After Steady Work Dries Up, the Aging B-Movie Queen Reconsiders Fright Night

Alyson Mosquera Dutemple
| Fiction

 

The movie is a horror film. The movie is in a theater, at night. There are strangers in the theater. Your child is among the strangers, slouch- ing, in a seat much too close to the screen. Your child is accompanied by a “friend from school.” You do not know the friend. The movie features gratuitous violence, gratuitous everything, the kind of gratuity that made you famous, the kind of gratuity you now fear can give a person ideas. There’s artery-clogging fat in the popcorn. There’s processed corn syrup in the drinks. There’s an overdue co-pay at the pediatrician’s and too high a balance on the credit card your child has borrowed from you. There’s no more waiving of late fees. The movie ticket costs 15.00. The concessions cost 15.00. The parking garage costs 15.00. Your child doesn’t care about the costs of things, hasn’t learned the value of a dollar. Your child’s shoulders are constantly hunched. Your child is growing up crooked. Your child doesn’t care about good posture, doesn’t respond when you try to talk in the evenings after work (when you say how was school today, did the counselor call you into the office, did the kids call you that name again, the one that makes you feel that way, did you tell anyone else about what’s happening to you, are you avoiding social media like the doctor recommended). Your child is not avoiding social media. Your child has show biz aspirations. On your feed, a selfie of your child appears, a photo from within the theater just before the lights go down. The seats are stadium-style, deep, private. The friend’s hand is gripping your child’s shoulder. In the dim lighting, the hand looks older than you would have expected, alarmingly weathered and pinky-ringed. Your child is grinning wide, so wide, that you can see your child is not wearing the orthodontic retainer you always fight about. Your child’s smile has cost more than your car. Your child’s smile has cost more than you could ever calculate. Your child’s smile costs and costs. The selfie disappears moments after you heart it.

Alyson Mosquera Dutemple’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Colorado Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Passages North, and Arts & Letters, among others, and her story manuscript was a runner-up for the 2022 Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction. She works as an editor and creative writing instructor in New Jersey.

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