Settle into the place where you are.
Let the room around you be exactly as it is.
Nothing needs to be changed.
There is nowhere else you need to go.
We're going to go back.
To an ordinary Friday evening.
In October of 1996.
In a small New Jersey town called Bellweather.
It is the kind of town with maple trees along the older streets and low shopping plazas along the newer ones.
There is a railway station.
Although not every train stops there.
There is a library with a stone lion beside its steps.
And between a pizzeria and a dry cleaner in the Cedar Grove plaza.
There is a video shop.
Called Moonlight Video.
It has been raining since late afternoon.
Not heavily.
Just a patient autumn rain that darkens the tree trunks and gathers at the edges of the road.
A rain that makes every window seem a little warmer from the outside.
And every lamp a little softer from within.
At home,
Two videotapes are waiting on the small table beside the front door.
They are in thick black cases,
One resting neatly on top of the other.
A white sticker on each case reminds that they are due back tonight.
Another sticker asks,
In friendly blue letters,
That you please rewind.
The first tape is ready.
The second is still inside the VCR.
You are sitting on the living room carpet,
Listening to it turn.
The television screen is a calm,
Empty blue.
From inside the machine comes the soft mechanical whir of tape passing from one reel to the other.
Your younger sibling lies on their stomach a few feet away.
Their chin propped in both hands.
Every now and then they look from the blue screen to the little green numbers on the front of the VCR.
As though the numbers might tell them how much longer you have to wait.
The machine simply continues its work.
In the kitchen,
Your father is folding the newspaper into smaller and smaller sections so that he can read it at the table.
The kitchen clock gives one quiet tick after another.
Near the telephone,
The red light on the answering machine blinks twice,
Pauses,
And blinks twice again.
No one is in a hurry to listen to the message.
It is Friday evening and the week has already begun to loosen its grip.
Your schoolbag has been left near the stairs.
Your father's work shoes are on the mat by the back door.
The dishes from an early snack have been rinsed and placed in the rack.
Outside the kitchen window,
Rain slips down the glass and turns the porch light into a long golden blur.
Then the VCR changes its sound.
The steady whir grows higher for a moment,
Slows,
And stops with a small,
Soft click.
The green display reads zero.
Your sibling pushes themselves up from the carpet.
Ready?
They say.
You press the eject button.
The machine considers this for half a second,
Then lifts the tape through the little door.
Cassette is warm when you pick it up.
You return it to its case,
Close the plastic cover,
And place it on top of the other one.
Two tapes.
Both rewound.
Both due tonight.
The whole weekend waits on the other side of returning them.
You put on your jacket.
Your father folds the newspaper once more,
And leaves it on the table for later.
He checks his wallet for the video shop card.
It is not in the first place he looks,
Or the second.
That this is not a problem.
The card is eventually found behind an old receipt.
Its corners softened from being carried for years.
Moonlight video is printed across the front in silver letters,
With a crescent moon leaning over the words.
Your father holds it up.
Now we're ready.
Outside,
The rain is finer than it looked through the window.
Settles on your sleeves and catches in your hair as you cross the driveway.
Fallen leaves along the curb had become deep shades of copper,
Brown,
And red.
They lie flat against the pavement,
Shining beneath the streetlights.
Your father unlocks the car.
You and your sibling slide into the backseat,
Carrying the tapes between you.
The car smells faintly of cloth seats,
Of mint gum,
And the paper bag that held groceries earlier in the week.
Your father starts the engine,
And the dashboard wakes in a quiet green glow.
The heater fan begins with a low breath.
The radio comes on in the middle of a song.
It is a song you've heard many times that autumn.
Though perhaps you never learned its proper title.
You know the rhythm of it.
You know the exact moment when the drums soften.
And the singer's voice rises.
Years from now.
You may hear only a few seconds of a song like this,
And remember the green dashboard.
Rain on the roof,
And two black video cases resting across your knees.
For now,
It is simply music on a Friday night.
Your father turns the wipers to their lowest setting.
They cross the windshield.
Walls and cross again.
The car moves through familiar streets.
Past the house with a white fence.
Past the darkened elementary school and its empty flagpole.
Past the library.
Where the stone lion has rain shining on its back.
At the traffic light.
A city bus rests on the opposite side of the intersection.
Its windows glow from within.
There are only a few passengers aboard.
Each sitting in a separate pool of light.
The signal changes.
Your father drives off.
