Jester's Cinema

[bnlstunty]

I had some free time tonight. I fleshed out the beginning of my first longer work. I know it looks like nothing is going on right now. But trust me, intrigue and despair and absurdity shall follow. At least, I know that's what's going on in chapter four.

I haven't done much editing, so any help/criticism/praise/disinterest/mocking would be appreciated.

Chapter I

Jester Fenway Cineplex 13

At it again. Chuck comes by the theater every night around close and starts up that super max vacuum 3000. I’m usually out of there before he’s even a quarter done. Not tonight. I’m the closing usher even though I’ve been hauling ass behind the concession stand for eight hours. My manager claimed we were the 10th busiest theater in America that night—the Jester Cineplex 13 by Fenway Park in Boston. All of the other theaters on that list had at least 20 auditoriums.

The hum of the vacuum reminds me of the projection room at my theater back home. A serene place removed from complaining customers down stairs where I chow down French fries and quesadillas.

But tonight I have to wait around and punch parking tickets at the guest services desk. I slide their validation cards into the machine and hope for the best. No one showed me how to do work it. A green light turns red. I hope that’s the right way. But if not—not my problem tonight. I’m reeking and covered with garbage juice and I have to go to court in the morning. And I don’t even claim residency in this Commonwealth.

Chapter II

Jester Hopewell 10

My Saab lost traction and fishtailed around that curve on Snark Road because of the rain and the potholes. “Close call” I thought over the squeech of the windshield wipers. Running late as usual. But I drifted down Snark Road at 45 even in the rain—I trusted that stick shift junker more than my Dad’s new Suburban. I made up the time on Route 73. I might have run a red light. The police would have ignored me anyway. My younger brother forgot his Hopewell Cadet hat on the back shelf under the yellow “We Support Our Troops” ribbon stuck to the rear windshield.

I parked next to my boss’s purple Kia. Jeff always boasted his Kia was all he needed. “Cheap and runs well” he rattled on constantly. I agree with the philosophy though. A car can only be as good as its ability to get you where you need to go. Six hundred bucks back in May got me a red Saab and a yellow troop support sticker free of charge. “The Sugar Sedan” couldn’t pass as ascetically pleasing, but I haven’t been late yet.

It took general manager Jeff Bodkins a while to hire me as the theater’s Zach of all Trades. Why should I complain though? His offer saved me from working at Wal*Mart for the summer. I accepted a cut in pay to work at the Jester Hopewell 10 for a chance to seem human again. Well worth the four hundred dollar deficit in my bank account before I went back to Boston. At least I can tell myself I’m not a complete sellout.

Jeff sat in the office making phone call after phone call in order to eliminate the rampant overcharges outside contractors placed upon the theater. He said the contractors hoped that general managers would just write the checks to pay the bills. Jeff prided himself in responsibly running the behind the scenes operations of the theater. He rather enjoyed hearing the contractors swallow their tongues over the phone after he exposed their bogus charges. Jeff did not believe in paying for 20 gallons of paint remover and 50 hours of labor that the theater neither received nor needed.

He also did not believe in overstaffing during the day.

Chapter III

The Day Shift

Joe Nicholson just turned eighteen a few weeks ago. A high school drop out and a far more experienced drinker and ladies man that me, Joe worked like a blue ribbon sheep dog while he was at the theater and while he was at the pizza joint next door. Joe didn’t always come in to work though, but always called in with an excuse.

He failed to call in on this particular Tuesday in August of course.

Jeff scheduled the first set of movies to start around quarter to one. This schedule gave me forty five minutes to start popping popcorn, unlock the candy cases, place drink cups on the counter, set up the soda tower, and talk to Jeff about how slow today should be while he put money into the registers. In a fairly small theater such as the Hopewell 8, box office and concessions are often located along the same counter for ease of service. On a seemingly typical dry August Tuesday in the historic Hudson Valley, business should have waned as white collar adults worked and vacationing students slept till three in the afternoon. Two people behind the counter—one on box office and one on concessions—could serve every guest without effort. Hell, one person could serve everyone with minimal effort and also get the false satisfaction out of mastering the two most visible jobs of a theater worker and doing both of those jobs at the same time.

