Templeton’s Problem

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Andrew Milliken

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       “Absolutely wretched audience tonight.”

       “Hm? What?”

       “You heard them! Guffawing and shrieking like hyenas. You’d think we were watching a screwball comedy!”

       Wet concrete glistened underfoot. Templeton unpocketed his polished lighter and lit a cigarette too smoothly.

       “Oh, I don’t know. I thought there were some pretty funny scenes,” the stranger said, half interested.

“Funny SCENES, yes, a funny MOVIE, no. Everyone is so resistant to anything earnest now that it makes me want to vomit. Everything with style or a sense of individuality is subjected to mocking laughter!”

“I was laughing at parts, but I enjoyed it.” The stranger, now fully disinterested, resumed looking at his phone.

       Templeton sucked away at his cigarette. Somehow, this stranger was immune to his charm and intelligence. How to get through to him?

       “Do you want a smoke?” Templeton said. The stranger glared and coughed.

      “No. Smoking makes me want to vomit. Good night.” He walked into the rain without an umbrella.

Templeton was incensed.

       “Just as I thought! Another fat, wheezing animal! Hitchcock would be disgusted if he were here tonight!”

      The rest of the audience filed out of The Music Box Theater into the damp night. Templeton spitefully eavesdropped snatches of their conversations, each one more offensive to him than the last. He lit another smoke.

       “...oh man, that part was funny. Claude Rains is too genteel to be a Nazi!” He puffed his cigarette.

       “...Cary Grant is such a babe, I had trouble focusing on the movie, he’s so hot.” Puff.

       “I thought the performances were kind of wooden, but that’s just the style of the time. Once you buy in it’s not so bad.”

       Puff puff. Puff. Templeton tried to remain calm. He made eye contact with several people in the crowd, desperate for and terrified of a conversation.

       Puff.

       The chatter swirled around him in a cacophonous whirlpool, a multi-headed aural beast, the Scylla of ignorance and Charybdis of idiocy, with his own cinematic sophistication the besieged Odysseus! If a single person would ask him for his opinion, he would-

       “...and Ingrid Bergman actually isn’t related to Ingmar at all, a lot of people assume that, but-”

       Something snapped.

       “SHUT UP!!!” Templeton roared, smoke pouring from his mouth.

       The crowd stared. Templeton’s eyes darted about, his hands fitfully opening and closing, grasping for something he knew was not there. “You’re all nothing but a bunch of…fucking…well, as long as they have sidewalks, you’ll all have jobs!”

       “Dude, what is your problem?” said a voice from the crowd.

       “FUCK!!!”

       Templeton stormed away, preferring the company of the pouring rain to the company of ordinary people discussing their ordinary opinions on Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious.

       He reached the elevated train station at Addison Street well after his black boots, black jeans, and black leather jacket were soaked with icy rain. He walked alone, as usual, and stood alone, as usual.

       Not one other soul occupied the platform. 10:30 p.m., Tuesday night, typical Chicago weather. Templeton looked from one end of the deserted platform to the other, shivering, listening to the merging sounds of rain and traffic. Nothing to do but wait. He occupied himself by replaying his outburst in his mind, groping for details to convince himself he had won the evening. He lit another cigarette.

       “Would you happen to have a light?”

       Templeton was startled. He hadn’t heard anyone approach.

       He scanned the new stranger. His mistrustful eyes clocked polished, black shoes, a black suit that hung comfortably on her slender frame, a black tie, and a crisp, white shirt. The stranger’s kind eyes met Templeton’s, not realizing or not acknowledging that he was sizing her up the way an overworked housewife does a door-to-door salesman.

       Satisfied that the stranger was unlikely to be a superior intellect (Templeton always mistook kindness for dull-wittedness), he produced his lighter and lit the stranger’s enormous cigar.

       “Thank you.”

       “Sure.”

       It was only after a few minutes, the two of them puffing away at their respective nicotine sources, that Templeton noticed the stranger’s suit and shoes were bone-dry. Where was her umbrella?

       “Were you at Notorious tonight?” Her deep voice sounded like smoke.

       “Yes.” Templeton paused, calibrating his response to provoke exactly the impression he desired. (He always miscalculated.) “Why, were you?”

       “I was! I just love classic films. Hitchcock is one of the best. I never miss a chance to see his movies in a theater.”

       “Is that so?” He had played this game before, thinking he’d found a fellow cinephile only to instantly outpace them in conversation.

       “Of course! He’s one of the best to make the transition from silent to sound, along with Fritz Lang.” A spark of sentiment flickered in her eyes.

       Templeton was shocked. Maybe, just maybe…

       “I actually agree. Looking at Metropolis and M side-by-side proves it. Two classics from two different eras of filmmaking.” His voice trembled. The pace of his speech increased.

       “What about the Dr. Mabuse trilogy? The ones Lang himself directed. Has there been another series that spans almost 40 years and bridges the gap between those eras of filmmaking AND injects timely societal issues so well?”

       Templeton’s excitement reached fever pitch.

