Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 84 Page 85 Page 86 Page 87 Page 88 Page 89 Page 90 Page 91 Page 92 Page 93 Page 94 Page 95 Page 96 Page 97 Page 98 Page 99 Page 100 Page 101 Page 102 Page 103 Page 104 Page 105 Page 106 Page 107 Page 108 Page 109 Page 110 Page 111 Page 112 Page 113 Page 114 Page 115 Page 116 Page 117 Page 118 Page 119 Page 120 Page 121 Page 122 Page 123 Page 124 Page 125 Page 126 Page 127 Page 128 Page 129 Page 130 Page 131 Page 132 Page 133 Page 134 Page 135 Page 136 Page 137 Page 138 Page 139 Page 140s e p t e m b e r 2 0 1 6 1 3 3 Fiction By Benjamin Rybeck corey templeton Long Shot I f this,” Max says, “right now, were a film I’d made, know how I’d start?” Kelly rolls her eyes at her brother and says, “How?” “Godlike, the camera would begin over- head. And the spectator would watch Tom- my’s Park for a moment, kind of like one watches the wide shots closely in films by John Ford and Sergio Leone and Michael Haneke. The spectator would watch, try- ing to figure out where his eye should fall— until, there! See? Someone has entered the frame. And with that, the camera would begin its descent, craning downward. You would float into the dream of the film.” “Marvelous,” Kelly says. “I left my Oscar at home.” Max laughs. “Who’d want an Oscar? You want to know what happened the last time I saw Evelyn?” The way he packages these thoughts to- gether, Kelly almost doesn’t notice his shift; instead, she watches one hippie across the park cough as he passes his joint to another hippie. But then, Max’s words hit her, and she looks up at him. “Yeah, what happened?” “It was five years ago. December…” By calling into a radio contest and an- swering correctly its trivia question (“In which Hitchcock film has a killer recently fled the police in Portland? It’s Shadow of a Doubt. A childish question…”), Max won a ticket to a screening of Land Without Wa- ter at the Portland Museum of Art. So that night, he crowded into the small screening room–smaller even than the theater at the Movies on Exchange, but cleaner–and he watched the Portland-set film for a second time, feeling his “attention slip like smooth wet glass” from his fingertips. “Did you just think of that,” Kelly asks, “or have you been rehearsing?” After the screening, he climbed over some long-legged people in his row. Max was the one destined to become the next great Portland filmmaker, and his work should’ve been on that screen instead. “I wasn’t bitter about it, though,” he says. “I just knew it. Like one knows a fact.” Outside, he saw young people, light- ing cigarettes, flicking collars skyward for shelter from the breeze. So with no collar to pop, and no cigarette to light, and no com- panion with whom to speak (he’s embel- lishing now, Kelly knows), Max started off home, going around the side of the muse- um to head south down High Street, look- ing upon Portland Harbor spread out be- fore him, seeing all the lights and streets snaking together into ramshackle circuitry, lit up and electric. As he hiked down High, he heard some- thing up ahead and saw two silhouettes standing at the back museum entrance: a bulky man and a slim woman. He planned to pass without eye contact, but then the woman spoke. And what did she say? Please. Please. It was Evelyn. The back of his throat went dry, and he quickened his pace.