Free Last Night at the Circle Cinema by Emily Franklin

painting of Bob. I ordered it online because I could not figure out how to portray Bob as I wanted him to appear, daring and in trouble, perhaps with a mustache or an ironic sweater vest. Bob in a protest march, bright pink against the bland crowd? Bob as a derelict, bottle in hand, collapsed on the street corner? I tried them all and the clothing in my hamper was proof, splattered Jackson Pollock–style, and produced nothing worthy of even the Circle Cinema’s ode to miserable art. It seemed that part of life was figuring out all the things you sucked at, and I learned that painting was one of my weak spots. So I sent away for a custom paint-by-numbers that I completed in Codman’s basement—years from now he’ll probably find the mini-Bobs I painted hidden in various corners and on shelves.
    But Codman, in true Codman style, didn’t notice Bob in Jail , my custom work. Bob’s coral-tipped wings poked out from the jail bars as though reaching out to Codman or Livvy. She might have noticed but, also true to herself, said nothing probably for fear it would be interpreted too deeply.
    Little did Livvy understand that Codman did not interpret anything too deeply. I always admired this about him, his ability to live superficially in a way that would be impossible for me. And yet while I admired this about Codman, I also felt it was my duty as a human being to show him what he was missing. “There’s a world of meaning out there lying under the surface,” I’d told him on the day I met him. He thought I was misquoting a movie line and turned to Bob—who hadn’t yet been asked his name—and said, “Can you believe this guy? Can’t get his lines right.” Bob didn’t say anything, of course, but looked smug, perched on one leg in the new lawn.
    So while I had agreed with her that perhaps Codman, like objects in the rearview mirror, might be closer than he appeared to getting in touch with the world around him and the deeper meaning of life, I counted on the fact that he wasn’t quite there. At least not yet. He didn’t notice the painting of Bob, nor did he notice that the art gallery had been just the slightest bit tweaked so that Codman, who always took the left side of the stairs despite the natural order of things telling us to take the right up and right down, would wind up just where he had and proceed—alone, of course—down the corridor he thought he’d chosen.
    Some puzzles were like that. You completed them not the way you wanted but the way the puzzlemaster had decided for you. That’s just what happens in The Rashomon Effect and one of the reasons I think that movie is a masterpiece.
    When I dragged Codman and Livvy to see it at the Circle, Codman arrived directly from Lissa Matthew’s house. He looked disheveled in the way that suggested not only that he’d been messing around with Lissa but also, more importantly, that he wanted us to know that he had. I’d demanded his presence, and it hadn’t taken much work to get him to the midnight showing. This did not bode well for Lissa. And Livvy I had to drag almost literally.
    â€œYou know me,” she’d insisted. “I am freaked out in the previews of scary movies so why, why, why are you making me see this?” In fact, I did know her tendency to duck and curl in previews, and the truth was that I thought it was kind of cute.
    I bought Twizzlers and handed Junior Mints to Codman who had bought the tickets, and Livvy handed out the gourmet sodas she’d brought in flagrant disregard for the “no outside food” policy. “I’ll just tell them I’m allergic to additives,” she’d said when I asked her about it.
    I turned to address my friends. “The reason you need to make it through this film is that it will change your life. Your entire perspective.”
    â€œThat sounds bad,” said Codman. His shirt was buttoned