Movie Day

Part One: The Lotto

I haven’t seen a good sci-fi movie in a while, so I decided to take in the very next one that would show up at the local 49-screen theater complex a short walk from my office.

At the time, it seemed like a pretty good idea.

But, sometimes pretty good ideas turn out to be different sorts of ideas.

I scrubbed up and selected the appropriate wardrobe for seeing a sci-fi movie, which for me is basically the same wardrobe donned for non-sci-fi movies. I had a mile+ stroll to the light rail, so after a brisk few hundred yards of walking I stopped at a 7–11 for a snack. Of all the tasty treats offered at this fine establishment, I settled on lemon-lime Gatorade and a sleeve of Nutter Butter cookies, both priced about 5 times higher than the local grocery store another 955 feet down the road. For a brief moment, as opposed to an exceedingly long moment, I wondered how 7–11s managed to stay in business with prices this outrageous and then I pulled out a hunk of cash and paid the young fellow at the counter.

“Wanna add a Powerball ticket to that?” the young fellow said.

“A what?” I said.

“Powerball,” he said. “Wanna ticket?”

Thinking about the price of the Gatorade and Nutter Butters, I wasn’t sure about buying something with “power” in the name.

“How much is it?” I said.

“A coupla bucks is all,” he said. “You could win, like, 300 and some million.”

“Oh,” I said, waking up, finally. “A lotto ticket of some kind.”

The young fellow gave me the look most space aliens probably get when they land on earth and bump into people.

“Yeah,” he said. “Want one?”

“Sure,” I said. “I suppose I could figure out what to do with hundreds of millions of …..”

“Dollars,” the young fellow added. “What numbers you want?”

“How many do I get?”

“Five.”

“Hmm.”

“Or you could go with an easy pick.”

“Which is?”

“The machine,” he pointed to a box behind him, “picks the numbers for you.”

“I don’t see a good outcome from a machine picking numbers for me.”

“OK, which numbers you want? I have a form here. I’ll mark them for you.”

The line behind me grew.

“Let’s see, how about one, two, three, four, and five.”

“What?”

“What?”

“That’s kind of nuts. Those numbers won’t get picked.”

“Why not?”

“They’re in a row. That never happens. Five numbers in a row never get picked.”

“It’s a random drawing, right?”

“Yeah, which is why five numbers in a row doesn’t ever happen.”

The logic escaped me.

The line behind me lengthened.

The young fellow gave me my Powerball ticket, easy-picked.

I thanked him and told him I’d be back with a big tip for him if I won and then I strolled off to the light rail stop to see a sci-fi movie.

Part 2: Mess with Me, Why Don’tcha

Onward I strolled toward the 158th and Merlo Road light rail stop. After an eighth of a mile or so I took a little detour and walked over to a McDonalds. When I saw those golden arches I was struck with a hankering for a hot fudge sundae. It wasn’t too terribly busy on this particular weekend morning; four customers were queued up to the counter.

Two older gentlemen stood in line ahead of me. By “older”, I mean my age — let’s get that straight right off the bat. The portlier of the two men sported a navy blue stocking cap which tried its best to cover his significant head. The slightly slimmer geezer wore a new green and yellow John Deere cap. They were chatting in animated tones about something as I stood a comfortable distance back. They paused their discussion briefly to place their orders — making their choices from the dollar menu and bargaining for a senior discount. The manager said all he could do was carve off 10%. They took it, with a side order of grousing.

In no time it was my turn and I placed my order — one hot fudge sundae, please, no cherry on top. I hate those cherries on top of sundaes, they look stupid up there.

“Want the, umm, senior discount we’re apparently giving today only?” the counter associate said.

“Naa,” I said. “I’m a big spender.”

The geezers dragged me into their discussion — the topic being Social Security. They brought me up to date; there was little to be positive about in their opinion.

“Whaddaya think of this Social Security mess, pal?” Navy Sock Hat Geezer said.

“Not much to think,” I said. “You retire, you get a check every month.”

“And if Social Security goes belly up?” John Deere Cap Geezer snorted.

“Smaller checks,” I said. “Excuse me,” I said. I stepped outside and checked the sign. Sure enough, it was a McDonalds and not a radio station hosting a socio-political debate in which I was a member of an impromptu panel of highly opinionated geezers chewing over the topic of the day: Social Security. I stepped back in while one of the youthful staff put the final touches on my hot fudge sundae.

“You got a pension check rolling in?” NSHG said.

“Nope.”

“No retirement at all?”

“I’m still working.”

“What?”
 “What?”

