The Doorman

By William Schrader

Oscar Freeland has it all: a low-wage job taking tickets at a small rundown theatre and the highly prestigious position of president of Barkie's Buddies, an Incredulous Journey fan club which he himself founded. That the only other members are children whose attendance he purchases with ice cream does not discourage him. On the contrary, as Head Doorman at the Palace, he considers it his duty to educate the young about Barkie and the Journey.
Sadly, however, it is not to last. Somehow or another, in the go-go 80's, dilapidated single-screen theatres have lost their charm and Mr. Johnstone is forced to sell to Ziniplex, a large theatre chain, whose representative, the lovely Camila, stubbornly insists they show up on time, wear a uniform and not drink on the job - none of which Oscar has a problem with but several of his less diligent co-workers do. And so he is torn between his loyalty to the Palace and the affection of his friends. Which will he choose?
And what about Myrtle, Pete's mom? Is she really his friend or just another Jezebel out to rob him of his virginity? What would Pastor Wilcox say?
A mildly satirical sex comedy, mostly humorous, occasionally painful, The Doorman looks at the desires we don't know we have and how they make themselves known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Schrader
• Release date: May 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370666300

William Schrader

William Schrader is an English teacher living in Japan.

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The Doorman

by William Schrader

Copyright 2017 William Schrader

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Start of The Doorman

About the author

Connect with me

To the Kastasoon that no longer is and, of course, Yasuko

Shortly before the end of The Cold War

Impossible! Oscar declared. Mr. Johnstone would never sell!

It's true, Pete replied. I saw the papers myself.

I don't believe it.

Whatever. So long as we get paid. I need the money.

Me too, Oscar admitted. My foster child has ringworm.

So it seemed. For weeks he had been receiving desperate letters from his foster child - children, actually; he was supporting an entire village - complaining about a ringworm infestation and pleading for more money. This Oscar had duly sent. But now, with the Palace in trouble and his bank account empty, he was unable to satisfy their ever increasing demands. Every day he searched his local paper, The Daily Star, for news of the Great African Ringworm Epidemic but, for some reason, found nothing. That all the letters had the same handwriting was not something he had noticed and, even if he had, would never have considered odd or suspicious.

Not that again, Pete said, his face screwing up with scorn. How many times do I have to tell you. It's a scam.

Although only a student, Pete considered himself a cynic and prided himself on thinking the worst about everyone. Those boxes shopkeepers put out for UNICEF? Straight into their pocket. The only things he believed in were outrageous conspiracies in which top government officials acted in direct opposition to their own interest. Occasionally, especially when high, which was often, his reasoning became so convoluted even he suspected he was spouting nonsense - like the time he found himself arguing that JFK had had himself killed to hide the truth about the Bay Of Pigs.

But why? Oscar asked. The Palace is his life.

What are you, blind? Look around you. This place is a dump.

Pete had a point. Although once sumptuous, the Palace had long since descended into shabbiness: what little glass remained on the chandelier hung above them like jagged tears engulfed in a gloomy glaucoma of dust and spider webs; the carpet, beaten down by decades of dirty footwear, was a hopscotch of butter and vomit stains; and the marbled ceiling was an ugly measles of colour that, quietly crumbling, fell like the fake fluff of a snow globe.

The neighbourhood was no better. The short strip of shops whose ethnic otherness - Mueller Meats, O'Neil Cameras, Yip Lee Cleaning, Beaulieu Barbers and the Kiev Cafe - reflected the pioneer origins of Kastasoon was now a retail relic, overwhelmed by the twin cancers of suburbia and superstore. Surrounding them were the scavengers of urban slums: pawnshops and cheque cashing services, greasy spoons and sex toy stores, welfare hotels and sleazy bars where men sold drugs and woman waited to be bought with alcohol.

Nonsense! It just needs a little cleaning, that's all.

A dedicated employee, Oscar was devoted to the Palace and could find no fault with it. All his life, in fact, he had wanted to work there. Dazzled by the magic of movies, he could imagine no higher calling than taking tickets at the Palace and had immediately applied for the position upon graduating from Bible College. Pastor Wilcox had had his doubts, fearful that he might see a stray tit or two but Oscar assured him he only watched children's movies and promised to cover his eyes in the unlikely event the actors kissed.

Yeah, Pete sneered, with an A-bomb.

As someone who only worked part-time, Pete failed to share Oscar's passion for the Palace. To him, it was just a job, albeit with certain fringe benefits - principally, the ability to steal. Not that he regarded it as such. On the contrary, like waitresses with their tips or bartenders drinking for free, Pete considered theft part of his income. Why else were his wages so low? Tall but thin, he bulked up by wearing several jackets, one on top of another, which, he believed, made him look menacing. Stymied by several splotches of skin, his beard, clustered about his chin, curled out to a point, giving him a stringy, wizardly look.

Have you heard? Louise asked, joining them. He's selling. To Ziniplex. And we're all going to get a big severance package. One penny for every hour worked!

