Free The Roy Stories by Barry Gifford Page A

the Ciné theater on Bukovina Avenue in Chicago, where they lived. Roy’s father drove them in his powder-blue Cadillac, bumping over cobblestones and streetcar tracks, until he parked the car half a block away from the theater.
    Roy was wearing a brown and white checked wool sweater, khaki trousers and saddle shoes. His father wore a double-breasted blue suit with a white silk tie. They held hands as they walked toward the Ciné. The air was becoming colder every day now, Roy noticed, and he was eager to get inside the theater, to be away from the wind. The Ciné sign had a red background over which the letters curved vertically in yellow neon. They snaked into one another like reticulate pythons threaded through branches of a thick-trunked Cambodian bo tree. The marquee advertised the movie they were going to see, King of the Khyber Rifles , starring Tyrone Power as King, a half-caste British officer commanding Indian cavalry riding against Afghan and other insurgents. “Tyrone Cupcake,” Roy’s father called him, but Roy did not know why.
    Roy and his father entered the Ciné lobby and headed for the concession stand, where Roy’s father bought Roy buttered popcorn, a Holloway All-Day sucker and a Dad’s root beer. Inside the cinema, they chose seats fairly close to the screen on the right-hand side. The audience was composed mostly of kids, many of whom ran up and down the aisles even during the show, shouting and laughing, falling and spilling popcorn and drinks.
    The movie began soon after Roy and his father were in their seats, and as Tyrone Power was reviewing his mounted troops, Roy’s father whispered to his son, “The Afghans were making money off the opium trade even back then.”
    â€œWhat’s opium, Dad?” asked Roy.
    â€œHop made from poppies. The Afghans grow and sell them to dope dealers in other countries. Opium makes people very sick.”
    â€œDo people eat it?”
    â€œThey can, but mostly they smoke it and dream.”
    â€œDo they have bad dreams?”
    â€œProbably bad and good. Users get ga-ga on the pipe. Once somebody’s hooked on O, he’s finished as a man.”
    â€œWhat about women? Do they smoke it, too?”
    â€œSure, son. Only Orientals, though, that I know of. Sailors in Shanghai, Hong Kong, Zamboanga, get on the stem and never make it back to civilization.”
    â€œWhere’s Zamboanga?”
    â€œOn Mindanao, in the Philippine Islands.”
    â€œIs that a long way from India and Afghanistan?”
    â€œEvery place out there is a long way from everywhere else.”
    â€œCan’t the Khyber Rifles stop the Afghans?”
    â€œTyrone Cupcake’ll kick ’em in the pants if they don’t.”
    Roy and his father watched Tyrone Power wrangle his minions for about twenty minutes before Roy’s father whispered in Roy’s ear again.
    â€œSon, I’ve got to take care of something. I’ll be back in a little while. Before the movie’s over. Here’s a dollar,” he said, sticking a bill into Roy’s hand, “just in case you want more popcorn.”
    â€œDad,” said Roy, “don’t you want to see what happens?”
    â€œYou’ll tell me later. Enjoy the movie, son. Wait for me here.”
    Before Roy could say anything else, his father was gone.
    The movie ended and Roy’s father had not returned. Roy remained in his seat while the lights were on. He had eaten the popcorn and drunk his root beer but he had not yet unwrapped the Holloway All-Day sucker. People left the theater and other people came in and took their seats. The movie began again.
    Roy had to pee badly but he did not want to leave his seat in case his father came back while he was in the men’s room. Roy held it until he could not any longer and then allowed a ribbon of urine to trickle down his left pantsleg into his sock and onto the floor. The chair on his left, where