Brian took another sip of the swamp water masquerading as diner coffee. It had been a good plan.

Then he remembered the price of a decent corporate suite at a New York hotel, because there was no way he could stay in a rathole like the Holiday Inn. There was also the cost of transportation -- taxis were expensive, and he couldn’t risk an Armani suit on the subway. And did he really think he was going to avoid clubbing?

Brian rested his head in his hands and stifled a groan. He’d be lucky if he had enough for two weeks in New York.

He was lost in the tempting vision of flying to the Big Apple merely for the pleasure of strangling the little fucker from Kennedy & Collins, when the newspaper thumped onto the counter mere inches from his nose.

“Do you fucking believe this?”

Brian raised his head and glanced at the folded out entertainment section. “Don’t worry, Mikey. It’s just a marketing ploy. ‘Friends’ will be back next season.”

“Not that, asshole!” Michael flicked a finger at a smaller blurb. When Brian made no move to read it, he huffed impatiently and crossed his arms at his chest. “The Lyceum is closing!”

Brian lifted one shoulder in response, and Michael rolled his eyes. “It’s only where we spent half our childhoods! It’s part of our youth! It’s--”

“It’s progress. Tear down the leaking, crumbling monstrosity that costs a fortune to heat in the winter and lacks any fundamental air conditioning in the summer. Toss out the dedicated workforce who have devoted their lives to schlepping stale popcorn and watered down cola to the masses. Replace the whole thing with a cost-efficient multi-plex manned by pimply high school students who will work for five bucks an hour and think that American Pie is a cinematic masterpiece.”

“It’s a travesty.”

“It’s the American way.”

Michael stared, dumbfounded. Then he snatched up the paper. “Get your coat. We’re going.”

“What the fuck?”

Michael jabbed one finger at the paper. “They’re doing a retrospective of all the films they’ve premiered over the years. Today is,” Michael scanned the paper quickly, “’Creature from the Black Lagoon’. We’re going to sit in the balcony and get popcorn and watch a guy waddling around in a rubber suit and you’re going to like it. Now get your damned coat!”

Brian knew that look. He remembered it from high school pep rallies that he never wanted to attend, but where he somehow ended up in the bleachers, clutching a ragged Susquehanna Piranhas placard and watching Michael cheer for the pathetic football team and their 0-10 record. He remembered it from college, when his intention was to stay in the dorm for winter break, to fuck and study and fuck and maybe fuck some more, yet he found himself shrugging into his coat and driving across town in a blizzard in order to scarf down one of Deb’s drenched-in-marinara pasta surprises while Mikey smiled at him over the rim of his milk glass.

He remembered it from New York City, sixteen years old, feet tired and eyes wide, trudging down endless streets, eyes dancing in the reflected neon light, memories of The Nutcracker fresh in his mind, and Mikey’s hand clutching the precious comic books that they had to walk miles out of their way to buy.

He got his coat.

Brian usually kept something from his stash on hand in case of emergency. Sometimes it was a tab or two of E in the bottom of a pocket for those nights at Babylon... or when wandering hospital corridors looking for newborns. In this case, it was a spliff of Anita’s finest blend tucked behind his Marlboros. Brian settled into his seat and lit up.

It had been years since he’d been to the theatre, but The Lyceum was exactly how he remembered it. Tattered velveteen curtains that had long ago seen better days, crackling sound system, and floors so irreversibly stained in soda and juice, not to mention various body fluids, that the squelch of a person’s soles announced his arrival long before he reached his seat.

Brian tuned out the movie, and most of Michael’s prattle. He rested his feet on the rail and glanced around the cinema. The Lyceum was where he got his first blowjob, slinking from his seat to join some random guy in the back row, sure that he was going to get caught and kicked out, knowing that they’d call Joanie, mortified at the thought of what she’d say yet unable to resist the lure in the trick’s eyes. He was fourteen.

It was where he made out with the closeted jock from his marketing class, rubbing lightly at the guy’s crotch through his Levis, slowly slipping his zipper down, sliding his fingers inside and taking the long thick cock in his hand, never taking his eyes from the movie screen. The jock had bit his lip when he came, stifling a groan and arching out of the seat. They’d never spoken of it, and the jock dropped the class two days later.

He’d even kissed Lindsay in this balcony, a light peck on the lips that she tried to deepen into something more, and he remembered that scene ended with Lindsay storming out screaming “You shit!” to scattered applause and catcalls.