Of course, business didn’t wane on that seemingly typical dry August Tuesday. At precisely one o’clock, two busses pulled up along the five glass double doors leading to the vast stark atrium of the theater. A hundred or so seniors creaked and complained their way toward my lonesome self standing at box office register. Jeff had already started the first few movies and couldn’t make it down to help me help the customers.

The first retired couple wobbled up. I have always respected seniors for their wisdom and experience. Wisdom and experience though don’t save you from intellectual stupidity and senility. I greeted them with an honest smile. The job might be boring and a contingent of customers impossible to please, but I still treat each one with fidelity. We’ve all been in bad moods as part of the human experience. I think telling an improvised joke to each customer should be part of a cashier’s script. How could you stay mad at a college kid who recommends an animated film with talking alpacas to a bunch of senior citizens?

“How are you doing this lovely afternoon?” I asked atypically wanting an atypical answer.

“Good, two seniors,” typically answered the angry wrinkled skinhead looking back at me.

Seniors crave their dollar seventy five discount at movie theaters, even during the matinee showings before six o’clock when everyone costs exactly the same. Other box office cashiers (especially assistant managers filling in when the theater is understaffed) try to explain that everyone costs the same before six o’clock and therefore senior discounts don’t occur until after six o’clock. I stopped explaining very early on and only explain when they complain that their not getting their nonexistent discount.

“Sounds good, sir. But which movie would you like to see?”

I had to ask even though I was fairly certain of the answer. I’ve meant to ask other box office people if they profile the customers too. I like to think I’m as liberal as Ted Kennedy and as egalitarian as Martin Luther King. That thought doesn’t stop me from knowing which movie people want to see before they tell me. And it makes life interesting if I guess wrong—if only about 5% of the time.

“Ummm, what movie are we going to see Ginny?”

The old men nearly always initiate the transaction, but need to ask their wives what movie they’re actually going to see.

“That “Invisible” movie!” answered Ginny sweetly with enthusiasm.

“Oh, you mean Invincible with Mark Walberg. OK, would you like to donate a dollar to Rainbows for a Cure? All proceeds go to help kids fight cancer.”

I couldn’t help but correct her innocently. I was right in my prediction of course. Every senior who got off that bus was there to see Invincible—a formulaic football movie based on a “true story” made by Disney. “And they all could watch a soothingly depressing dark comedy by watching Little Miss Sunshine and learn more about life,” I thought.

“No,” snapped Ginny’s husband, “We donate through our Church.”

“Thank you for your generosity,” I responded honestly. I understand the tight monetary restraints placed on people of all ages. A dollar here and a dollar there add up quickly.

“Well, that will be thirteen dollars please.”

I prepared myself for the verbal slap about to come.

“THIRTEEN DOLLARS! Well, I remember when the movie cost a nickel! That’s outrageous!”

He old man threw me a twenty though. They need to release their anger and they take it out on me. I don’t mind though. I agree with them.

“Seven dollars is your change, would you like anything from the concession stand?”

“A popcorn and a soda without ice,” ordered Ginny.

“What size?”

“Small will be fine.”

“But would you like to make them both medium for seventy five cents? You’ll get free refills on the drink if you do.”

The job requires that I “up-sell” to each customer. If they order a small (which is plenty for two people) I offer them a medium. “Up-selling” works often.

“Oh, OK, that sounds fine,” Ginny answered falling for the trap of capitalistic brainwashing.

“And which flavor soda would you like?”

I need to ask this question far too often. I wish people would tell me they want a Coke or Diet Coke instead of telling me they want a soda.

“Diet Coke, please, no ice,” Ginny reminded me.

“Fair enough,” I concluded, “would you like any candy with that?”

Jester Cinemas also requires that I suggestive sell to each customer. Suggestive selling hardly ever works.

“No thanks,” replied Ginny quickly.