Bellwether is not a large town,
And the journey to Cedar Grove Plaza takes less than ten minutes.
Still,
On a rainy evening,
It feels like a proper outing.
The streets beyond your neighborhood have brighter signs and broader puddles.
Tires make a long,
Sushing sound over the wet road.
Storefronts pass in red,
Yellow,
And white reflections.
At the entrance to the plaza stands a wooden sign with a panel for each business.
Moonlight Video.
Cedar Grove Cleaners.
Parkside Pharmacy.
Sal's Pizza.
The spaces in the parking lot shine beneath the lamps.
Your father chooses one near the video shop,
Turns off the engine,
And waits while the radio disappears and the heater fan winds slowly down.
For a moment,
The three of you sit inside the quiet car.
And listen to the rain.
Then you take the tapes and step out.
The return slot is built into the wall beneath the striped awning.
A handwritten sign above,
It says,
Returns here,
With an arrow pointing down.
You let your sibling return the first day.
They lift the metal flap with both hands and push the case through.
It lands inside with a padded thumb.
You return the second.
Another thumb.
The small task is finished.
Tapes no longer need to be remembered.
They have left the house,
Crossed the town,
And arrived where they belonged.
Beside the return slot,
The window of Moonlight Video is crowded with cardboard stars,
Paper moons,
And hand-lettered recommendations.
Tiny white bulbs have been woven around the display.
They are not holiday lights exactly.
Rita,
Who owns the shop,
Keeps them there all year.
And your father opens the door.
The brass bell gives one mild ring.
Warm air meets you.
The shop has its own particular smell.
Clean carpet,
Paper sleeves,
Warm plastic,
And a trace of microwave popcorn.
It is bright,
But not glaring.
The overhead lights are softened by rows of tall shelves and by posters covering nearly every spare piece of wall.
Rita is behind the counter.
Opening the return cases one by one.
She checks each tape and places it in a grey bin marked Rewind.
Or a blue bin marked ready.
Both of yours.
Go into the blue bin.
Perfect,
She says,
Looking up.
Friday Night Professionals.
Your father places the membership card on the counter.
Even though Rita already knows the family name.
She has been running Moonlight Video for as long as you can remember.
She remembers what people rented the week before.
Or they nearly chose instead.
And which films make them return the following afternoon asking for something similar?
One tonight,
She asks.
Your father looks at you and your sibling.
One,
He says,
If the committee can agree.
The committee begins its work.
You walk first to the new release wall.
The empty display cases face outward,
Each with a small numbered tag on the corner.
The actual tapes are kept behind the counter.
Some titles have entire rows of cases.
Others have only one,
And if that case is turned backward,
The last copy is already gone.
Your sibling starts at the far end where the covers have spaceships,
Treasure maps,
And children holding flashlights.
You take the middle,
Scanning titles slowly.
Your father stays near the comedies and picks up one case after another to read the descriptions on the back.
There are no previews playing overhead.
And no screen offering suggestions based on what you watched before.
Choosing takes time.
You turn a case over,
Read three lines.
Put it back.
Take another.
Along the wall,
Other families are doing the same.
A woman in a raincoat is looking for a film her parents would enjoy.
Two college students debate quietly beside the foreign film shelves.
A little girl holds a cartoon case against her coat with both arms.
Her selection apparently complete.
No one seems impatient.
The rain has brought everyone indoors,
And the shop has become its own small evening world.
Your sibling returns with a case called The Moonbase Detectives.
Its cover shows three young explorers in silver helmets standing beside a friendly-looking robot.
This one,
They say.
You read the description.
The explorers have misplaced an important moon rock and must find it before the Lunar Museum opens.
There is a dog involved,
Although the cover does not explain how the dog reached the moon.
Your father joins you with the long way around the lake.
Comedy about a family whose quiet weekend becomes slightly less quiet when they borrow the wrong camper van.
He reads the description aloud.
Your sibling considers the camper van.
Your father considers the moon dogs.
You consider both.
Neither choice is wrong.
This is the pleasant difficulty of the video show.
Somewhere among all these cases is the evening you are going to have.
But you do not yet know its shape.
You leave the new releases and wander deeper into the shop.
The shelves create narrow carpeted lanes.
Each section is marked by a white plastic tab.
Comedy.
Drama.
Family.
Classics.
Documentary.
Is a whole shelf of travel programs,
Their spines promising slow trains,
Quiet villages,
And coastlines seen from the air.