Yeah, he’d miss this place.

Brian blinked, focusing again on the big screen where the Creature was terrorizing some schmuck trying desperately to keep his SAG card.

“Is that mean old man who used to tell us to get our feet off the seats still working here?” Michael twisted around in his seat, trying to look seventeen ways at once. Weed, Brian remembered, always did make him paranoid.

Brian vaguely remembered the old coot and his perma-scowl. “Are you kidding? He’s probably fucking maggot feast by now.”

“Man, when I think of all the Saturday afternoons we spent here.”

“Yeah,” Brian’s gaze flicked down to the stage, “I used to buy a ticket and let you in that fire exit.”

Now that memory was crystal clear. Brian felt no guilt. It wasn’t like either of his parents gave a shit where he was anyway. Jack made good money at the plant -- a fuck lot more than Deb did as a waitress -- and it was ridiculously easy to finagle money out of Joanie, once he endured the standard lecture about not seeing any films that would warp his impressionable young mind. The farther along she was in the sauce, the easier it was to get a couple of bucks. Of course, that also meant that the admonitions about good taste and decency and how much better things were in the old days went on a lot longer. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

Michael was the cinephile, but he never knew that Brian would have gone to those Saturday matinees without him. That Brian often went to the Sunday matinees as well, sneaking out after morning mass. That Brian would have done almost anything rather than endure a weekend in the Kinney home, listening to Joan proselytize and dodging Jack’s barbed tongue.

“Never got caught,” Michael sing-songed, and Brian shook off the memories and tried not to roll his eyes as he joined him in a half-assed high five. Mikey got paranoid and juvenile when he was high.

The theatre contained more than an escape from his fucked-up family and memories of conquests, Brian mused. They actually had seen a lot of good films in this old, drafty box. “This is where we saw Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.” He would never admit it to anyone, but seeing Harrison Ford in that fedora still had the ability to get him instantly hard.

“And Ghostbusters,” Michael added. “And...”

“The Fly.”

“The Fly,” Michael nodded. Neither of them mentioned the nightmares Michael had for days afterward, nightmares he confided in Brian after almost falling asleep in science class. “I can’t believe they’re going to tear it down. For one of those cheezy Cineplex’s.”

“Yeah, they don’t have any balconies to get stoned in.”

“When this place is gone, a part of us will be gone, too.”

Brian shifted in his seat to look at Michael. He’d forgotten. Paranoid and juvenile and... “You get extremely maudlin when you’re high.”

“Well, this’ll probably be the last time you and I are ever here together. You’ll be in New York.”

“And you’ll be in Portland. Opposite fucking ends of the universe.”

“I didn’t say I’d go,” Michael protested.

“Well, you should.”

“I’m not like you. I can’t just wake up one morning and decide, ‘Boom, time to move on.’ No looking back, no regrets.”

Brian clenched his jaw and thought of his journal. Neat columns of figures listing expenses and assets and overhead costs. Thought of how much money it cost to finance a decent education, and how quickly one’s dreams of a corner office with a bank of windows could go up in a wisp of smoke.

But not everyone had to be trapped in the ’Burgh. And like usual, it was up to him to give Michael the push he needed.

“There’s nothing for you here.”

“It’s my home,” Michael insisted, and fuck if he didn’t sound like he was going to cry. Paranoid and juvenile and maudlin and weepy. “And even though it’s not Paris or New York--”

“No shit,” Brian interjected.

“I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s all I know.”

Brian remembered how they both used to lose themselves in those Saturday afternoon matinees. He would travel the galaxy in the Millennium Falcon with Han Solo, or sail on The Bounty with Mr. Christian, or fight off The Terminator. At some point, his dreams became more practical. Success. Money. Power. But Michael’s head never quite left the clouds, even as his feet became more mired in the sand.

It was time for him to move on. Time for both of them.

Brian stared blankly at the screen. Fuck him for not knowing it. Fuck him for not making the decision on his own. Fuck him for not acting like a man. Fuck him for making me push. Again.

“Well, maybe it’s time to know something else, Michael,” Brian bit out. “You’re not fifteen anymore.”

“I know.”

“Go with David,” Brian said forcefully. “Get the hell out of here.”

The strains of the closing music leaked from the ancient speakers, signalling the ride into the sunset. The happily ever after.