“JESUS, WHAT’S HAPPENING?” cries Shane as they careen out of the theater, everyone breathing heavily as their headlights sweep the screen. The Kid remains silent as they exit the gate—the tires of the truck clanking over the ‘no entry’ spikes—peers behind the screen at the rusted iron girders, like the ribs of some giant carcass, and the scaffolding covered in pigeon s**t, where a nattily-dressed man and woman have taken refuge. The Kid doesn’t know what the hell is happening, exactly, but as they motor up the hill overlooking the drive-in he sees the place with fresh eyes, viewing it as a kind of graveyard, its speaker stands like tombstones and its cars like black, shiny coffins, waiting to be returned to the earth, and so also with the concessions stand, its painted wood mutating, fossi
