He was a punk musician before he became an artist. He was in Black Flag before it was Black Flag.”
“I don’t know what Black Flag is,” I said. He pulled out his phone and tapped around a bit,
and then a screeching wave of sound, complete with a screaming, gravelly voice, filled the room from speakers above.
“That’s Black Flag,” he said, then used his phone to stop the music. “Want to see the theater?”
I nodded, and he took me downstairs to the basement, except it wasn’t really a basement because the ceilings were like fifteen feet high.
We walked down the hallway to a bookshelf lined with hardcover books.
“My dad’s collection of first editions,” he said. “We’re not allowed to read any of them, of course.
The oil from human hands damages them. But you can take out this one,” he said, and pointed at a hardcover copy of Tender Is the Night.
I reached for it, and the moment my hand touched the spine,
the bookshelf parted in the middle and opened inward to reveal the theater, which had six stadium-style rows of black leather seats.
“By F. Scott Fitzgerald,” Davis explained, “whose full name was Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald.”
I didn’t say anything; I couldn’t get over the size of the movie screen.
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