Burn This House

The End

80 The End All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another . . . —Matthew 25:32 No finis to the film unless the ending is your own. —Weldon Kees The box office, from a distance, is rococo gilt— fat stucco shells open toward the ticket window with the suggestion of blossoms. Gold paint chipped away from beveled edges recalls genteel decay as the queue waits to see the man in charge. He’s behind the wicket, lighted in cold hues from overhead fluorescents. Behind waves in the aging glass, the booth shows its stock: paper reams, a stapler, two ticket spools, an adjustable chair. The accounts are kept on an analogue system, a twocolumn ledger for each patron. On the right, blue credits. On the left, red debits. The man in charge counts on fingers, taps his forehead with a pencil’s eraser as he tallies. 81 When he’s made a count, applied late credits, haggled over payments made in-kind, decided— he pulls a ticket from the spool, divides patrons into lines. On the left of the booth the bearers of red cardstock tickets, on the right, holders of blue. When the queues are set, thumbs pressing sweat into the cheap print of Admit One, the man in charge unhooks velvet ropes with an uneasy look, double checks the admittances, wipes at his brow line with a yellowed handkerchief. The left line shuffles into theatre cold that prickles the skin. The patrons scan for the best seats, space themselves for comfort as aisle lights dim. Over the speakers, the squealing of goats, static roughing a tuneless overture to the main attraction: in-march of men in tall boots, men who hold metal pipes and lengths of rebar in callous-knotted fists. The man in charge locks doors behind, checks latches with double-jiggles at the handle. Across the hall, the man in charge leads the right queue forward with a point of two fingers. They circle at the edges of a room with no chairs. Silent, they exchange looks as the man in charge steps to the stage. The lights go down. ...