“OK, that will be eleven dollars.” I said this bracing for another verbal assault.

“For soda and a popcorn! That’s highway robbery!” interjected Ginny’s loving spouse. He threw another twenty at me.

“Your change is nine dollars, thank you and enjoy the show.”

I ended each concession transaction the same way. But often, I don’t want all the customers to enjoy every show they go to see. People empty the coffers to see some atrocious movies. I hope every once in a while a movie disgusts and infuriates them with negative artistic value. Some people think any movie they see in a theater deserves an Oscar. I’m lucky to see one movie a year that I think deserves an Oscar. And it’s never the one that wins.

Every transaction followed that same basic formula for each of the 162 people who came for that first set. I got through everyone and no one was even late for the previews. A few soccer moms also came in and brought some elementary schoolers in to see Nickelodeon’s “Barnyard.” These transactions seemed smoother and gave me opportunities to joke around with the kids—like pulling out multiple boxes of candy out that they didn’t order and acting as if I was slipping on the greasy floor. Whereas my wit gets chuckles out of adults at the box office, physical comedy gets belly laughs out of the youngsters at the concession stand. The day goes by so much faster with laughter.


One transaction didn’t follow the same basic formula though. When there’s a crowd and I’m the only one on register, I try to keep a ratio of three box office customers to one concession stand customer. Concession stand orders take time to fill, box office orders are done somewhat instantaneously. I decided on this formula because everyone needs to buy tickets if they want to see a movie, not everyone chooses to buy goodies.

One particular lady approached the stand with a big order and looked pissed. I started filling her drinks which automatically shut off when done, so I ran back to the register to have her pay for the order. When I returned, she punched me in the gut with a question:

“Can I please speak to a manager?”

I diaphragm tensed and my eyebrows rose and my teeth began to bite down into my lip. I have never been accused of working too slow and the only manager there was Jeff. Now, Jeff praised my hard work often—I never declined a job he asked me to do. The thought of this woman complaining to him about my inadequacy shocked me—I couldn’t think straight and I pride myself on always keeping a clear mind.

“Umm, my manager is upstairs starting the movies. I can call him down if you’d like?” I muttered.

“Oh, never mind. Just tell him you’re hustling your ass off and you deserve a raise. I can’t believe you’re understaffed like this.”

Thanks lady. I needed that with seventy five people staring at me thinking they’ll never get to their movie in time. And I’ll be sure to tell Jeff that I’m hustling my ass off and that I deserve a raise. Yes, he’ll appreciate that. I’ve only been working here three weeks.

A few soccer moms also came in and brought some elementary schoolers in to see Nickelodeon’s “Barnyard.” These transactions seemed smoother and gave me opportunities to joke around with the kids—like pulling out multiple boxes of candy out that they didn’t order and acting as if I was slipping on the greasy floor. Whereas my wit gets chuckles out of adults at the box office, physical comedy gets belly laughs out of the youngsters at the concession stand. The day goes by so much faster with laughter.

[Dragonheart]

Stunty what can I say after reading a few times through this is great...it has a realistic feel to it, even the other ones I have read...keep them coming!!!

[bnlstunty]

Thank you so much Dragonheart! "Realistic" is really what I'm going for. That's what's going to make my little "intrigue, despair, and absurdity" episode so much more meaningful.

Well, my original thoughts for chapter 4 didn't come to fruition when I wrote it. Instead, I'm setting it up. I've started work on chapter five and now realized that the "intrigue, despair, and absurdity" belong in chapter six. We'll see.

Oh, and it's no longer the "Jester Hopewell 10." Now it's the "Jester Hellerton 10." Hopewell is the real name for my hometown, I wanted to fictionalize it more and give it a more direct personality. Hopewell is quite the ironic name for the place I hail from--but the irony of it's name doesn't belong in this novella I think.

The characters are loosely based on real people and mostly composite characters. Zach (still no last name) is much more suave and intelligent than myself. He couldn't pray to be funnier though.

Chapter IV

The Night Shift

The night goes by so much faster with laughter.

