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“What do you mean, you’ve never seen Casablanca before?” Mitchell’s voice peaked in astonishment. “How have you been on this earth for the better part of four decades and never seen a classic like that? It’s like saying you’ve never seen The Wizard of Oz or Gone with the Wind.”
“Which I haven’t. Because unlike some people I have better things to do with my time than sit around watching oldies and moldies,” Anders shot back. “I have a business to run, and I actually have a life outside of it…”
“Yeah, which until recently has consisted of getting drunk and getting your end away.”
“Hey, not fair. I’m still getting my end away a good bit these days, and you’re my witness to that,” Anders said with a smirk. “Anyway, what’s so special about this piece of celluloid archaeology, anyway?”
“Everything! It’s got romance, it’s got action, it’s got Nazis, it’s got Ingrid Bergman, it’s got Bogie, who is the coolest badass ever on screen. And the best part is…I had a cameo in it.”
“What? How is that even possible? Since you can’t show up on film, or so you claim.”
“Well, no, you can’t actually see me. But I was an extra in a scene at Rick’s bar, and you can see where I knock a chair over. I’ll show it to you. There’s no one else around; it couldn’t have been anyone but me. I was just lucky the whole shoot was so loopy they didn’t edit it out later.”
“What do you mean, ‘loopy’?”
“Haven’t you ever heard the story of how Casablanca got made? No, of course you wouldn’t have, since it never occurred to you to even see the thing in the first place.” Mitchell settled in on the sofa, and Anders, with an amused and tolerant smile on his face, nestled in next to him. “This was a film that never should have seen the light of day in any way, shape or form. It had so much going against it from the start—they went through an entire change of main cast, the script was in pieces and shot out of sequence, the ending was decided literally at the last minute. There were, I don’t know, at least half a dozen writers involved…anyway, whole books have been written about it. It should have been the biggest steaming pile of shite ever, and it’s a classic that will stand for all time.”
“OK, I know from Bergman and Bogie, but you said they changed out to get those two? Who was supposed to have been in the roles?”
“Anne Sheridan—who was a stunner and nothing against her, but compared to Bergman, no contest. And George Raft. And best part? The role of Victor Lazlo, who is the chief Resistance guy and Bogie’s rival for Bergman—that was supposed to have been played by Ronald Reagan.”
“Reagan? Former President ‘my wife uses a Ouija board’ Reagan? That just boggles the imagination. All right, you’ve got me intrigued now. Movie night, tomorrow night—I’ll get the munchies, you bring the movie.”
Mitchell’s grin was bright and wide and went straight to Anders’ heart. “Deal.”
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They were settled in with sodas and popcorn, and periodically, Mitchell would stop the DVD to give Anders bits of background information. It made keeping track of the story a little tougher, but Mitchell was having so much fun, Anders didn’t mind the inconvenience. There was a time that all the stop-and-start would have just annoyed the shit out of him, and he’d have called a halt to the proceedings. He was surprised at just how much he’d changed, and for the better, in the months since they’d met. “See that nod that Bogie gives there? He had no idea why he was doing that at the time—the whole scene was put in afterward.”
“What, they just told him to stand there and nod and that was it?”
Mitchell nodded, grabbing another handful of popcorn. “And the whole ‘Marseillaise’ scene was constructed around it. This is what I mean—it’s a miracle this worked out the way it did. The movie gods were watching, somewhere. Bragi might have had a hand in it for all we know.”
“Somehow it wouldn’t surprise me,” Anders said. “All right, start it up again, this is getting good.”
Mitchell grinned and hit the remote. The scene was glorious, a musical battle of wills between the Germans singing ‘Watch on the Rhine’, drowned out by the café patrons and staff singing the French anthem. Mitchell ran the scene through to the end and paused again. “Something else that makes that scene so good is that a whole lot of the people were refugees from the Nazis, for real. A bunch of the main actors, the director, tons of behind the scenes folks, the extras and supporting cast, they all knew how important that scene was, how important that song was. And this was again in a movie that never should have left the cutting room.”
Mitchell resumed the DVD and the film played on. Anders felt him sit up straighter and heard him say, “All right, here it comes…and there goes the chair!”
Anders had to admit, there didn’t seem to be anyone around close enough to make that chair topple over. “Excellent work, Mitchell—and I’ll bet it only took one take, too.”
“Of course; I’m a professional,” Mitchell huffed, but a smile lurked in the changeable eyes.
The film finally wound to a close, with the iconic image of Rick and Renault heading to Brazzaville to the closing strains of ‘La Marseillaise’. “So what do you think?” Mitchell asked, shutting off the player.
“Well, never let it be said that I can’t admit I was wrong. This is as good as you said it was. I’m a little disappointed that Rick and Ilsa didn’t end up together, but it wouldn’t have worked, like he said—sooner or later it would have come apart for them. And I have to say, you were pretty spectacular yourself there—or should I say ‘spooktacular’?”
Mitchell shot him a dirty look and Anders leaned in to silence the retort that he knew was coming. Mitchell resisted a bit, but that didn’t last more than a moment for form’s sake. The kiss tasted of salt and butter and love, with no end game in sight, just the pleasure of each other’s company.
“You know, we’re a lot like Casablanca, in a way,” Mitchell observed later when they were curled up in bed together.
“Enlighten me.”
“Well, we were bits and pieces, you and me—we shouldn’t have worked. And somehow the pieces fit. It’s like they said in Deadpool, we’re like the two curvy jigsaw piece that when you fit them together, you can see the picture on top.”
Anders laughed. “OK, that’s quite a leap from Casablanca to Deadpool, but I get your drift. And I thought I was supposed to be the god of poetry.”
“I’m Irish—it’s in the blood, mate. Point is, somehow, we were meant to be.”
Anders agreed silently, snuggling in closer against Mitchell’s chest, reveling in the warmth and strength of his arms. He’d stood alone for a long time, against his family and against the world, and thought he always would. Mitchell had been cut off from the bulk of humanity for decades. And yet, somehow, this ‘beautiful friendship’ had been allowed to blossom. Maybe the song in Casablanca was right—maybe the world would always welcome lovers. It had, against all odds, welcomed them, and he fell asleep, grateful beyond words.
It’s still the same old story, a fight for love and glory
A case of do or die
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.
--Herman Hupfeld, ‘As Time Goes By’