Roland Springer was sitting in his favorite bar after work, bitching about his boss to all who would listen. “You can’t imagine what she’s doing to the theater now. You just won’t believe it. Art films, she wants. I keep tellin’ her, Lawton’s a blue collar neighborhood, people here want action, escape! I’ve been projectionist here what, nine, ten years now? You think she’d see I know what folks like. Phil, the old guy, now he paid attention, he knew. Place like this, you feel the pulse, grab onta what folks wanna see, or you go under. Not grand Ms. Alden, though. With her it’s ‘Thank you very much, Rolly. I ’preciate your feelings, Rolly. We’re showing “The Piano.”’ Christ!” He slammed his drink down on the bar.
     The other patrons, who had already cleared a fairly wide area around him, edged back even further.
     “Don’t chip the finish, Rolly,” the bartender remonstrated, mildly. Everyone was mild around Roland when he drank. At three hundred and fifty pounds he was half again as big as most of the other patrons—and liquor made him unpredictable.
     Roland just snorted and demanded a refill.
     “Hey, Stanwick had a piano,” said Pete Rodriguez, off to the left. “You know, old guy, died last week? We’re moving it out Saturday afternoon.”
     “Is that right?” Roland muttered. “Shame I can’t show that ’stead a’ this highfalutin film of Barb’s. After the guys from the plant get an eyeful of that, we’ll need a honky-tonk to draw ’em back. Say!” A sort of gleam lit his eye.
     “Now Rolly,” said the bartender. “You ain’t gettin’ another one a’ your ideas, are you?”
     “Why not? I’ll be out a job anyway, the way we’re going. May as well go out with style!”

     As Roland flirted with early retirement, his employer Barbara Alden engaged in more sober pursuits. Remaining in the theater after he stormed out, she poured over the previous season’s schedule of second run and old time features, checking them against the box office receipts. Despite what Roland thought, she had not discounted his opinion—neither had she taken it at face value. Phil, the previous owner, had been eloquent on Roland’s expertise, but also his high-handedness and tendency to throw his not inconsiderable weight around. Phil had plainly not been his own master in managing the theater. Barbara was determined she would be. She had a lot of changes in mind for the old Elite Theater, changes that would help it live up to its name for the first time in far too long. Perhaps, as Roland maintained, some would prove impracticable. But she wanted a little reality check before taking Roland Springer’s pronouncements as gospel.
     She pursed her lips. Reality was checking out decidedly in Roland’s favor. The musicals and action flicks the big man favored always outdrew the occasional drama Phil had inserted in the schedule. But Barbara wouldn’t give up that easily. The Elite wasn’t that far from Barron College; with the proper advertisement, a more sophisticated fare could draw on that demographic as well. She had returned to Las Bellotas to bring a little culture to the neighborhood she had grown up in, to broaden Lawton’s horizons beyond the endless drudgery into which it had sunk. And when Barbara Alden had a dream, she made it happen. She was a far cry now from the shy, bookish girl who had escaped these mean streets on an academic scholarship. Her turnaround of one of the most mismanaged firms in Silicon Valley had shown people that. She could turn around Lawton, too.
     She glanced at the torn, greasy notebook page listing Roland’s film picks for the current season, many already committed to by Phil’s payments to the distributors. She frowned. Not all were without merit, but most revolted her refined tastes. “‘Terminator II?’ Really, Rolly!” But there was no getting out of that one. She sighed and rechecked the listings of available films, and compensated by lining out two teen slasher movies slated for late summer and replacing them with “Grease” and “My Fair Lady.” Slowly she worked down the list, item by item resigning herself to much of it, while seizing opportunities to patch in her own choices. Often she compromised, scratching an impossible film for one similar in subject or theme, but a cut above in quality. She worked long and hard to achieve a schedule she could live with that would still keep the customers coming (“the Rolly factor,” as she wryly termed it).

     Meanwhile Rolly, blitzed on beer and bluster, rolled out of the bar and down the street to the old Stanwick place, drawing a handful of reluctant but fascinated hangers-on in his wake. All his usual drinking buddies were there—Pete, Ray Morales, Bill Scarlatti—along with a few other acquaintances. Not that any wanted to get roped into his scheme, but the big man’s drunken inspirations had an irresistible attraction, somewhat akin to freight-train derailment, or a multi-car collision on the highway. Whatever the dangers, most people just had to look…
     “Here it is,” he announced, rather unnecessarily, at the front door. He turned the knob. It resisted, locked. Impatient, he gave the door what seemed a light push. It sprang open, shedding splinters. He peered into the darkened room and saw on the opposite wall a tall, rectangular object, both hidden and highlighted by the ghost-like shroud of a white sheet. Obviously waiting, just for him.
     “Perfect,” he breathed, in a whisper the volume of a foghorn. “C’mon, you guys—make yourselves useful. Move it out.”
     “Why should we have to do it?” one man whined. “You’re the one—”
     “And keep it quiet!” Rolly bellowed. “Ya want the whole town ta know?”
     The speaker and several cronies slunk past, shouted into submission. Looks were exchanged, saying plainly to all but the intoxicated Rolly the whole town does know.