A middle-aged popcorn girl, Louise, like Oscar, had spent the bulk of her life at the Palace but, unlike him, wasn't particularly interested in movies. Just romances, which she consumed in various forms: movies, TV and even books. On the rare occasions when she was not taking a smoke break, she could usually be found sitting behind the Candy Bar reading a Harlequin or the latest copy of Soap Opera Weekly. Often, when Mr. Johnstone was either down at the track investing the previous day's take or passed out at his desk in remorse, she would merge her pleasures by smoking at her post and had even been seen using the popcorn box as an ashtray, which had a noticeably negative effect on sales. As for men, several had come her way but none had measured up to the unattainable ideals of her fantasy so, one after another, she had rejected them. For a while, in her early days at the Palace, she had thought that Mr. Johnstone might be her prince but something about his old school sense of style struck her as soft and so, that kernel of love had remained unpopped.

Bullshit, Pete replied. They'd never do that.

How do you know?

It's a big company.

So?

Big companies don't get that way by giving away money.

As someone who had spent almost a full year at university, Pete was an expert on everything: history, finance, politics... nothing escaped his critical gaze. Most things, in fact, were just bullshit, lies spun by powerful people to make us accept things as they are. Fortunately for humanity, he saw through it all and resisted in small but powerful ways - like the time he defaced a Conservative candidate's poster by writing 666 on his forehead and the words Today Eckville, Tomorrow Alberta at the bottom.

Just then Mr. Johnstone emerged from his office carrying a suitcase. The grandson of one of Kastasoon's original settlers, a former farmer turned wheelwright who, largely due to lack of competition, had leapfrogged from the peasantry to a position of power in a single generation, and the son of an alderman who had dreamed of being premier, Mr. Johnstone prided himself on his sophistication: besides wearing a fedora and listening to old jazz, he felt totally at home in the few fancy restaurants his rural metropolis had to offer. In a land where most people considered dinner conversation an oxymoron, restaurants were proud to put the word Family in front of their name and portion size was considered more important than taste, being able to identify the salad fork automatically marked one as an aristocrat - a distinction Mr. Johnstone thoroughly embraced.

Can I have your attention please? he asked, slurring slightly.

The three employees turned to look at him.

As you may know, I've decided to sell.

No! Oscar cried. Don't do it!

Thanks Oscar, the drunk owner replied, tears forming in his eyes. You wasted your youth working for me and I appreciate it.

Expecting similar outbursts from the other employees, Mr. Johnstone paused; getting only silence, he put his suitcase down and took out a tattered but stylish handkerchief.

We've had a good run, he said, wiping his eyes. I did my best and I'm sure you did too but there's just no place for single screen theatres. Not in today's market. People want more, luxuries like comfortable seats and a screen without slashes. We can't compete with that. So I've sold the theatre to Ziniplex.

What about our pay? Pete asked.

That's the tricky part.

Tricky? Louise echoed.

I had a lot of debt. Ziniplex took advantage of that.

What do you mean?

They're only paying the bank.

Fucking corporations, Pete muttered. Always screwing the little guy.

Believe me, I feel bad. You guys are like family to me. More than family really since you didn't leave me. But at least you get to keep your jobs. All you have to do is follow a few rules and regulations. Little things, like wear a uniform and be on time.

Uniforms! Pete exclaimed. What is this, Nazi Germany?

I'm sorry, Mr. Johnstone said as, attempting to stuff his handkerchief into a pocket, he dropped it onto the floor. Take what you want. Ziniplex won't know the difference.

Then, picking up his suitcase, he briefly looked around, tipped his fedora once and headed for the door. Inside his suitcase a pair of half-drunk whiskey bottles clinked quietly.

A stunned silence settled upon the three employees.

Dibs on the cashbox, Pete shouted, racing towards it. But all he found was a note that read: Sorry Pete but it is my theatre.

The bastard! he yelled. He took his money.

Unable to find any cash, Pete's thoughts turned to drugs. The First Aid Kit. There might be something good in there. But all he found was a bottle of cough syrup, some Band-Aids and a half-chewed vitamin.

Fucking cheapskate! he cried, flinging the box onto the floor. What if there was an emergency? A fire or paper cut?

You could use the Band-Aids, Oscar pointed out.

That won't get you high.

Pete opened the cough syrup.

This will have to do, he said, and took a big greedy gulp.

I claim the Candy Bar! Louise said as, grabbing a handful of chocolate bars, she took a quick bite of each to establish ownership.

Just then Dale entered carrying a copy of Swank. Short and muscular, he was obsessed with fitness. Flexing and grunting were so natural to him he did it everywhere he went, in bars and restaurants and while waiting in line, which the people around him often found disconcerting. Not that he cared: spellbound by his body, he assumed others were too and was convinced that any woman who didn't want to have sex with him was a lesbian.

"What the fuck? Are