We were practically alone. In fact, we had been for roughly twenty minutes. We sat and faced an empty screen, occasionally turning toward the other to emphasize a point or convey a smile. They were the forward-facing talks of familiarity and a kind of intimacy, nearly whispered, patiently shared. There was silence, too. Some of it spent thinking, some of it spent thinking ahead. Two young men entered the theater shortly before the previews began. They began to talk. They broke into our serenity like cheap hoods smashing a car window. I began to worry that they would speak during the film, which is not acceptable and would have required intervention. I chose that theater for a reason. Crowds ruin moments. They quieted down. I sat relieved.
As Gosling kicked off the film I was taken back to my days in Los Angeles. The night driving was all I had on some nights. Life was simpler and more easily denied. I could drive forever, down one street and up another. La Brea would take me from Hollywood to Torrance and up into Palos Verdes via Hawthorne. I often drove to Long Beach on surface streets. On a good night, there would be crowds of girls standing out in front of clubs, all long-haired and short-skirted for my egotistical convenience. These are moments I kept among the others of relationships and a yearning for some girls that went unfulfilled. I drove far enough to drive them into distant memory, leaving only the silence of the music on the radio.
Drive began compellingly enough—in the middle of crime. It is like the start of any good short story. No time to waste. Get in, show actions but not the character, not yet. Demonstrate action and consequence before ever revealing the players. In this case, a silent type and a single mom, surrounded by varying shades of villain. It would be a lie to say I could not imagine myself in the Driver’s seat, nor think of the duality involved in tenderness and violence from a single source. She enjoyed the brief scenes of relationship development. I could see it in her curling fingers, caught by a fleeting glimpse as I picked up the soda water I’d paid far too much for. The leading lady’s son was probably cute to her. I thought their inclusion was necessary to make the mysterious man anything more than a sociopath.
She might just be a Ryan Gosling devotee. I didn’t ask.
The film’s progression gave me ample chance to provide an anchor. I extended my arm and she took it, briefly, during the over-the-top intensity of the latter half of the film. She’d finished her Coke and had no other distraction for her hands. We watched the series of events unfold and remained silent, allowing the pressure to build until the end. I remained still when the film ended. She remained still beside me. The young men walked out and together she and I waited for the flamingo credits to come to an end.
Afterwards, while eating tacos beneath the halogen of a midnight taco truck, we agreed that we liked some parts, but not others. Some of the important elements—tenderness, character, style—were introduced like fishing line, luring us in. Or driving us further along, as it were. But at some point, they pulled too hard. The filmmakers attempted to force it in and ram the style down our throats. All too aware, we pulled back, and they lost us. This is the way, sometimes. Lured in and driven away. There is, however, still something redeeming about the experience. It doesn’t work out the way we are led to believe. The only way to know is to venture in and find out.
I saw her smile on the drive back, lit by the pulse of the passing street lamps. There were many good moments that night and the next. I make careful note of all of them for the subsequent period when she is no longer with me. Earlier tonight, I was driving alone on a street I’d never seen. A song began to play in my head. I decided we’d always have Nightcall.