I arrived at Jester at five. The next set of movies wouldn’t start till seven. At a dead theater in suburbia, a two hour break meant that the crew would clean the mess from the previous set and then talk about the ongoing Jester soap opera for an hour or so. I really don’t understand the propensity for these kids to forge fleeting relationships at work.

“Kids.” Listen to me. I’m only one year older than most of them. But the difference one year of college makes…

Of course, the girls mostly talk about the Jester Drama. The guys just try to make everyone laugh. I just happen to be the best guy for that job too. One day, the Jester crew starting dishing out nicknames to everyone. I was the “funny one.” This wasn’t my first nickname at Jester.

Around six, one of the new assistant managers, Dana, assigned me to the “float” position. Obviously someone let her know that I could do any job the theater needed me to do and that I’d do that job without protest. Dana transferred over from the bigger theater in the next town over. She impressed me with her competency. An unfortunate situation altogether as she only worked in Hellerton once a week. I followed her assignment and drifted from concessions, to box office, to cleaning theaters, and to any of the odd jobs I undertook along the way for the rest of the night. I still don’t care what job I do, just so long as I have a job.

Around quarter to seven, the box office lines surged. Elise stood alone in the Box Office. “Cute enough,” I always thought. She had the right height, a sweet smile, but a caustic complexion. Her saving grace was that healthy sense of humor. I’ve always been such a sucker for girl who laughs at just about anything I say.

“Hey Elise, looks like I’m here once again to save the day,” I said suavely while signing into my register.

“Zach, save that kind of talk for Cameron.” She knew that would shut me up.

Cameron. My first real girlfriend. We started dating senior year of high school and managed to keep it going throughout freshman year of college. All of those two in the morning phone calls—all cherished and forgotten. I wish I never knew her now. But that night while selling tickets to hundreds people she must have penetrated my unconscious and secretly kept me in euphoria.

It wasn’t long before I jumped on a Box office register that the lines for the seven o’clock set dissipated like hookah smoke out an open window. Typical Friday night. I’ve heard people call it international date night. I don’t think I’ve ever had a date on Friday night. Unless you consider a standing arrangement with dear sweet Jester a date.

Cameron and I always went out on Tuesday nights. I worked the day shift on Tuesdays. She’d meet me at work. We’d grab grub somewhere and then head straight back to the theater for a movie. That is of course unless something more…satisfying came up. Working at the theater provided cheap enough dates. Free movies are quite the perk.

I helped clean the concession stand around eight. Gravity must really get a kick out of pulling down popcorn--enough of it falls on the ground. I can’t imagine how many tons get swept up by brooms and butlers each year.

I took my break at 8:30. I hopped in the Saab and drove to the Wendy’s pick up window. I always got Frosties and French Fries for the rest of the crew on Friday nights. I chomped down a spicy chicken sandwich and a side salad. At least I created an illusion of eating healthy.

After break, I cleaned a few theaters with the usher crew. The girls often worked the front end jobs selling tickets and junk food. The guys picked up all the stuff the girls just sold. My cheery benevolence towards strangers often kept me out front with the girls. That gets annoying after a while though. A guy needs to work with guys sometimes if only to vent testosterone induced frustration. I still haven’t found a better release for stress than yelling, “f**k!” in an empty movie theater.

The business really is sexist. The girls always say they want to go on cleans. The only time they get the chance is during the week when a guy isn’t there. Yet we all put up with it.

The ten o’clock set lagged. A few semi-intoxicated couples and a handful of stoners came for a few terrible comedies. I covered Box Office for Elise so she could talk to Ally. At that point, exhaustion kept me from caring about fairness in the work place.

Around ten after ten, a familiar voice awaked me from my mechanical daze.

“Hey look! It’s Zach Braff! I heard he never leaves Jester and sleeps on the popcorn kernels in the back.”

“And I heard his girlfriend is a slut.”

I knew I’d found the right girl when it became evident that I could joke around with Cameron and call her slut in front of complete strangers.

“And I heard Zach f**ks koalas to pay for her.”