       “If there is, I haven't seen it! But I’m underseen on silent film!”

       This was the first time he could remember admitting to a gap in his knowledge. He hadn’t intended to, it tumbled from his mouth like dice from a gambling addict’s hand. He dropped his cigarette.

       He reached with shaking hands for another, failing to use the smooth motion that had so dazzled that fat, wheezing animal outside the theater. Between flicks of his lighter he noticed the stranger’s cigar

had not burned down at all.

       “What’s your name? You’re one of the only people I’ve met in this wretched city who can hold a decent dialogue on film.”

       The stranger smiled a kind smile and puffed her endless cigar.

       “How would you like to have seen everything?”

       “Like, every movie? Sometimes I feel like I have. Sometimes I’m certain that everything worth making has already been made. I haven’t seen a good new release in ages.”

       “I understand why you feel that way. But, believe me, you have so much to see.”

       They locked eyes. Something about the stranger told Templeton that she was too kind, the facsimile of a friendly face. But Templeton had long ago lost the ability to discern between honesty and pretension. He erred on the side of trust, for once in his life. “Really? What can you show me? Do you own a theater or something?”

       The stranger seemed to float toward him.

       “I can help you,” she said softly. “Please, let me help you.” Templeton was thoroughly disarmed. He looked up at her face. She had the most inviting expression…

       “What do you need from me?” His voice was a hoarse whisper. His sweat mixed with the cold rain.

       “Nothing I haven’t already gotten.”

       “But I’ve never met you before.”

       “Yes, you have.”

       “Please, what is your name?”

       “You already know. I’ve been your friend for such a long time.” She touched his shoulder, and he felt an intoxicating warmth. “There’s more to see than one lifetime allows. Please, let me show you.”

       The warmth promised boundless knowledge, the knowledge he needed to prove to anybody the depth of his one and only love. It made him drunk with the possibility of that self-confidence which had forever eluded him. He had to have it.

       “It’s yours,” the stranger said. “Let’s shake on it.” She extended her left hand.

       The rain became blinding, deafening, falling in torrents so thick the world beyond the platform was oblivion. Lightning struck without thunder. In the brilliant flashes, Templeton saw a different being where

the stranger had stood, neither human nor inhuman, as vast and timeless as infinity. Eternity was with him on the platform.

       He shook the stranger’s hand.

       The moment they touched, Templeton saw within her smiling mouth every nightmare he ever dreamed in the same instant, the phantasmagoric totality of his fear projected, flickering, onto the pearlescent screen of his mind. An instant later the same mouth was full of perfect teeth.

       “I’ll be seeing you,” the stranger said kindly. She ashed her cigar, straightened her tie, and walked down the stairs to the street. Templeton heard the clack of her black shoes. The rain was letting up.

      “Wait!”

       She was gone.

       Templeton shivered, alone. His head ached. He felt confused, anxious, hostile. Nothing about him had changed. The train lurched into the station. He boarded, submitted to his isolation, forgot all about having seen Notorious, went to his apartment, and collapsed into bed.

       Templeton awoke early. He dragged his feet and rubbed his eyes through his habitual coffee-and-cigarette (no food) morning. At his bus stop he combed through the night’s extraordinary events. Was I…was she…what was…

       The screech of hydraulic brakes tore him from his reverie. The back of the bus was empty, as usual. Templeton sat and fell backwards into his tangled web of thoughts. He replayed it behind closed eyes.

       A lightning bolt ripped through his brain. His eyes snapped open. Every muscle tensed.

       A deluge of information-names, dates, box office figures-flooded his head. Directors, stars, titles, studio heads, bit players, cinematographers rushed in and fist-fought for square footage in Templeton’s overpopulating memory banks. Another wave of plot details, character names, all the dreamless nuts and bolts of every movie that had ever found its way to any screen, crashed inside his mind.

       He clutched his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. The sound that escaped his mouth was too quiet to draw attention.

       The bus rolled on, indifferent.

       By the time he awoke, Templeton had severely missed his stop. He yanked the pull cord, late to work.

He struggled through his workday. His data-entry job required no thought or feeling, like the rest of his life, but today his clogged synapses refused to fire for even the most menial labor. He refrained from speaking to any of his coworkers. No one took notice.

       Office to bus to Music Box; this was Templeton’s routine. It trapped him in a vise of his own design, a longing to join the crowd for which he had such contempt. This emotional whiplash threatened to split him in two, yet he returned, night after night. And tonight was exceptional. Psycho was playing.

       “One for Psycho.”

       “It’s $13.82.”

       “I’m a member.”

       “Oh, right. I just need your member card.”

       “Don’t you recognize me? I’m here all the time,” he said with special contempt.

       “No, sorry. It’s $9.46.”

       He paid in cash.

        The theater was packed. He found a seat near the screen. The chatter grated him, as he knew it would. Suddenly he turned to a young man he presumed was very much like himself, alone, sitting to his left.

       “Excuse me, have you seen this before?”

