Albert was gone. The theater was dark. And somewhere in Alabama, a black film can sits in a storage locker, still sweating, still waiting for the next projectionist who believes a movie can’t hurt you.
He finally turned. One eye was cataract-hazy. The other was sharp as a tack. “You’re not a collector. You’re one of them . A purist.” Searching for- mission impossible fallout in-Al...
He shook his head. “No sale.”
“Then why show me?”