Double-Feature

I'm off today. It is a marvelous gift from my corporate benefactors, as a kind of restitution for having worked on July 4th. But Orf, why are you writing now?  Didn't you just finish a post? It's your day off! Well dear readers, I suspect the day will whisk me away, as days often do, leaving me with no time to write a post later tonight. So; my first double-feature.

I think I've only ever seen one double feature. It was when Rodriguez and Tarantino had released Grindhouse. Having never seen a double-feature before, it is one of my most memorable movie experiences. Rodriguez had the floor in the first half, with Planet Terror, a raunchy and cooly-absurd zombie-flick ripe with gore, featuring a hilariously dark-humoured cameo from Tarantino that pretty neatly sums up the feel of the film. Next Tarantio took the wheel with Death Proof, a dialogue driven drama that put the pedal to floor for the finale, with a non-stop no-holds-barred car-chase showdown between Kurt Russell and our femme-fatales. In between the two films, as an intermission, there were an assortment of fake movie trailers - one of which (Machete) was made into a feature film - which were parodies of horror just as over-the-top as the features. My two favorites were one voiced by Will Arnett, and one titled Thanksgiving. Grindhouse was the kind of film intended to be viewed in a theater, with a packed crowd, half-drunk and rowdy, eager to have their eyes defiled and their sensibilities offended. Viewing at home isn't quite the same.  I've tried it.

A quick glance out the window reveals it's still cloudy. Which is often the case in San Francisco this time of year, especially in the mornings when the fog hasn't yet burned off. I'm hopeful the sun will christen the day for me shortly, so I can go get myself into trouble. Before that though, I need to do laundry, or else go commando. What kind of trouble can one get into at the laundromat you ask? I'll relay a true story, which is actually a nice description of the kinds of things that happen to me with a surprising regularity. I had decided to go to the laundromat down the block one afternoon. I had plans later that evening, and figured it would be empty, given the weather was blue and gold. When I arrived, an old woman, with grey and frizzy hair, brittle as her bones, was unloading body-bags full of laundry and dispensing them into seemingly every available washing-machine. She was performing the task with the assiduity of someone trying to break a world-record; and maybe she had. Seeing the last available washer was about to fall victim to her rapacious unloading, I dashed toward the machine. She too, contrary to her old and deteriorating body, ran maddeningly toward the machine.

Somehow I beat her, and she gave me a look of complete incredulity before saying "you know, I was about to use that." I replied that I had a feeling she was, seeing as she was using literally every other washing-machine in the laundromat, which is what had inspired me to get to the machine first. With her mouth contorted and twisting - resembling a puckering anus, performing an interpretive dance of disdain - chewing on her hatred she puffed out a sound I think was meant to convey her appraisal of my audacity. It smelled as though she had shit not her pants, but her mouth. She walked away muttering and looking back over her shoulder as though I had done the unthinkable. Ignoring her, I loaded the machine and then sat down to read a book.

Not long after reading I had received a phone call, and not wanting to intrude on the old woman's solitude, I walked outside and took the call. I spoke briefly with a friend in New York, who caught me up on the happenings of the people and places I no longer see. While on the phone, I noticed a homeless woman, only a few years older than me, halfway up the block, who appeared to be just waking up. After ending the call, I noticed she had moved closer to me and was now on the corner to my right, seeming to stare. I went back inside, to check on my laundry and move it into the dryer, receiving dirty looks from the old lady as she cleaned her laundry. I'd never felt so dirty in a place designed to make things so clean. I put my clothes into the dryer and went back outside to enjoy the weather. Leaning against a street-pole, reading an article on my phone, I relaxed in the sunlight and relished in the breeze.

My repose was interrupted by stomping feet sounding on the pavement. When I looked up, I saw the homeless woman approaching me, her eyes like lighthouses, seething fury beaming outward in pulses as she blinked. "DO YOU HAVE A FUCKING PROBLEM," she yelled, from a face completely covered in what looked like prison tattoos. Shocked and confused, I simply looked at her puzzled. "I SEE YOU LOOKING AT ME, YOU'VE BEEN STARING AT ME LIKE YOU'VE GOT SOMETHING TO SAY, SO I'LL ASK AGAIN, IS THERE A FUCKING PROBLEM?!" Angered by her accusations, but not wanting to incense her further, I replied calmly "Are you serious? I've been standing here looking at my phone for the last few minutes, I haven't even so much as glanced in your direction." People began to stop and watch the commotion. She stepped closer and said "LISTEN MOTHERFUCKER, I KNOW WHAT I SAW, YOU CAN SAY WHAT YOU WANT, IT DOESN'T MATTER! YOU WANT TO TAKE THIS OUTSIDE?!" Angrier, but still maintaining a healthy sangfroid, I informed her "We are outside. And asking me if I have a problem, but telling me it doesn't matter what I say when I tell you I don't have a problem, suggests I'm not the one with the problem."

She then told me she would call the cops, and I'd have to explain it to them. Imaging the humor of the arrival of the police, combined with her resultant incarceration, brought me a frenzied delight, and I almost called her bluff. Allowing her to physically menace around me, and verbally abuse me in public was beginning to make me feel emasculated, and I considered calling the police for her as retaliation. It was only because of the guilt I felt at toying with someone who had clear psychological trauma, that prevented me from egging her on. Instead, I told her that I meant her no harm, that I was enjoying some time outside while doing my laundry and that there was no problem. She backed away a few feet and said "GOOD! THAT'S FUCKING RIGHT THERE'S NO PROBLEM. YOU DON'T WANT TO FUCK WITH ME!" I just looked at her blankly, doing my best to remain calm and not deliver a swift uppercut into her ink-ravaged face. It looked as though a child with Downs syndrome had doodled all over her face with dirty sharpies. She then abruptly about faced, muttering, returned to her corner and sat down, continuing to stare at me.

I stood and wondered if she might be the daughter of the woman inside the laundromat.