“Why?”
 “I like what I’m doing.”

“You like working?”
 “Sure, it’s fun.”

“I couldn’t wait for Fridays,” JDCG said.

“Me, neither,” I said. “Because then I can go into the office on Saturday and it’s nice and quiet. Get a lot done.”

“At your age, you’re still working full time? And you go in on Saturday?” NSHG said.

“Uh huh.”

“Really? Or are you just blowing smoke?”

I breathed smartly into the palm of my right hand. 
 “Nope,” I said. “No smoke.”

“You’re a funny guy,” the JDCG said.

“That’s what they tell me.”

And then the tide turned a little bit.

“Sir,” the counter person said. “Here’s your sundae, and congratulations! You’re the lucky winner! Your sundae is free if you call someone and spread the love!”

I pulled out my phone and selected a number at random from my Contacts list. It was picked up after three rings.

“Hey Jack! Nice to hear from you. How long has it been? Long time, right? How you doin’, anyway?”

“I love ya, always have,” I said. “If you were here right now I’d put you in a big old bear hug.”

There was the inevitable silence. And it lingered. I looked at the counter kid, whose eyebrows were raised in a “fun call, huh?” gesture.

“Are you at McDonald’s by any chance?”

“Yup.”

“Thought so. Enjoy your free happy meal, ya heartless bastard! Don’t get the mcnuggets.”

“See ya!” I shrugged in a “pretty fun call” gesture.

JDCG and NSHG stared at me for a few seconds, and then they turned their attention to the counter kid.

“How does he get free food?” JDCG said with plenty of bluster.

“Yeah, it’s not fair, we eat here almost every day,” NSHG ranted.

“It’s a random thing,” Counter Kid said meekly. “He got picked. At random. It’s his lucky day.”

“Who needs Social Security?” I said as I pranced out of the place with my free sundae, merrily on my way to the light rail stop to see a sci-fi movie.

Part 3: The Gloves Come Off

The free hot fudge sundae made the mile walk to the light rail stop fun and adventurous as I almost stepped off the curb while paying too much attention to the sundae and too little attention to the sidewalk. Along the way I noticed a few places where delis or party stores could be established in case a pedestrian needed a snack or beverage on the way to catch the train.

After a seemingly interminable six-minute wait, the light rail appeared and a small handful of us hopped in. I checked the time and realized that I had a good 45 minutes to kill before the sci-fi movie began, so I hopped off the train three stops down and walked a few blocks to a Wendys. A little burger would go well with my Nutter Butter cookies and Gatorade, I thought. Three people sat in booths, eating their food like there was no tomorrow. No one was in line. I had missed, or beaten, the lunch rush.

“I’ll have one of your burgers,” I said with that jaunty air I’m known for in some circles. The sales associate smiled and swept an arm back to showcase the burger options.

“Single or double?” The Associate asked.

“Double, please,” I said, while thinking ‘what, no triple?’

“Cheese?” The Associate asked.

“Yes, please,” I said, while thinking ‘who would consider selling a burger with no cheese on it?’

“Lettuce, tomato, onion?” The Associate asked.

“Yes, please,” I said, while thinking ‘now it’s a burger and a salad — a healthy, heartsmart choice’.

I took my burger back to the light rail stop to wait for the next train and a ride to the theater showing sci-fi movies. As I sat quietly munching on my burger, a pair of pretend athletes strode sweatily out of the 24-hour workout joint across the street and made their way to the stop. One workout enthusiast stared at my burger like it was a crazed badger about to attack him.

“You gonna eat that?” The Workout Enthusiast asked, but meant ‘don’t eat that’.

I looked down at the region of the burger where bites had been taken out.

“That appears to be what’s happening,” I said, while thinking ‘how about adding a few hundred shut ups to your exercise routine?’

“I can’t watch,” the Other Workout Enthusiast said.

“That’s OK with me,” I said through a giant mouthful of burger and cheese and lettuce and tomato and onion. They stomped off. I chewed on the burger and made loud chomping sounds.

A few minutes later a female teen kid wandered over. I had no idea eating a burger at a light rail stop would attract so much attention. She wore an odd get up — blackish tights ripped here and there, cutoff shorts, high top tennis shoes, hooded sweatshirt, fingertipless gloves, and a crazy-colored stocking cap. Kind of a planned mess.

“Hey,” she said to me. I waved a little bit, tossing a hand in the air like I was flipping a tissue.

“You gonna finish that?” Messy Clothes Kid said. What’s with people?, I thought.

“That was the plan, pretty much,” I said.

The kid stood there.

I sat there.

