You've Reached Sam (71)

There are a few empty rows in the back. But I don’t want to appear as though I came alone. In the second to last row, there’s an older gentleman with wispy gray hair and a dark leather jacket, sitting in the middle by himself. He’s wearing tinted glasses. I find a spot near him, leaving an empty seat between us.

Five minutes go by but no film. The audience is growing restless. A few people get up and leave. I turn to the man and ask, “Excuse me, sir, did they mention when the film is supposed to start?”

“Soon,” he says. “But that was a half hour ago.”

“I see.” I frown and check the schedule again.

“Don’t worry. It’s normal in the industry. Everything runs late. So you could say we’re right on schedule.”

“Do you work in film?”

The man smirks. “No, I stay far away from that. I’m only here for the musical aspect.”

“Musical?”

“The documentary,” he says to clue me in. “You know this film is about the Screaming Trees, don’t you? The rock band.”

“I know who they are,” I say, maybe too defensively.

He smiles. “Thought you might have walked into the wrong screening. From my experience, most people your age have never heard of them.”

I can’t tell if he’s being condescending. “I’ll have you know, I came tonight just to see this film,” I say.

“Really?” He scratches his cheek, looking genuinely surprised. “You must be a real fan.”

“Of course I am.”

“Where did you learn about them, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My boyfriend. He introduced me to them. He knows all their music.”

“Is that so? And where is he?”

“He—” I go quiet, unsure of what to say. “Couldn’t make it.”

“Well, that’s too bad.”

I want to say more about Sam. But there’s no time because the lights dim, and everyone rustles around in their seats, facing forward. The tent goes quiet, and I hold my breath as the film begins.

The sound of an engine rumbles over a black screen as the film fades in to an old town street view through the windshield of someone’s car. A denim-sleeved hand hits the dial of the car stereo, turning on the music. The second I recognize the guitar playing, a static shock moves across my skin, sending goose bumps up my arms. It’s the song “Dollar Bill,” a track from Sam’s favorite album, the one we waited in the rain for him to get signed. As the film changes to the next scene, I’m hit with another song that makes Sam swim in my mind again. And then another one. I knew I was here for a documentary on the Screaming Trees, but I wasn’t prepared to listen to a curated playlist of the last three years of our lives.

But there’s something different about the songs. They seem to have been slowed down, distorted, and rearranged with electric instruments or something. Like brand-new versions I’ve never heard before. Accompanying the music is a supercut of concert clips, home videos of the band, and television interviews of the members that flash across the screen, all of this overlaid with videos of rippling water and blinking traffic. Almost like two movies are being projected at once. At moments throughout, the lighting changes dramatically, intensifying to create gauzy dreamlike effects that make me squint a little. Twenty minutes in and I still don’t know what the film is about. The scenes seem random and out of order, connected only through songs. There’s something hypnotic about how everything’s been pieced together, and I nearly doze off at one point. When the music fades, and the screen goes black, I wait for more. But then I hear clapping and realize it’s over.

“Well that was … interesting,” the man beside me says as the lights come on. He stands, and zips up his jacket. “Glad I made the drive.” I wonder if he’s being sarcastic.

I look around for Tristan. There are too many people standing and walking around, so I get up. As I scoot into the aisle to find him, I bump into someone else I don’t expect.

“Mr. Lee? You’re here.”

“And so are you—” He holds a glass of wine, and is wearing his usual brown suede jacket, except with a purple flower in the front pocket. Exactly like the ones from the bouquets that decorate the tent.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” I say.

“I’m always there to support my employees.” He nods, and toasts the air. “We’re family, after all.”

I smile at this. “That’s true. We are like a family.”

“Tristan will be glad to see you. Have you had a chance to talk to him?”

“I’m trying to find him now.”

“Ah, he’s been running all over the place, trying to get things in order,” Mr. Lee explains, looking around, too. “He might be networking in the next tent.”

“Maybe I should check there,” I say. “Will I see you at the after party?”

Mr. Lee narrows his eyes. “After party? Tristan never mentioned that.”

I press my lips together. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to mention it, either. “I think it’s only for the filmmaker and invited guests,” I say.

“Really. And will there be food?”

“I think so.”