Near the back stands a small television with rounded corners.
Rita uses it to check damaged tapes.
Tonight,
Its screen is dark,
Reflecting the tiny lights from the front window.
Beside it.
A rack offers films chosen by the staff.
The recommendation cards are written in different handwriting.
Rita's are neat and square.
Nephews lean dramatically to the right.
Someone named Kim dots every letter I with a small circle.
You pick up a case from the shelf.
It is cool.
A bicycle for September.
The cover is simple.
Two bicycles resting beside a country road.
With fields and a blue hill in the distance.
The story is about a brother and sister who spend the final weekend of summer together.
Delivering a parcel to their grandmother's new house.
Along the way,
They stop at an orchard.
Cross a covered bridge and help a baker carry a tray of rolls into his shop.
That appears to be most of what happens.
Rita had written the recommendation beneath it.
Funny in places.
Beautiful all the way through.
Perfect for a rainy night.
You carry it back to the others.
The committee holds its final meeting beside the family shelf.
Your sibling looks once more at the robot and the moon dog.
Your father looks once more at the borrowed camper van.
Then both examine the two bicycles on the country road.
Does it have a dog?
Your sibling asks.
You check the back cover carefully.
In one of the smaller pictures,
A brown dog is sitting beside the bakery door.
It does.
This settles the matter.
A bicycle for September.
Will be the Friday Night Film.
Your sibling returns the moonbase detectives to the exact place where they found it.
Your father does the same with the long way around the lake.
You carry the chosen display case to the counter.
Rita takes a tape from the shelf behind her and scans its label.
The register gives a small electronic chirp.
She looks at the computer screen,
Then at your father.
No late fees,
She says.
He nods with the modest satisfaction of someone whose household has returned two tapes on time and fully rewound.
Rita slides the cassette into a black plastic case.
She checks the two reels through the clear windows.
Already were abound,
She says.
She closes the case and puts it in a thin paper bag printed with the Moonlight Video Crescent.
Your father pays for the rental.
Your sibling is allowed to choose one box from the small candy rack.
And after much thought,
They select chocolate-covered raisins because they rattle softly when they shake them.
Reach her hands over the bag.
And tells you to stay dry.
The bell rings again as you leave.
Outside,
The rain has become so fine it is almost mist.
The pizzeria next door has fogged windows and a red sign glowing above the entrance.
You carry the video.
Your sibling carries the raisins.
Your father carries the membership card,
Which he returns to his wallet before it can disappear behind another receipt.
Inside Sal's pizza,
The air is fragrant with warm bread,
Tomato sauce and oregano.
A row of red vinyl seats runs beneath the front window.
You sit there while your father collects the order.
Behind the counter,
Cooks move calmly between the ovens and the long floor-dusted worktop.
A metal wheel passes through a pizza with three quick turns.
A box is folded from a flat square of cardboard.
Someone writes your family name on the corner in blue marker.
The ordinary work of the shop has its own rhythm.
Dough is lifted.
A wooden peel moves toward the oven.
The telephone rings once.
The refrigerator hums beneath the drinks counter.
Your sibling places the box of raisins beside them.
And looks through the moonlight video bag again.
Just to confirm that the tape remains inside.
It does.
Your father returns,
Carrying a warm pizza box with both hands.
A little cloud of steam and oregano seems to travel with it.
In the short walk back to the car.
You hold the video beneath your jacket.
Peter goes in the front passenger seat.
Level and secure.
You and your sibling.
Settle behind it.
The car starts.
The dashboard glows green once more.
The wipers cross the glass.
But now there is less rain for them to clear.
As you leave the plaza,
You look back at the video shop window.
String of white lights is still shining around the paper star's moons.
Through the glass,
You can see Rita returning cases to the shelves,
Placing each one exactly where someone will expect to find it tomorrow.
The drive home follows the same roads in reverse.
Past the pharmacy.
Past the library lion.
Past the school and the house with the white fence.
The radio presenter speaks softly between songs,
Giving the time and promising clearer weather in the morning.
Your father taps the steering wheel twice at a red light.
Pizza warms the car.
And the windows begin to fog at their edges.
Your sibling draws a small circle in the mist with one finger.
Then wipes it away with their sleeve.
At home the porch light is waiting.
Your father carries the pizza.
You carry the video.
Your sibling carries the raisins.
Now without shaking them.
Shoes are left on the mat.
Damned jackets are hung on hooks.
The answering machine is still blinking.
