I had sold the tickets, served the refreshments, darkened the one-room theater, and cranked the projector to serve the latest arthouse film du jour to the matinee audience.
Suddenly, the she threw open the door, flooding the room with Charlestonian sunshine, and yelled:
”HAZ DE MOOVIE SHTAHRTED?!”
The vision still comes to me in the night, some thirty-plus years later, filling me with panic and revulsion.
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