Reels
By
Nick Forest Cise ©
Shia put on his turn signal and accelerated into the far left lane. He soared down route 50 on the way home from work as the sky rained down on the slick and oily highway. Puddles of water began to cumulate. Shia was going seventy-five miles per hour when his Steering wheel jerked viciously to the left. Even with both hands gripped firmly, he still wasn’t able to gain control. Shia collided with the median and his vehicle shot back out into oncoming traffic. A motorist rode in the lane on the far right of the highway and remained unaware of the imminent danger. Shia slid towards the car diagonally, and finally, the driver looked over and sped up. A truck driver in the middle lane slammed on their breaks but was going too fast. The truck brutally slammed Shia from the side. Shia’s vehicle flipped a few times, and eventually settled upside down. The rain continued to pour, and traffic started to build up.
*
Shia opened his eyes in an empty cinema parking lot and sat up. It was night. He looked around curiously. Through a large bay window, he could see a heavily lite ticket booth with an older man behind it. Shia stood up and moved toward the entrance. There were stairs that stretched out on both sides of the building. In the middle sat the ticket booth, and beyond the ticket booth were doors to the halls of theatres. Movie posters covered the walkway to the glass doors. The posters read: Year One, Year Two, Year Three, Year Four, Year Five, Year Six, Year Seven, Year Eight, and continued to rise as he got closer. He reached out and pulled open the glass doors.
“Good evening.” Said the man behind the booth.
“Hello.” Shia wasn’t concerned with where he woke up or what was happening. A certain gravitation pulled him along like a memorial parade. Shia looked up at the movie selections and recognized that the titles were all the same from the walkway.
“See any of these lately?” Shia asked as he pointed up. The man snickered.
“I actually just saw Year Seventeen again.”
“And…?”
“****ing hilarious. I swear I was tearing. Although, I would certainly recommend that you go in order.” The man continued to laugh. “That scene during junior year in high school, in physics class, priceless.”
“Okay. What’s the run time of Year One?” The man dipped his head down to glance at a sheet of film times.
“About three-hundred-sixty-five days.” Shia nodded his head.
“All right, one for Year One please.” Shia reached into his pockets to look for money. The man grinned slightly and pulled out a coupon book.
“Don’t worry about it. I got it.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate that.”
“This book of coupons is good for all twenty-one years of your life. So Enjoy it.” Shia looked back at him with somewhat muddled expression.
*
“Twenty-one years? What do I do when I get to the end?” The man flashed a bright smile at him.
“You get to watch them all over again. If you want.” Shia stared into space. “Now that’s either going to be heaven or hell, so to speak, but I guess that’s up to you. All in all, I hope you enjoy your life.” Shia looked back up at the movie titles. He looked uncomfortable. “Everything all right?” Shia hesitated to share his concerns.
“It’s just- now I know you were honest with your opinion of Year 17, but- I-“
“Go ahead. There is no judgment here.”
“What if I don’t have enough great years to make up a great series? Maybe I have a couple. Maybe more than I truly know. But, when I’m in the theatre, I don’t want to come to a sudden realization that the majority of my life was spent living a mediocre existence through no other fault than my own. I don’t want to be disappointed.” Shia paused. “I want to clap at the end.” The man was empathetic to his troubles.
“I hear your concerns. They are passionate, and well thought out. However, take it from the individual who has seen the years of your life from the very start -- your existence wasn’t mediocre, every year of your life has something incredible embedded within. Something that propelled you to the next year of your life, and shaped the person you’ve become.” Shia bowed his head. He stared at the ground. He contemplated deeply.
“Another question.”
“Go for it.”
“Is there a concession stand around here somewhere? Popcorn? Soda? What’s the story on that?” The man chuckled.
“Relax, Shia. Everything you need is already in your theatre.”
“Which way to my theatre?”
“The first two double doors on the left when you go through there.” The man pointed towards a door with a long hall containing twenty-one different theatres.
“Great. Thanks for your help today.”
“My pleasure.” Shia began to walk off. He entered theatre one.
*
Twenty-one years later, the old man left the ticket booth for the first time since he gave Shia his tickets. He walked down the long corridor and set his sights on the theatre at the end of the hall that was playing Year Twenty One. The time was just about to run out. The man sat down outside the theatre and waited.
It was silent. He leaned his head back against the wall. He remained patient as the stillness continued on. Suddenly, relentless claps and cheers came from inside the theatre and brought a gaze of wonder to the man’s face. It sounded like Shia had just experienced the last thirty seconds of every sports championship combined, and his favored team had taken the win every single time. His enthused applauds were unremitting. Shia whistled vivaciously.
The old man smiled wide, laughed gently for a few moments, and started his walk back down the hall.
THE END
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