Cramped Quarters - Love Under Lockdown

Class had already started when I arrived, so I did my best to slip into the back and be inconspicuous. There was only one seat left over by the door and I was happy to take it, my ass touching plastic just as the instructor hit play on the first film of the class.

Something people don’t really seem to get about the Bible was that it held horrors almost too terrible for the mind to comprehend. Particularly at the beginning and the end. H.P. Lovecraft had nothing on Revelations.

Still, I wasn’t quite ready for what I saw on the pull-down screen that warm, summer morning. It wasn’t terrible or really scary per se, but it was still beyond anything I had yet imagined. The film was Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising.

Even before I really understood the gay or Luciferian subtext Anger had sprinkled throughout it, it still grabbed hold of my mind and molded it like clay, through the sheer force of the filmmaking alone, leaving me changed.

The rest of the class was something of a blur. A mass of swirling words and terms, most of which my addled brain couldn’t comprehend. I did my best to try and keep up, but there was still only so much that I could do.

“You okay?”

I broke out of my trance, my heart literally skipping a beat. He had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. All genuine concern and dashing charm. He was so handsome, it was a second or two before I could speak.

“Yes, I just - wow!”

“Never seen a film before?” he teased.

“Not like that, no.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded.

“Is this your major?” I asked, since he seemed to feel quite at home in this setting.

“Yeah, Film Studies is, I mean. This class is a requirement. I’m honestly most interested in the French New Wave, but that’s not available until the second year.”

“You look older,” I blurted, then quickly followed up with, “sorry.”

“It’s okay, as well as true. It took a while before I really knew what I wanted to do, so I applied as a slightly more mature student than some freshmen here are. I’m twenty-one, before you have to ask.”

“I’m Rachel,” I said, managing to remember my name.

“Augustus,” he replied, taking my hand.

“Like the emperor?”

“Something like that.”

He looked at me for a moment, as though trying to see into my soul. Despite a lifetime of warnings from both my parents and hearing their words swirling around in my head, I let him, just hoping he would like what he saw.

“You seemed a bit overwhelmed,” he said.

“I was,” I admitted.

“Can give you my notes if you-”

“Yes, please!” I enthused, way too quickly.

I had enjoyed the film on an emotional level but had no idea what I would say about it from an academic perspective. So, I greatly appreciated his offer.

Without a word, he got out a little hardcover notepad and a gel pen from the pocket of his dress shirt. With swift, smooth movements, he wrote out his contact information before pulling the page and giving it to me, making the whole thing look like a magic trick.

“Call me,” he said, “and I’ll be happy to teach you everything I know.”

Everything you know, huh? I thought.

I definitely liked the sound of that.Chapter Four - AugustusThe keyboard rattled like a machine gun, words flying across the white screen. I was never really taught how to type. It was just one of those things that I picked up. I had a ‘knack’ for it, as my other brother Mick liked to call it.

Apparently, the knack was strong with me, because there were times when my mom would ask if I was actually writing anything or just typing gobbledigook to make it sound like I was working.

Making matters weirder, I also had the ability to seemingly do two things at once, talents which made film studies a natural fit for my skillset. Such as trying out my thoughts and notes on a film while I was watching it. Homework generally lasted roughly the same duration of a given film’s runtime.

I was tempted to play some music in the background, particularly for the silent movies, but resisted the urge. The music selection was a major factor in a film’s construction, particularly in terms of the New York School, where Anger and Richard Kern counted it near the top of considerations. It was impossible for me to pick between the two.

I loved both of them for very different reasons. If one were to put a gun to my head, I’d have to go with Anger for his superior cinematography and decades of pissing off the masses. He was breaking taboos and thumbing his nose at ‘authority’ at a time when he could still go to jail for it.

The knock was so light I was scarcely sure I’d heard it. I figured it was some visitor.