Leaning across the table, I noticed the curtain in back for the first
time. It was a beaded curtain of many different colors. Theda Bara
might have worn it for a skirt. Behind the curtain was a television
set. It was a comforting anti-anachronism here.
The six- or eight-inch picture was on a very flat tube, a more
pronounced Predicta. The size and the flatness didn't seem to go
together. Then I saw that the top part of the set was a mirror
reflecting an image from the roof of the cabinet where the actual
picture tube lay flat.
There was an old movie on the channel. An old, old movie. Lon Chaney,
Sr., in a western as a badman. He was protecting a doll-faced blonde
from the rest of the gang, standing them off from a grove of rocks. The
flickering action caught my unblinking eyes.
Tom Santschi is sneaking across the top of the rocks, a knife in his
dirty half-breed hand. Raymond Hatton makes a try for his old boss, but
Chaney stops his clock for him. Now William Farnum is riding up with
the posse. Tom makes a try with the knife, the girl screams, and Chaney
turns the blade back on him. It goes through his neck, all the way
through.
The blonde is running toward Farnum as he polishes off the rest of the
gang and dismounts, her blouse shredded, revealing one breast--is
that the dawn of Bessie Love? Chaney stands up in the rocks. Farnum
aims his six-shooter. No, no, say the girl's lips. "No!" "No!" says
the subtitle. Farnum fires. Swimming in blood, Chaney smiles sadly and
falls.