Lynchpins | Suzy Pasqualetto

Without a Word: The (Early) Short Films of David Lynch

It was almost showtime, and we were all piled in the backseat of a hand-me-down station wagon — the four of us girls who worked the concession stand — clawing at a joint that refused to stay lit.

We would never do this in the parking lot of the theater we worked at, lest we lose our little teenage jobs. So, we’d made a habit of going to the next town over when we wanted to smoke and drink and see whatever was playing. Typically, we’d be making our way there on a Saturday night for the two-dollar midnight movie. This Thursday afternoon was a little different, but with nothing better to do, some local battle of the bands bullshit sounded alright.

Finally making our way to the box office, we each took a few swigs off a tall can before hucking it in the dumpster and heading inside.

The first several rows up to the wheelchair-accessible seats had been unbolted from the sticky floor to make room for a drum kit and some amps. We squeezed our way past, to an empty clearing near the back, and sat with our combat boots on top of the headrests in front of us like a bunch of assholes.

The first band was still setting up, and I was absent-mindedly chipping away at the thick ribbon of black nail polish that clung to my cuticle. It was only when the tsk-tsk-tsk of the cymbals gave way to a rush of sound, that I looked up to see that something god-awful was playing on the screen.

It looked like vomit. Literally. Just a row of heads vomiting over and over then catching on fire and doing it all again. And again. And again. The exact same thing.

How high was I?

Ghastly white children rocking in place at an uneasy tea party, angry teeth growling. We’d moved past the puking and burning and onto… something else. It was impossible to tell what was going on without any captions. Come to find out, there wasn’t any dialogue in any of these short films. That’s part of why the projectionist picked them as the backdrop of what was ostensibly the last battle of the bands that the theater would host.

As the next film played, and a sullen boy was sprouting a grandmother from a mound of soil, I couldn’t help finding myself drawn to the flickering light of the screen like a seed to the sun. Planted and pulled upward through the dirt of uncomfortable truth.

I’d never seen anything like it.

These things, they stick with you. Not just the visions, but the feelings. Yet of all the things I saw that afternoon, what I remembered most was the menu screen of the DVD that had been playing — The Short Films of David Lynch.

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Suzy Pasqualetto is a writer, media producer, and LA native whose creative work has found a home in marketing campaigns, printed anthologies, film festivals, and more. Find her at www.suzypasquzy.com and @suzypasquzy everywhere else.