Attribute that statement to Seth Miller—he has one demented sense of humour. Cameron and Seth decided to go see Martin Scorcese’s The Departed again. I told them to tell Paul, the ticket taker, that the “Butcher said to let them in for free, otherwise he’d find himself the main ingredient in a Jester Hot Dog.”

Seth, Cameron, and I met in Eighth grade and even though Cameron was my girlfriend—I could care less that Seth and her were going to see a ten o’clock movie on a Friday night. My relationship with Cameron never severed our mutual friendship with Seth—something I feared would happen.

A friendship that steady doesn’t just sink one day, right? I’ll never forget my first year in Hellerton when they were my life line. My first two real friends. My two connections to sanity and fidelity.

[bnlstunty]

Chapter V

Hop, Skip, and Go Naked

We were cheap beer, vodka, and 7-Up. And our friendship was frozen lime juice.
Seth was like Natural Light. He was always available. If I ever needed someone to go see a baseball game or go see the latest fantasy epic with me—Seth would always go.

Cameron was more like an expensive imported Russian Vodka—unlike the rubbing alcohol you’d put in Hop-Skip. She was intoxicating. One shot was never enough. She was the substance that brought us to paradise—and for me—a paradise enhanced by the dashboard light.

And I was 7-up. Bubbly, refreshing, crisp and decaffeinated.

And our friendship was the frozen lime juice that brought us three volatile liquids together and made our crew one hell of a brew.

Seth Miller’s parents hailed from somewhere in Iowa, but Seth was a New Yorker through and through. Actually, Seth probably saw himself more as a Scandinavian socialist than a New Yorker. He reminded us often that he was half Jewish, but we’d eat bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches every morning before school. You wouldn’t think “geek” when you met Seth, but you’d probably think “geek” when you met me. Seth qualified as something different. He went to Columbia to pursue writing. I edited and appraised his writing for him. It’s my guess that I was the first one to read all of his earliest short stories and novellas. I always wondered how he brought those ideas out—original ideas layered thick with satire. I wish I could read his writing for the first time all over again. I also wish I had never read it at all.

Cameron Mandalay hailed from California, but her parents were New Yorkers through and through. She moved to Hellerton when she was six, but reminded us often that she was Californian. Corona colored hair and a serrated mind. She wore glasses with black thick rims that perpetuated the intellectual stereotype. But what guy would contemplate Cameron’s mind while certain other features bombarded a man’s baser senses? I guess I was that guy. Cameron didn’t always look like a guy’s desire realized though. I guess high school and hormones have a way of changing a girl. I never complained.

Our Eighth grade year at Harold Von Tobinshire Junior High School carried on just about as long as its name implies. 180 days of classes and I can’t remember a single teacher’s name. I can remember 180 lunches that confirmed our roles’ as pariahs though. We had a good time being untouchables. The silent protesters who developed a sense of humour to combat the pain of social humiliation. That was the three of us. In the history of the school, we probably had the only table with two guys and a girl sitting down at it in order continuously joke about the President or discuss the satiric talent of John Stewart. It was a simpler, more complicated time back then. Well, I guess things haven’t changed that much.

We added a few members to our group in high school—but the triad was held sacred. The rest of them were replaceable. Good friends only. Anything serious we would deal with just the three of us. Our fidelity forged in trust and forgiveness. And none of us believed in God.

That fidelity bullshit lasted until senior year. I found it difficult to keep a three-way friendship going through junior year. That’s when Cameron changed. It’s when she fermented. It’s when she became a vintage wine—a Pinot Grigio of a sensually satisfying body, aroma, and flavor. It’s when I realized friendship would crucify me. I needed a forbidden sip—no, I needed to indulge straight out of the bottle.

Since we were in all those classes reserved for smart kids, we were naturally thought pep-rallies and homecoming dances were reserved for those normal kids who don’t have to worry about that extra thousandth of a point on your GPA that separates you from Harvard and Cornell. But normal is a relative word. Everyone and no one can be normal. We figured ourselves to be abnormal, but we were just as normal as anyone.

