For a very long time
all I wanted
was Dana Carvey and James Brolin,
Jennifer Esposito and a whole cast of
I could mention the names of
but won’t because you’d be faced
with the twenty-first-century burden of:
To Google or not to Google?
How in God’s name
did this film get away with
a squeaky clean
Every Saturday night I demanded it
along with a fast-food dinner.
Weeknights were for The Simpsons
and my mother’s homecooked meals.
But the weekends−
I needed Devlin Bowman as Bo Derek
like an average child might’ve needed
the latest and greatest video game.
What movie do you want to watch?
my mother would ask me
as she arranged my chicken nuggets
and French fries on a plate.
Master of Disguise!
I’d blurt out
before she’d even finished her sentence.
If I’d cursed then,
I might’ve answered with,
What the fuck do you think?
My attachment ran deep.
I can’t watch the movie anymore.
If I ever watch it again, I’ll have to watch it alone.
It feels like one of those tucked-deep memories
teeming with embarrassment.
Why is it embarrassing?
Because it’s something I needed
like a fish needs water.
doesn’t translate well
I needed Dana Carvey as Tony Montana.
I could’ve done without the Turtle Guy.
But Dana Carvey as Quint from Jaws?
I needed him.
Christine Naprava is a writer from South Jersey. Her work has appeared on fiftywordstories.com and in Soundings East and Studio One. Forthcoming publications include Anti-Heroin Chic and Sledgehammer Lit. She tweets @CNaprava and Instagrams @cnaprava