his heavy-handed courtship. He has paved a way, cleared all obstruction, for the success of his dark ritual, his malicious intent. He blows smoke rings of Newport exhaust; each spectral doughnut a dead angel’s halo, an ill-gotten component to a black incantation. These deft puffs are both hook and bait. The projectionist has effectively laid down his jacket to allow Miss Day to bridge a curbside puddle, to go on, unmolested by urban runoff. Even as Frank croons away into the evening the projectionist knows that the lady is his.

Miss Doris Day is brought back to life, if only but for a moment. Her chirpy song cuts short as she becomes aware of her strange new surroundings, her youthful body. She is blinded by light, an assault of cinematic projection ejaculating in front of her from above. A heavy scent of menthol carries on an outward stream of ghostly smog as she breathes it in and begins to cough.

Behind her, a Doris-Day-shaped shadow dances, black upon a bright and joyful scene. More fog and smoke and sweet menthol whispers; dark, satanic poetry in God doesn’t know what language. Sinatra is miles away. His mellow counter spell is lost in Newport fog.

Doris Day coughs and coughs and finally stops. Her lungs labor as she clamors, high heels trampling Milk Duds plastered into the faded carpet. She collapses, expiring, upon seat C3 — one with upholstery as filthy as the next. Her lungs no longer labor. She lies still among the smoke.

The projectionist luxuriates in one last drag from the nub of his smoking Newport. He curb stomps the ember butt into an ashtray with his thumb. He breathes deep the contents of a room full of menthol-scented smoke, his own secondhand carcinogenic mist. He takes it all in, along with the soul of a legendary Hollywood actress. He feels renewal, the vigor of a new life force swimming within him.

A projectionist watches Young at Heart while feeling exactly that. He feels youth yet knows centuries by the score. He stands to stretch, to freshen up during this brief intermission. He reaches for his Newports, descends some steps with hijacked elegance, and lights up another cigarette.

---

James Callan is a dual citizen of the US and NZ. He grew up in Minneapolis, Minnesota and lives on the Kāpiti Coast, New Zealand. His wife and son are human, but the remainder of his family are an assortment of animals, including cats, a dog, pigs, cows, goats, and chickens. His writing has appeared in Bridge Eight, White Wall Review, Maudlin House, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. His novel, A Transcendental Habit, is available with Queer Space.