       “No, I haven’t actually. It’s a blind spot. Have you?”

       “Yes I have. I’ve seen every single Alfred Hitchcock movie.”

        Templeton knew that he was exaggerating out of habit. Or was he? Hitchcock made dozens of movies, some quite difficult to see, but Templeton’s mind raced through every title, every actor, every release date to the day. He knew them all.

      “Really? That’s crazy, didn’t he make a bunch of silent movies before his famous ones?”

       “I’ve seen every single Alfred Hitchcock movie…”

       “Okay? Well which are your favorites, then? Besides the ones everybody knows. Where should I start with obscure Hitchcock?”

       Templeton reeled off a list of facts and figures at the young man with awesome, supernatural speed.

       “Woah, okay then. I believe you’ve done your homework, but which was your favorite? How did you feel about them?”

       “Feel?”

       The crowd applauded as a man in a red flannel with a discount microphone made his way to the stage to introduce the movie. Templeton couldn’t get the word out of his head. “Feel…feel…feel…”

       A terrible realization crept into where his soul once was. He knew had seen every movie ever made, could instantly recall anything about any of them, but lacked the capacity for insight. How did Psycho make him feel? What were his thoughts? His opinions? Templeton did not know, for he had no feelings, thoughts, or opinions.

       “I’ll bet no one laughed in 1960,” he said blankly.

       “What? The presenter is starting. Are you alright?” the young man replied.

        I’ll be seeing you… The stranger’s voice floated through Templeton’s mind.

        He stood up. The crowd tried to shout him down. He would not be shouted down. He strode to the stage with that self-confidence that had forever eluded him. “Please give me a break, man,” the presenter said. A break was nowhere in sight. With eyes that promised violence, he snatched the mic from the presenter’s hand. He breathed heavily into the mic. The audience continued shouting.

       “Get the fuck off the stage!”

       “Who the hell is this guy?”

       “Start the god damn movie!”

       Templeton began.

       “Psychowasreleasedin1960hewassohappywiththescorethathedoubledcomposerBern ardHermann’ssalaryandsaidthatathirdofthemovie’seffectwasduetothescoreitstarsAnthonyPerkinsJanetLeighMartinBalsamJohnGavinandVeraMilestheshowerscenetooksevendaystofilmanddidn’toriginallyhavemusicbutHermannconvincedHitchcockandnowit’soneofthemostfamouspiecesoffilmmusicwho’sthatburiedoutinGreenlawnCemeterywhatcanbesaidaboutPsychothathasn’tbeensaidalreadynoonewouldbeadmittedafterthemoviebeganifanyofyoulaughduringthisi’llfuckingkillyouaboy’sbestfriendaboy’sbestfriendmybestfriendismymotherMacGuffinisthemosttiredwordnoonehadbettersayMacGuffintomeWaltDisneywouldn’tletHitchcockfilmatDisneyLandbecausehe”madethatdisgustingmoviePsycho”ohgodmotherbloodbloodHitchcockwantedtoexperimentwithtelevisionstylefilmmakingmostofthecrewwasatelevisioncrewifit’snotgellingitain’taspicifanyofyoulaughduringthisi’llfuckingkillyoubirdsreallyeatatremendouslotbasedonanovelbyRobertBlochJohnL.RussellGeorgeTomasiniwhatdoIthinkWhatdoIthinkhowdoIfeelfeelfeelfeelfeelIwouldn’thurtafly-”

       The crowd was quiet now. He continued for several minutes, then dropped the microphone. His eyes followed it as it rolled around the stage. Silence. The sound of one person applauding roused him. The crowd had vanished. Only the stranger sat, front row, center, enraptured. Smoke trailed upward from her enormous cigar. “Bravo, Templeton! My goodness, what an introduction! Please, take your seat and we’ll watch the film together.” The stranger smiled. “I know you’ve seen it before. It’s one of my favorites.” She patted the seat to her left. Templeton, dazed, made his way offstage and sat down. The projector flickered. Horizontal bars slid across the screen.

        “I was good, wasn’t I?” Templeton looked into her eyes. “I really got them to pay attention. And they all listened to me.”

        “Oh, yes. One of the best I’ve ever seen.” Her voice blended with Bernard Hermann’s jagged strings.          “No one is going to laugh at this movie ever again.”

        Templeton smiled, his first in a long time. He wouldn’t feel differently after this viewing of Psycho, or his next viewing, or the one after that. He already knew everything there was to know.

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      Andrew Milliken is a professional musician in Chicago, currently working as a pianist for the Joffrey Ballet. He is a long time horror fan, and enjoys writing horror fiction in his spare time.

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      J. Elliott is an author and artist living in a small patch of old, rural Florida. Think Spanish moss, live oak trees, snakes, armadillos, mosquitoes. She has published (and illustrated) three collections of ghost stories and three books in a funny, cozy series. She also penned a ghost story novel, Jiko Bukken, set in Kyoto, Japan in the winter of '92-'93. Available in  Paperback and eBook on Amazon.