It took a minute, but I got the message.

I wrapped up the remaining half of the cheeseburger and handed it to the kid.

She took it and held it at arm’s length.

“You got any diseases?” Messy Clothes Kid asked.

“What?”
 “What?”

“You took the burger,” I said with a measure of indignation, “and NOW you want to know if I have some diseases?”

“Yeah.”
 “Take a bite and find out.”

She took a bite, a bite like a very hungry person would take.

“How do you feel?”

“K, I guess.”

The light rail arrived. The doors skidded open. She jumped in. I didn’t.

“Aren’t you getting on?” Messy Clothes Kid said, foot in the doorway to hold it open.

“I’ll catch the next one,” I said. “Gotta get me another burger.”

A little while later, gnawing on a new burger, I hopped in another light rail train taking me to the theater showing sci-fi movies.

Part 4: Gettin’ to the Movies on Time

The light rail did its level best to transport me to the stop in downtown Portland closest to the theater showing sci-fi movies. During the ride I read a chunk of The Thin Man. The book itself is thin and fits easily into a coat pocket. It’s a good book; I recommend it. I was really enjoying it, and would have enjoyed it a lot more had a guy who hopped in at the Sunset Transit Center stop not sat next to me.

“Whatcha readin’?” the guy said in a loud voice as if to ask all readers the question. He smelled oddly of turpentine. I held the book up so he could see the cover.

“The Thin Man,” I said.

“Oh,” the Turpentine Guy screamed. “Nero Wolfe, huh?”

“Nope,” I said, rereading the previous paragraph. “Hammett.”

“Nero Wolfe didn’t write Hamlet,” TG bellowed. I knew it was coming and I couldn’t prevent it. “That Shakes Spear person did. Got you dead to rights there, buddy boy!”

“I said Hammett,” I said. “Dashiell Hammett. Dashiell Hammet wrote this book.”

“Oh!” TG erupted. “Nero Wolfe is the detective in the book. I get it. Now we’re talkin’.”

I’ve never done this before, I swear, but drastic action needed to be taken. At the next stop I charged off the train and sat to wait for the next one. I was able to get past the paragraph I had reread a few hundred times, until a mom and her two hollering kids stopped by to make sure I was being properly entertained. I made sure we entered two different cars when the next light rail arrived. I like kids, but there are limits.

Finally making it to the stop near the movie house showing sci-fi movies, I hopped out and noted that I still had a few minutes before showtime, so I stopped in to bakery and a deli and a snack shop to load up for the film. Nothing like watching a good sci-fi flick to work up an appetite.

After buying my ticket, I stood in line to cram into the theater. I was stopped by a kid who wielded his small amount of power like an enchanted sword.

“Sir,” he said about as brusquely as I’ve ever heard ‘sir’ said. “What do you have in your backpack?”

“Nutter Butter cookies,” I replied, “Gatorade, two pecan rolls, a pastrami and swiss on rye sandwich, some artisanal kettle chips, a great big chocolate chip cookie, a piano, three surveillance drones, a jigsaw puzzle, a crescent wrench, and a copy of the Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett.”

People in line behind me got a bit of a kick out of that.

The theater entrance guard kid didn’t.

Kids these days, no sense of humor.

What’re they teaching them in those schools?

He sighed and rubbed his hands over his closely cropped hair cut.

“Yeah, right,” he said. “Come on in. I have to check for people trying to sneak food in, OK?”

“Copy that,” I said. “You never know about people.”

I walked in and settled down in theater number three, showing a sci-fi movie here in a few minutes right after showing us trailers for all the upcoming movies for the next several months. I pulled out the Nutter Butter cookies. A woman behind me giggled like crazy.

“You really had Nutter Butter cookies in your backpack?” she wheezed.

“Yup,” I said. “Wanna see the piano?”

And, with that, the sci-fi movie began.

Part Five: The Price of Admission

The sci-fi movie began.

I opened my sleeve of Nutter Butter cookies and sat back to enjoy the show.

The film was amazing, but not amazing in a good way. Amazingly bad. I gave it some slack for a few minutes — maybe it started slowly. But that wasn’t the case. It was just a bad movie. I looked around and counted eleven others sitting with me, enduring the mess onscreen. Stunned silence, mostly, blasted through the room like the noiselessness starships should make in the void between planets and stars and galaxies, interrupted by the occasional sigh.

And then the mumbling began.

“How much were the tickets, Harry?” the Giggling Lady whispered loudly to the gent to her right.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, “five, six bucks a pop, I guess. Matinee prices.”

