Screening

We go to the local cinema and watch Pay It Forward. It is sentimental and naive and manipulative. Everyone leaves weeping.

In the men’s room afterward, a line of men shuffle up to the urinals. They sniffle; their eyes are red-rimmed. None of us speak.

The first time I can remember crying — and by this, I mean really losing control and blubbering — at a movie was when my parents took me to see Old Yeller.

The next time was The Elephant Man. I saw this film on a date with Clyda — my minister’s daughter and, in retrospect, probably a closeted lesbian.

The ending of the film devastated me. My eyes, which bulge anyway, bulged even more and were road-mapped with bright streaks of red. I retreated behind sunglasses; these did not conceal my tears, my awkward sobbing, or the hot flush of my cheeks.

Beside me, Clyda sniffled. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

We didn’t speak. We never went out again.