Sharon Stone & Blue 45's Redemption (Part III)
Stuck inside with little to do and nowhere to go, Mike hatches a plan promising to bring us boobs on the big screen. It could change our lives forever -- for better or for worse.
And now Part III is the culmination of Sharon Stone & Blue 45’s Redemption and Chapter Seven of The Stories We Tell, a nostalgic lookback on friendship, growing up, and the hopes we have of becoming heroes.
It’s The Wonder Years meets The Sandlot with sprinklings of Friday Night Lights. New stories are published weekly.
For a list of all chapters, please visit the Chapter List here: Chapter List - The Stories We Tell.
Blue 45 was working… Right until the moment it wasn’t….
The squeeze came hard, and it came fast. The pinch into my shoulder sent me squirming in my seat. Hot, heavy breaths found the back of my neck. I jerked up.
“What the f**k?” B said when a different set of hands pressed down on him.
Behind the bright bulb of a toy cop’s real flashlight, I squinted and saw two security guards. They were big, muscular fellas in their early twenties who smelled fresh from an Abercrombie store and looked like they’d spent a lot of time on the Nautilus machines at the YMCA bulking up for a high school football career that ended by 10th grade.
Mike turned. “What seems to be the problem officers?” Ryan fought back a chuckle.
“You can’t be here,” the guard whose hair spiked from a visor like burnt French Fries standing in their holder said. “So that makes you the problem.”
“Yeah,” the other added.
“Whatever could you mean?” Mike said, straightening his tie. “I’m just here enjoying this fine film with my friends.” He gestured toward an unknown Baldwin brother on-screen. “I see nothing wrong with that.”
“Sneaking into ‘R’ movies is a federal offense. And now you’re coming with us,” the one who spoke said.
“Yeah,” the other added.
They snatched the back of our collars and pulled us from our seats like dried bait on the end of a rod. Two ushers popped from somewhere in the shadows and flanked the four of us friends as 500-lbs of security guard meathead led us past Sharon Stone radiating on the big screen.
One guard shoved Ryan in the back. The other sent a boot into B’s butt.
“Your parents are all gonna love this,” an usher said, and immediately a lump formed in my throat as a future spent without Sega Genesis and sunlight grounded to my basement flashed before me. I closed my eyes for a long moment to beat back the tears.
In the lobby, two more guards stood under the Hot Butter Here sign.
Mike, shoulders still squeezed in his Communion suit, looked around, smiled, and said, “Y’all multiply like some Gremlins. Which one is Gizmo?”
One guard sent a large forearm into the back of his neck.
Mike didn’t flinch. “You must be from the new batch.”
They had us surrounded, now, in the center of the big lobby. A set of guards and ushers stood in front of us with two more on our right. To the left was the entrance to the smallest of the four theaters and behind us the exit. I stared into the floor where an old cigarette had burned the red carpet.
“Stick to the plan,” Mike whispered. “Trust in Blue 45.”
The guards squeezed us into a human ball, our sentencing surely coming soon. My heart leapt into my throat. I pictured permanent stains on my permanent record. Something needed to happen, and it needed to happen fast.
That’s when Mike - and Blue 45 - sprung to action.
He exploded in a blizzard of grunts and movement.
First, he snatched Ryan’s Reese’s Pieces and heaved them toward the ceiling. As thinly coated candy shells rained down, he plucked the nacho cheesy-buttered popcorn from B’s clutches and chucked it at the guards.
“Hehehehehehehe,” he giggled as they jumped back. Then, he shouted, “Blue 45…. Blue 45…. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go….”
With the lobby all in a tizzy, Ryan, B, and I broke hard for the exit. Just before reaching the door, I turned and saw Mike barrel-rolling opposite us. He popped to his feet and reached into his pockets, soon-to-be firing 4th of July poppers at the floor. Snaps, cracks, and ‘what the f**ks’ exploded as B, Ryan, and I sprinted outside, wondering if we’d ever see our friend again.
Thirty minutes later, I crawled from my hiding spot at the Historical Society. Sweat lined my forehead. Dirt stained everywhere else. Walking toward Arch Street, I bumped into Ryan leaving the library.
“That was awesome!” Was all he said, and we cut through backyards until we met B at Blue’s place on 45 Arch Street, just as the plan said.
“What do you think?”
“Arrested?”
“Juvie?”
“Kicked out of school?”
“Do you think his parents know?”
“S**t. Do our parents know?”
Our excitement had faded and only fear remained.
Soon, we saw Mike strolling up the street. He carried his suit jacket over his shoulder pinched between two fingers like in the old movies. He’d lost his dress shirt and now wore just a plain white tee. As he got closer, we could hear him singing Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
He flashed his eyebrows up and down when his eyes caught ours. He stopped walking and pulled a candy cigarette from the box he’d rolled into his shirtsleeve. We watched as he placed one between his lips and grinned.
“How’d you…” we started to ask.
Mike dismissed us with an easy wave. “A magician never shares his secrets. Besides, what’d I tell you about Blue 45? As easy as up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A….”
We walked home under the soft cover of streetlights and in the quiet of narrow streets just big enough for cars to park on one side. We told our separate versions of the night’s story. Each one was a little different. Each one was equally true.
It wasn’t by much, but Mike walked a step ahead of us. He held his head high and let the candy cigarette dangle from between lips that never stopped smiling. The moon shone over all of us, but the stars saved their glow for him.
Looking back, Blue 45 had been a success.
Not because we saw any boobs on the big screen or had a grand change from boys into young men.
We’d gotten busted. Somehow escaped. And now forever held a story worthy of looking back on and laughing.
For me, that’s enough to make it all worthwhile.