“Did you get the senior’s discount?” she whispered just softly enough for it to be called whispering.

“No,” he said. “The matinee is already a discount. They don’t discount discounts.”

“Heartless bastards,” she said in a not whisper. “We’re on a fixed income.”

On the big screen, people were running around, either chasing aliens or being chased by aliens, although what planet they were on and who exactly would be considered the aliens was in question. All the species present were wielding weaponry that did lots of damage when the bursts of light-like ammo slammed into something or someone. I admit to having paid sparse attention to the action, which seemed to have basically no point other than to provide a dull interlude while the special effects crew got cranked back up again.

“We should get a full refund for this disaster,” a guy said, slumped in his seat three rows down.

“Oh, that was a nice explosion,” a kindly sounding lady at the end of my row said.

“The special effects aren’t bad,” said another guy, wearing a black watch cap smashed down onto his head.

“But what’s this movie about?” the Slumping Guy asked us all.

“About two hours,” I said, wanting to join in on the conversation.

“What is this film’s rating?” Watch Cap Guy said.

“PG-13,” a woman with shimmering white hair said just before she filled her mouth with a huge handful of popcorn and made significant smacking and chomping sounds.

“Well, crap,” Watch Cap Guy moaned, “There won’t even be any brief nudity.”

“No,” Popcorn Devouring Lady mumbled while chomping, “there can be brief nudity in a PG-13 movie.”

What followed, in low tones, was a serious discussion among the twelve of us on the topic of what was allowed to be shown and said in a PG-13 movie. We agreed that anything provocative, titillating, suggestive, profane, or controversial was probably out. Beyond that, anything goes.

“In the case of this stinker,” Slumping Guy said. “PG stands for ‘plot gone’”. We all agreed, heartily. We sat back quietly for a few moments, the cacophony squirting out of the speakers stapled to the walls of the room interplaying with munching and slurping of popcorn and soft drinks and cookies and Gatorade.

“Why did you get such a large thing of popcorn, Harry?” Giggling Lady whispered at a lull in the so-called action for all to hear.

“Free refills,” Harry explained.

“You can’t eat that much popcorn in one sitting,” Giggling Lady said. “Nobody can.”

I knew what was coming and there was nothing I could do about it.

“OK, I’ll stand up,” Harry said. More of us were watching Harry and The Giggler than watched the sci-fi movie playing out pitifully on the big screen. Harry, seeing all eyes on him, took a lap around the theater, offering popcorn to everyone — pouring it out into open hands or refilling little sacks. We all thought that was quite clever and funny, even his wife The Giggler. After serving the twelfth person he stood at attention, turned the massive tub upside down to empty it of popcorn chaff and announced, in a dreadful Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation, “I’ll be back.” We applauded.

The movie played on.

There was movement and special effects and some dialogue and a few more explosions.

A few of us stared at the screen for a couple minutes, squinting hard like that would help.

“What the hell is going on up there now?” a lady, wearing as much make up as everyone else combined, said while using what appeared to be some sort of masonry tool to touch up her lipstick.

We all peered carefully at the big screen, which at the moment was jam-packed with special effects.

“Looks like one of the aliens is riled up about something,” Watch Cap Guy said, stroking his chin pensively. Or, perhaps, he just had an itchy chin. Hard to say for sure, it was dark.

“Probably an injustice,” Shimmering Hair Lady crooned.

“Could be a turning point in the plot,” The Giggler said.

“There’s a plot?” Slumping Guy said.

“Where’s Harry with that popcorn?” Overly Made-Up Lady squawked.

And then three events occurred, pretty much simultaneously, which would change the course of the world as we movie goers would know it for the next several minutes.

Event One: Harry returned with a fresh harvest of popcorn, held over his head triumphantly.

Event Two: I stood up and announced, “It’s snack time!”, and the group cheered.

Event Three: The kid who wanted to search my backpack at the entrance to the theater complex burst in on Harry’s heels.

“What?!” the kid said, apparently astonished.

“What?” I said.

Part 6: Twelve Angry Patrons Come to a Unanimous Decision

“Ssshhhhh! People are trying to watch the movie,” the Theater Entrance Guard Kid said.

“Not in here we’re not,” Watch Cap Guy replied.

“This movie is a real stinker,” The Giggling Lady said. “We all want a refund.”

“If we gave out refunds for every bad flick….” TEGK said wistfully.

The lady with the shimmering white hair dawdled over to the kid. She put a grandmotherly arm around him and patted his back.

“You look like you could use a snack, young man,” Shimmering Hair Lady said.

