The dusty black pick-up entered Main Street of the small town, a town like hundreds of others Selwyn Masters passes through each year on his quest to visit every small community within 500 miles of his hometown.
It would be regarded an interesting concept if Selwyn were a sociologist, a town planner or perhaps an unhinged urban adventurer but no, he was an author who twice a year took off two weeks away from his wife and family to do this quirky thing, insisting that it freed his mind and brought him into contract with people and fascinating conversations and incidents impossible to experience as a traveller with destinations decided and all bookings made.
The name of the town was Jonesville. Why a town should have an unimaginative name like that was anyone's guess but Selwyn had noticed an unusually high percentage of the name Jones written on mail boxes as he entered town, so assume there must be a connection.
He saw a young woman photographing the exterior of a dilapidated boarded-up cinema, which used to be called The Picture House in the town he lived as a kid. She looked interesting and may possess character qualities and have a story within her that might find their way into one of his books so he stopped, waited until she'd taken the photograph and said, "Good morning, could you please tell me where I can find Main Street?" That question always was good for an opener.
"You're right on it, mister."
Time for another question nearly always answered: "What are you doing?"
"You wouldn't be interested."
"Try me."
She was a pretty filly, about twenty, with a face blemish free – his face had all the wrinkles and blemishes because it had been out in the sun and worrying about bills and heartaches twenty-fives years longer than hers had been exposed to things that age one's face. His chest was much flatter than hers, their hips looked about even but his was about ten inches taller and he'd like to think he had about the same amount of hair but that was an outright delusion. He had bigger feet, she smaller ears and was sweet and he had not much sweetness left in him and his current publisher was whingeing that Selwyn's writing was losing its magic, the sense of excitement and adventure locked within his writing was fading like the sales of his books.
"I said pardon me," she frowned at having to repeat herself.
"Oh, pardon me. I was looking at you wondering if you were a Jones. What I had said was try me, meaning I could be very interested in what you are doing."
"What's that?"
"I'm a writer."
Bingo, he was at first base.
"Oh God, so am I or at least trying to be," she enthused." Are you published?"
"Yes, multipliedly."
"Is there such a word?"
"I think so, but I've not used it correctly; editors are paid to correct me."
She stared at him and after a moment asked: "Are you planning to harm me?"
Selwyn was horrified and gunned the motor: "Goodbye miss."
"Stop!" she called as he moved off. "My name is Gina Jones."
He slowed and leaning out the window called, "That's a name that ought to sell books."
"Stop I say!" she yelled as he began accelerating away. He looked at her in the rear vision mirror waving her hands in the air. She really wanted him to stop, so he did a wheelie in the near deserted street – it was siesta hour after lunch – and returned to her slowly.
"If I don't talk to interesting people I won't write interest things," she said, adding a thank you for coming back to me.
"That's a body worth coming back to examine again."
She turned pink, shuffled and said that was not a very proper comment and a hand sneaked up to check that the top buttons of he shirt were fastened, an action that only served to focus him on the outline of her boobs – the firmness of the young, and probably not even haltered, he concluded, nipples young, pink and yummy.
Yummy. The fucking editors would replace that word with another quite inappropriate such as 'delicious'. Not the same thing, at least to a man looking at a firm body. Bloody editors.
"You have to live the book you're writing and as you precede you have to be true to your book, Jenny Jones."
"Gina Jones."
"I know, stupid. Just testing that you were listening.
"No-one but my husband has ever called me stupid."
"I know," Selwyn sighed. "Fucking arrogant husbands."
"But you can't possibly have known that," she said, chin thrust forward. "Lucky guess."
"I know you've attempted to initiate an affair but it came to nothing."
Gina Jones turned pale and sat on the sidewalk, her camera hanging on the cord and swinging slightly just below her breasts, causing Selwyn to look just above the camera.
"Is the hot sun getting to you?"
"It's not hot today with this cloud. You've upset me. No-one but him and I are supposed to know about that."
"He."
"What?"
"He and I."
"Fuck you."
"Gina Jones, that's a disgusting comment from lips so young. Apologise at once and join me here in the cab – I have coffee and two peanut slices. Don't come into the cab if you are a virgin."
"I apologise and now I have the confidence that you are not here to harm me, so I'm coming in, Mr Whoever-your-are. How did you know peanut slab is my favourite?"
"I had to make up something to lure your into my vehicle which is so aptly named."
"What do you mean, you big tease," she giggled, getting into the vehicle and bursting into laughter – "My God, you are so clever; it's a pick-up."
"And you are smarter than you look. I'll pour the coffee – the peanut slices are in the glove box."
"Right, Gina Jones, answer the question: Why are you photographing this clapped out building?"
"It's due for demolition. My mother, who has returned to live in Ireland, came to this country in the 1960s and her first job was working in this picture house as an usherette."
"Picture house – one such young as you shouldn't be aware that's what locals used to call these places of entertainment."
"It's what she called it. She used to tell me many stories about her three years working in that place."
"Did she now – she may have even been working there when I was young. I used to go into this picture house," Selwyn lied, though it was very much like the one he did frequent. Perhaps they were built by the federal government as a community service during the Depression Years, all built from the one plan.
"Can we get in there?"
Gina licked crumbs off her lips, her kissable lips.
Selwyn stared at those lips. She was very aware of that, and the lips parted slightly.
"Do you have a torch?"
"In the glove box."
She found the torch as said, "Come on, let's go inside and allow you to re-live your youth."
The rats scattered through the dust but the spiders remained, watchfully defiant.
Gina went to turn to the right as she entered the theatre proper but Selwyn turned left and said, "This way."
"What's the difference?"
"A great deal if you're a shy eighteen-year-old lad without a girl."
"What are you talking about?"
"See this last row of seats, set back in the return of the passageway? All theatres of this type were built like that – and this is where it happened."
"What happened?"
Selwyn told her. She listened without interruption and when he finished she said, "Ohmigod, you could be my real father!"
"No, impossible. Actually it was a different town and would have been a few years after your mother had stopped being an usherette."
There was a long silence, and then she said, "I'd like to engage in a re-enactment, er, as part of my literary research."
"Very well, here's the torch. I'll dust the seat – see how it's a double seat for the usherette. She would pit on one half and put her torch and handbag containing snacks on the other half. Very astute in design, don't you think?"
