Los Fantasmas Del Roxy

For those who are not aware, the Roxy, that I'm talking about, was a preferred re-release cinema that illuminated Plaza Lesseps. They showed newsreels and two movies of those that you detest and I love, full of impossible loves and unleashed and violent passions. Villains in cinemascope. Beautiful ladies and haughty gentlemen from the South would have tea at the Roxy when the lights went out. It was a typical low-class place like the Excelsior, like the Maryland, which, in my opinion, lacked the cheap seats, with wooden benches, smelling like disinfectant. It never had the taste of the Selecto or the class of the Kursaal, but it was there where Humphrey Bogart swore eternal love to Lauren Bacall looking into her clear eyes. And the audience applauded with frenzy in the darkness of Roxy, when she said yes. I was one of those who cried when they announced its demolition, with a sign that read: 'Nuñez y Navarro, coming soon to this venue.' In the midst of a red dust cloud, Roxy had its final performance, and like a wounded King-Kong, the facade collapsed on the sidewalk. And in its place, they installed branch number 33 of the Central Bank. On the ruins of Roxy, capital plays pallet. But recently, strange things have been happening in the bank that no one can explain. A night watchman claims that an ocean liner crossed the hall and on deck, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers danced 'the continental'. It crossed the glass door and disappeared towards Fontana. And like wildfire fueled by Gracia and La Salud, the word is spreading that the ghosts of Roxy are more than just a rumor. They say that upon seeing Clark Gable in person in line at the ticket window, two with his crooked and sly smile, a cashier fainted. And that a first-class officer, temporarily, caught Glenn Ford himself, in the auditor's office, slapping a platinum blonde. So don't be surprised, friend, if waiting for the bus, George Raft asks you for a light. They are the ghosts of Roxy who do not rest in peace.