By senior year, even the smart kids need to partake in high school ritual. You only get one chance at it. I wish I let it go by now. But then, it was important.

One night I asked Cameron to a movie—Garden State written, directed, and stared in by Zach Braff.

(Oh, so you thought you recognized the name? I suppose I should take a moment here to explain. Yes, I have the same name as the actor/director. Please get all the jokes out now and I will answer your questions the best I can: No, I will not give you an autograph. No, I am not related. No, I did not legally change my name to match his. No, I would not make a gay porn film with him. Yes, I think he is talented.)

Notice, I asked Cameron out to a movie. Usually, any movie viewing would require me asking Cameron and Seth. This time, I just asked Cameron and I lied to her when I said Seth told me he was busy. I did not consult Seth on this decision, but it worked out well anyway.

We vagueness and the depressiveness and the hopefulness of humour in the movie. When I was dropping her off at her parents’ house, I told her I never told Seth about the movie, because I wanted to spend time alone with her. I told her our friendship suffocated me. I told her I needed more. I told her she was gorgeous. I told her I needed her. I told her everything I wasn’t supposed to tell her. I took my first sip of forbidden wine. I awaited a response while I contemplated saying “just kidding!”

But she smiled and she sniveled and she told me she felt the same way and she told me she needed more and she told me I was handsome and she told me she needed me and she told me everything she was supposed to tell me and she let me guzzle down the rest of the bottle with our first kiss and she never thought of saying “just kidding!.”

[bnlstunty]

Chapter VI
The Too Little, Too Late Night Shift

The last set was over and I wanted out. But the concession stand needed its daily pampering. I loathed cleaning that stand after a busy day. It only took about an hour, but that’s an hour that I could have been doing anything else other than taking apart a soda tower or brushing out a popcorn warmer. Thankfully, the new kid, Keith O’Malley, was washing the popper when I got behind the stand. Finally, someone who took some initiative around there other than Jen Fisher and me. But who’s kidding who, I knew he’d become a lazy bum after he got his first paycheck. Happens with all the mollycoddled Catholic school kids whose parents forced them to get a job to learn about “responsibility.” Such bullshit.

Try working thirty six hours over the weekend while putting in as much time as possible during the week while attending school full-time and on then your one afternoon off running around to four different grocery stores (because there’s always that one item on the list that the previous three stores didn’t have in stock) to get two hundred items (half of which will never be used) and then being expected to pick up a whining three-year-old sister from daycare who already decided she hated your mere existence and then running home to cook dinner, write a paper on the historical significance of the Battle of Thermopylae, and then hopefully getting the chance to catch a “Whose Line is it Anyway?” rerun before passing out in your bottom bunk.

“Responsibility?” Please. You just do it because you love your family. Even though it seems they don’t appreciate or comprehend all you do for them. But I guess you don’t appreciate or comprehend all they do for you.

I figured Keith had it fairly easy. He passed for a typical smart ass at times, but smartasses often get along. I felt it was time to frivolously banter a bit to waste away the time.

“f**kin’ Pastry! Why the hell are you still here?”

The things you say after working a twelve hour shift. The Jester Mob doles out nicknames to all the social employees who don’t get offended easily. Joe Nicholson was simply known as Mr. Nicholson because he started the whole idea of the Mob. Just another way to pass time and talk smack. Joe nicknamed me the “Boston Butcher” because I went to Boston University and he took simple delight in alliteration. Bud “The Texan Trojan” Costigan had never been to Texas and thought “Trojan” only referred to the brand of condoms. I bestowed upon him the name because of his everyman’s sensibility and my assumption that his burgeoning muscle mass came from supernatural or at least unnatural means. He said the pills were fore his asthma. I told him to be careful his asthma didn’t shrink his nuts down to the size of popcorn kernels.