We twelve patrons of the sci-fi movie we were ignoring assembled on the wide aisle for wheelchairs and handicapped access. TEGK was led along by the hand.

“All right,” SHL said, in a tiny booming voice that carried over the spaceships shooting at each other on the big screen. “Get out the snacks!”

It was an impressive spread.

Harry, of course, had the oil drum/silo/trash can of popcorn.

The Giggler, presumably Harry’s wife, offered cheese slices. She wasn’t sure what kind of cheese, other than it was orange and not white.

The Watch Cap Guy hauled out a cylinder of some kind of processed meat he called ‘thuringer’. When asked what on God’s green earth thuringer was, WCG responded, “smoked sausage”, followed by a pause for effect, and then “I guess.”

Shimmering Hair Lady yanked a box of Town House crackers from her shoulder bag.

The Popcorn Devouring Lady extracted a large bag of mixed nuts, and she took pains to emphasize that these were “deluxe” mixed nuts, guaranteed to be not more than 20% peanuts.

The Slumping Guy handed over a taped-up butcher paper package containing slices of deli meat he refused to identify more specifically than it was one of Boar’s Head’s finest. TEGK expressed interest and SG offered him a slice. He gobbled it down swiftly and said, “Not too bad. It tastes like olives a little bit.”

“Olive loaf tends to be that way,” SG said.

“Olive loaf?” TEGK. “I don’t think I’m supposed to like olive loaf.”

“It’s best eaten in the dark,” Harry said.

All twelve of us had some type of food to contribute to the ad hoc picnic. I threw in my artisan potato chips, three Nutter Butter cookies, and a chocolate chip cookie the size of a dinner plate. No way was this bunch of strangers getting anywhere near my pastrami on rye sandwich or my Gatorade — those items stayed neatly tucked in my backpack.

We sat or stood in the fat aisle of the theater, chatting about this and that and munching on an impressive array of foodstuffs.

TEGK joined us for a few minutes and then retreated to the door of our theater.

“I’ll be the lookout,” he said conspiratorily.

On the big screen there was solid evidence that the movie was several minutes from its conclusion, as there were still a fair number of humans and aliens not yet dead and three or four spaceships possessing most of their moving parts, although their shields were below 50% (which was expected as in my many years of watching sci-fi films it doesn’t seem to take much for shields to drop to 50%).

And then The Giggler had a great idea.

“Let’s turn on our cell phones!” she yelled softly.

And we did.

And it was fun.

And none of us had messages waiting.

And we waved our phones around the dark room.

“This is annoying!” Shimmering Hair Lady said with unbridled glee.

“Who wants more olive loaf?” Slumping Guy announced.

And TEGK watched us and laughed.

And then, TEGK raced back to us.

“Quick! Put everything away! The manager’s coming!”

On the big screen the movie appeared to be reaching some sort of critical point, as an alien and a human were standing on the edge of a ragged cliff trading heartfelt soliloquies while waving dangerous-looking weapons. Off in the distance, something was on fire and something else was exploding. On a nearby cliff, a few robots were clearly up to no good, while on the desolate landscape below a disparate collection of ugly creatures were definitely upset about the general state of affairs and looking to take their frustrations out on any unsuspecting specimens.

TEGK managed to stall his boss for a few precious moments, and then the theater manager strode in on our little party. He saw twelve people sitting silently side by side in a single row, hands on laps, feet on floor, backs straight, all staring straight ahead at what some will argue is the worst sci-fi movie in the history of cinema. The manager scrutinized us, hands on hips. Luckily, he didn’t look along the row behind us where the food was stashed.

“I thought I heard something in here,” he said tersely.

The Slumping Guy pointed at the screen.

“No,” the manager said. “Not that. Something I shouldn’t be hearing.”

We all shrugged.

“Any of you have you phones turned on?” the manager said.

Twelve phones were held up for inspection, all screens dark.

Watch Cap Guy held up something else, a short cylinder of processed meat.

“Thuringer?” WCG offered to the manager.

“Gimme that!” the manager barked. “You know you’re not supposed to bring your own food in here.”

“Sorry,” WCG said, feigning contrition.

The manager stalked out, grumbling under his breath while eyeing the thuringer greedily.

Gratefully, the movie drifted to an end.

We made our way to the exit.

“That was fun,” The Giggle said, giggling.

We agreed unanimously.

As we left, TEGK gave each of us a pass to see a movie free. “It was a horrible flick,” he said. In turn, we gave him snacks, forming a nice pile on the floor around him.

As I strolled out of sight, I heard TEGK say, “I found out I don’t hate olive loaf. Bonus!”