Them Kennedys was smart. Good-looking. Had everything.

Dejavue tried to pretend the couple wasn’t there. Very difficult. Five minutes ago, they had walked into the tiny room of empty folding chairs— except for the one Dejavue occupied, and sat smack dab in front of her. The man was bulky and bald; his companion had a long head and a tall hat. Dejavue sighed quite audibly, but it didn’t make a difference— despite the title for this film noir series: “Dangerous Dames”. So she squinted at the ugly portraits on the library wall. She’d wait until a few more people arrived and then move to the back of the bus— rather, screening room.

      Off the gold standard... Just paper...
      Back in the ‘Sixties, wasn’t it?

Dejavue hoped they weren’t married. Married couples got confused and thought they were home watching cable.

      The Chiney come over here... They get Social Security...
      They didn’t pay for it... They didn’t fight in no wars...
      They get it right away...

Dejavue’s voice boomed only inside her head: The hamster’s dead— Get off the wheel! She’d learned this fine phrase from her middle school students. Over the last decade she’d picked up others. Like “jawm” and “yadda-yadda-yadda” and“Neeo-o-ow mean?”   Just then two more couples strolled in and sat right behind Dejavue. Was she giving off radar? Rather than read the program a third time, she saved herself the last seat by the door with a stack of hardcore mysteries and crept off to the restroom.    

***
Dejavue hustled down the dark street. Past the karate school where kids learned dexterity. (Not enough to bend over, pick up their clothes, hang them in the closet.) Past the former professional building, now a halfway house for delinquents. Was Dejavue afraid? No, she’d drunk four cups of coffee today. Her otolaryngologist would’ve been scandalized, but Dejavue hated to fall asleep in the movies. Even a free, old black & white movie on a creaky projector.

She should’ve waited for the bus, but almost choked to death. A few feet from the bus stop an 18-hour bar kept a smoking barbecue stand just outside its door. In front stood a black-skinned chef with a very tall white hat. Dejavue crossed in the middle of the street; she’d had enough tall hats for one night.

Scuttling down the last dark block, Dejavue heard a loud buzzing in her ear. A lost West Nile mosquito? No, just off-duty security. Riding a mo-ped. No lights. On the sidewalk. Passing her on the right. Inches from her little toe.

***
Home at last, Dejavue was ready to kick off her shoes, slip out her dress, plop down on the sofa, and call it a day. Never mind the hair net; her lipstick was long gone with the coffee napkin.

Swish-rush-wush-swish-rush-wush-swish-rush-wush— What was that? Dejavue stood still. Swish-rush-wush-swish-rush-wush-swish-rush-wush— Something outside? She crept to the window. Two fat cicadas clung to the screen.

Swish-rush-wush-swish-rush-wush-swish-rush-wush— Something moved in the backyard of the abandoned house. Grass grew high as the fence. Weed trees sprouted to the second floor. Swish-rush-wush-swish-rush-wush-swish-rush-wush— Dejavue was all set to call the precinct. Mother Nature doesn’t make that kind of noise.

Then her eyes became accustomed to the dark; a white tee-shirt bobbed up and down among the bushes. It towered over a slumped black one. Dejavue thought of “Rear Window”. She thought of “Witness for the Prosecution”.

Then she wrinkled her busybody nose and turned away from the window in disgust. Conjugal relations! With all those mosquitoes out back! Then with eyes gleaming in the dark like a cat, Dejavue turned right back around.

“Get a car!” rang through the night air. Smirking, she knew the two would never be the wiser.