I’m not sure how Jen Fisher got the name “Code Orange” but it suited her well. Whereas I worked hard when I felt like it, Jen outshone the neon lights behind the stand due to the intense energy she exuded while filling orders. Jen barely said a word, but we knew she was the best worker there. I think she wore three “Jester Associate of the month” pins at the time I started working for the theater. I got that recognition my second month there. But everyone who stayed at least six months eventually got it since the crew only reached twelve members in strength at its summer peak.

Ted Sloan was the “the banker.” I didn’t care for Ted that much. He asked me once for Cameron’s phone number. I guess he should have checked his sources and not have relied on the Jester Drama Gossip Vine. He said he heard we broke up. But even then, was his action excusable? Who would ask a guy for a girl’s number after they had been in a serious year long relationship? I guess when you’re the snobby son of a Jeweler making money off of African blood diamonds—such an action seems perfectly kosher.

Keith O’Malley didn’t’ have a nickname until that night. From then on, he was “Keith “the Pastry” O’Malley. I had never been more proud of myself.

“Did you just call me a f**king pastry?”

“Yea, I guess I did. And you better get used to it because that’s your new call sign.”

“Are you serious? Pastry? Jesus, Zach, that’s gonna ruin my life!”

Keith still had some growing up to do. I don’t think he realized the hilarity that would occur in coming months generated by this generous gift of such a humiliating nickname.

When I had finished windex-ing the counters, Jeff sent me off to do the last round of theater checks before I could clock out and finish watching the movie Seth and Cameron went to see. Theater checks require two skills—the ability to walk and the ability to carry a flashlight. A theater work grabs a flashlight, walks down the theater aisle, and then leaves. During these checks, one should check to make sure the screen focused properly, the temperature feels comfortable, and the exits remain free from obstructions. In other words, it gives the usher a chance to watch two or three minutes of a movie on the clock. Every once in a while you get to entertain yourself by throwing thirteen year-olds out of “R” rated movies, but most of the time it’s just getting paid to watch movies.

I had to move a little faster that night to get all the theater checks done before some of the movies started to let out. I went to the smaller theaters first. I was not surprised to find everything in safe, working order. I turned on my flashlight and walked into theater seven which was playing a crappy children’s based movie called How to Eat Fried Worms. I didn’t remember selling any tickets to that movie, but decided to at least poke my head in. To this day, I wish I hadn’t, even if it was for the best.

Seth and Cameron were in the front row of the theater and they were not watching the movie. They were full-on-mostly-naked-hard-f**king during the middle of a goddamned kid’s movie. Seth must have flung Cameron’s lavender blouse a good four rows back leaving her faultless flailing breasts exposed to the silver-blue hue emanating out from the screen. Five minutes before I might have been fanaticizing about a situation like that—but Seth had no place in my fantasies. I’m not sure how many curse words, slurs, and insults I lambasted at them as soon as the theater door closed. Seth and Cameron got the message expediently. I roared at them to get out and to never talk to me again. How many movies had they been to in their lives? Didn’t they ever notice the depressed guy sauntering down the aisle with the flashlight seemingly there to only serve as a distraction away from their movie-going pleasure?

They busted out of the theater blouse-less and pant-less through the emergency exit door that led to the parking lot. I had never suspected anything. It’s not like it was a common occurrence for them to go to a movie together without me. Perhaps Seth’s years of frustration finally culminated in a senseless display of sexual intentions or maybe Cameron just had enough of my constant absence and directed her passion at the only other guy who seemed to understand her.

I could care less. From then on they were out of my life. Never before had I felt that a life line connecting me to mental and emotional safety had been severed with betrayal’s serrated blade.

I left the theater and pulled out an usher schedule out of my pocket. I wrote Cameron’s phone number down on the back and threw it at Ted Sloan who was decidedly not busy emptying a trash can as slowly as possible. I told Jeff to tell Ted to finish up theater checks and that I forgot that I needed to get home before mid-night to do something for my parents. He let me go.

I punched out and waved good-bye as I walked through the side door into the parking lot.

Never before or since had I considered what I considered that night as I drove the Saab back up Snark Road: the cliffs to my left, the damned aluminum guard rail and the cliffs to my left.