But the message can wait until tomorrow.
The living room is prepared in small familiar steps.
You switch on the lamp beside the sofa and leave the brighter ceiling light off.
Your sibling brings two pillows down from upstairs.
Your father unfolds the old wool blanket kept over the back of the armchair.
Plates are taken from the kitchen,
Along with napkins and three glasses of water.
The pizza box opens with a soft cardboard sigh.
For a while.
There is only the simple business of choosing a slice and finding a comfortable place to sit.
The television waits with its dark,
Curved screen reflecting the room.
Beneath it.
VCR shows the time in green numbers.
They are seven minutes fast.
As they have been for most of the year.
You remove the cassette from its case.
It is heavier than it looks.
Solid and rectangular.
With two pale reels visible behind clear plastic windows.
The label has the film title printed in black and a small silver sticker from Moonlight Video at one corner.
You slide it into the machine.
The VCR receives it with a gentle mechanical pull.
There is a click.
A home.
The television screen brightens from black to blue.
And back to black.
Few thin lines of static travel upward.
And disappear.
And press play.
The room becomes quiet enough to hear the rain tapping on the window.
Film begins with a road beneath the pale September sky.
Two bicycles are leaning against a fence.
Somewhere beyond the frame a dog barks once.
Your sibling opens the chocolate-covered raisins and offers the box a round.
Your father takes one.
You take two.
The little box is folded closed again and placed safely on the table.
The first bicycle appears on the road.
And second.
The two riders are in no hurry.
They have a parcel tied to the back of one bicycle.
And a folded map tucked into the pocket of the other.
The film moves at the pace of a country road.
So does the room.
Outside,
A car passes through the wet street with a long,
Low hush.
The sound arrives,
Grows,
And fades.
Water moves through the gutter.
The house gives one quiet,
Settling creep near the stairs.
Nothing needs your attention urgently.
Pisa grows cooler in its box.
The rain grows lighter against the glass.
VCR turns the tape from one reel to the other at a steady,
Hidden pace.
You pull the wool blanket across your knees.
It is a little scratchy at its edge and warm where it has folded over itself.
Your sibling has settled into the corner of the sofa.
One pillow behind their head.
And the other beneath their arms.
Your father sits in the armchair.
His workweek newspaper forgotten in the kitchen.
On the screen,
The bicycles pass an orchard.
Rows of trees move slowly by,
The riders stop to buy two apples from a wooden stand.
They place their coins in a small tin.
The dog from the bakery is waiting further down the road.
Though none of you knows that yet.
It does not matter if you see every part.
The film will continue whether your eyes are open or closed.
The story is safely recorded on the tape.
Every road,
Every orchard,
Every quiet room is held between two pale reels.
You can miss a minute and return.
Can listen without looking.
You can let the voices become part of the rain.
The lamp beside the sofa makes a pool of amber light.
Beyond it.
The corners of the living room are soft and indistinct.
Moonlight videocase rests on the table,
Ready for the tape when the weekend is over.
The paper bag has been folded once.
And place beneath it.
Everything has a place.
Shoes are on the man.
The jackets are on their hooks.
The car is quiet in the driveway.
Two returned films are back at the shop.
Oh three,
Wow.
Tomorrow has not begun asking anything of you.
There may be pancakes in the morning.
There may be a walk to the library if the rain clears.
There may be time to watch the film once more before it has to go back.
But none of that needs deciding tonight.
Night is only the warm room,
The faint scent of oregano,
And the soft turning of the tape.
One reel gives away what it has been holding.
The other gathers it slowly.
One side to the other.
From one moment.
To the next.
Rain touches the window,
The heater sends a gentle breath through the vent.
Bicycle wheels turn along the road.
The whole house settles more deeply into Friday night.
You let your head rest against the pillow.
The voices from the television are lower now.
Perhaps they only seem lower because you are no longer following every word.
The road on the screen bends between two fields.
Evening in bellwether bends with it,
Away from the week that has finished and toward the long,
Unhurried weekend.
There is nowhere you need to follow.
The road knows where it is going.
Tape knows how to turn.
The rain knows how to fall lightly.
And light is still.
And you can rest here beneath the old wool blanket.
While the green numbers of the VCR keep their slightly imperfect time.
One minute.
Than another.
Quietly arriving.
Quietly passing.
Until even the rain.
To the only hush.
At the edge of the room.
And Friday night.
Warm and ordinary.
Carries you the rest of the way.
