BUTCH AND SUNDANCE

BUTCH AND SUNDANCE

The summer of nineteen hundred

and sixty-nine, a summer of

rain drops consistently falling

on unprotected heads. Not

some errant weather system,

a pastiche of constant gloomy

weather, rather a storm front

of a melody that hung overhead

for three months or more.

The summer of duos, more

dynamic than that of Gotham,

Newman and Redford,

Bacharach and David,

you and I? Our duo is just

beginning, testing the

waters of relationship beyond

that of band, I basking in

your presence, so proud

to be seen with you, and

you beginning to date,

more than the casual

gathering of friends and

common interest groups

of high school.

The Riviera Theater, our

destination, your sister,

Annie, at the ticket booth

with a nod and wink gives

free pass to the darkened

theater, the previews

starting. The feature begins,

sepia images flicker across

the screen, music from

a different era, the crushing

of a man’s scrotum with

the toe of a boot, eliciting

an audible groan from

every male in the audience,

the teacher lady’s disrobing,

revealing a mutually intended

coercion of eroticism

far beyond the hint of skin

seen in her parted camisole,

Hole in the Wall, train robberies,

posse chasing, “just who are

those guys?”, cliff jumping
“oh shit!”, Bolivian food crawling

across the plate, the ending

a freeze-framed question mark.

In the darkened theater,

my hand seeks out yours,

the story on the screen,

as spellbinding as it is,

cannot match how spellbound

I have become by you. From

the darkened theater we

walk out into the night

of St. Paul, to the Lowry

ramp at which our car waits.

We hold hands as we walk

I, just one of many seeking

the same place by your

side and hoping that my

name will be joined to yours,

like Bacharach and David,

Newman and Redford,

and, Butch and Sundance.

© 2015. The Book Of Ruth, Deacon Bob Wagner OFS. All rights reserved.