Murder on the Aisle

5

7:45 P.M.

When the house lights went down for the first part of the show, Tobin experienced his usual moment of fear. Sometimes he even had a special dream about this particular part of the show: Here sat the two of them, Tobin and Dunphy, America’s favorite movie critics, being examined by Martians. Or Venusians. Or some-the-fuck-body like that. Because, see, when the house lights go down and the audience vanishes into the darkness, what happens is these rodent-like beings from outer space sneak in on kind of a sociological tour, to see why two grown men would sit facing each other in the darkness except for a cone of sterile white light encircling them, arguing vehemently about some colored images flashed on an otherwise blank white screen to their right.

But then the APPLAUSE sign came on and the film students did their part by smacking hands together and thus the show began.

Tobin leaned forward, stared into the beady red eye of camera 3, and said, “Whatever you’ve heard to the contrary, folks, we really do hate each other and we’re here tonight to prove it.”

Dunphy said, “That’s a really brilliant opening line. Really brilliant.”

That’s how it started.

How it finished was this: Although they had earlier agreed on the Sylvester Stallone movie (“Even by his Neanderthal standards, this is a low point in his mediocre career,” Dunphy said) and split only mildly on the new Alan Alda (“All that’s left for Alan to do is ascend into heaven and sit at the right hand of God,” Tobin said, laughing, speaking of Alda’s role as Albert Schweitzer), it was the third movie that gave them the opportunity to do what they wanted to do — find a film they could disagree about bitterly.

It was a “small” movie about a farm kid’s first leave as a sailor in New York City. In the course of it he encountered every possible kind of street person — from panhandlers to evangelists, from rough trade to rude shoppers — and about the impact it had on him.

Dunphy said, “You know, this is the kind of movie that just doesn’t come along often enough. It’s low-key, it has no pretensions about itself, it genuinely speaks to the heart of each and every American — and it accomplishes all this without a big budget, and without any special effects. I say this is the kind of movie that would make D. W. Griffith proud he was a motion-picture pioneer.”

Tobin shook his head. “Since this is a family show, I can’t tell you what I think D. W. Griffith would have done — but I can tell you what I did. Fell asleep.”

Dunphy said, “You sure that was the movie or your hangover?”

Tobin said, “Or it might have been from reading your column earlier in the morning.”

“Tell him, Tobin!” screamed a film student from the gloom.

Dunphy sighed. “You really didn’t like this movie?”

“No,” Tobin said, “I didn’t.”

“Then I’d say your tastes have seriously eroded.”

“You never had any taste, Richard!”

Whistles and catcalls came up from the audience.

Tobin was concentrating on these, which explained why he didn’t duck when Dunphy got up and crossed the small space between them and laid a good, if glancing, left hook on Tobin’s jaw.

“I owe you this from last night, you little jerk!”

Over the intercom you could hear the director shrieking “Stop tape! Stop tape!” as stagehands rushed to the raised platform where Tobin and Dunphy ordinarily sat.

But they weren’t sitting now.

After the punch, and only a bit groggy from it, Tobin tackled the larger man around the waist and hurled him to the floor.

A roller-derby audience couldn’t have been more appreciative.

Tobin sat on Dunphy’s chest and started pounding his fists into Richard’s face.

For his part, Dunphy squirmed and kicked beneath the yoke of Tobin’s body, finally bucking high enough to throw Tobin off and into one of the chairs, which promptly fell over.

The audience went berserk.

Now it was Dunphy, nose bleeding from several of Tobin’s punches, who was on top. He showed Tobin about the same amount of mercy that Tobin had shown him. Eight, nine, ten punches were placed on Tobin’s formerly “cute” but now swollen face.

That was when the stagehands descended on them like crazed dogs, pulling them apart.

The audience responded immediately, booing and covering the platform with half-eaten Big Macs, beer cans, Diet Pepsi cans, and even a gooey slice of pizza.

“Let ’em fight!”

But the stagehands paid no attention.

One group held Tobin by the arms and around the waist, while another restrained Dunphy.

“You son of a bitch,” Tobin said, “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Even in his rage he knew it was a stupid thing to say.

Frank Emory jumped on the stage then. He was as white as Joan Dailey usually was, and glistening with his own sweat.

“My God” was all he could say as he looked at the two of them, their faces bloody, their clothes in tatters. “My God.”

He really didn’t need to say more.