It was the 7:40 showing on a week night, and the theater was nearly deserted. In front of me in line, a woman discussed the logistics of movie options with the attendant, while her daughter gossiped merrily and her friend openly ogled the ticket taker through the glass door. For them, this was to be a social outing, and the woman didn’t seem to care what movie she saw, so long as it ended as close to 9 o’clock as possible.
“Can you wait ten minutes after your movie?”
Her daughter rolled her eyes and nodded, and I wondered who would take the starring role in her adolescent fantasy that night: Topher Grace or Tad Hamilton?
Finally the group moved inside and I approached the ticket booth.
“One student for Big Fish,”
I handed off my ticket and bought a medium popcorn, relenting to the pressure of only 39 cents more for a medium sprite. The two teens working the refreshments ogled the much better view of the ticket taker from behind and pitied the hypothetical diabetic who couldn’t handle caffeine and said customer’s lack of beverage options.
I took my wares and headed for theater 3, on the left.
The theater was empty, leaving me to ponder the hopeful, frozen gaze of the advertized real estate agent on my own.
An unlikely trio of a young couple and a senior woman took seats towards the front, the man insisting on fetching a warm drink for his elderly companion.
A Hispanic man about my age climbed the stairs towards me in the back, his medium popcorn and soda combo matching my own. He offered me a smile and a greeting, which I returned, and sat down three seats towards audience right. We were perfect mirrors of each other, and I wondered if he had friends coming.
A foursome of college students entered noisily, and I glanced to my right, but they took seats several rows in front of me. The lights dimmed, the ads started, and the two lone theater goers munched our popcorn.
One preview was amusing, so I laughed softly. A low chuckle echoed me, and I glanced up again. The Hispanic caught my eye and smiled.
Throughout the movie, this continued, as we breathed our quiet laughter, ate our popcorn, and shifted our legs, as though choreographed.
Watching a movie alone on the big screen allows you to take the movie in on a new level, without thinking of how your friends react, or fighting over the arm rest. Sharing a movie with a stranger brings you, somehow, even closer to the action.
The credits rolled and I stayed seated, letting the music play through me, absorbing the names without reading them. Some people watch credits in hopes of catching something cute and extra. Few, I think, honor all involved.
My companion watched as well, and I wondered which credit-watcher he was.
As the final credits centered, stilled, and faded, I smiled to myself and collected my trash. The screen turned white and I stood, as Peter Gabriel launched, mid song, into a description of my eyes.
My companion waited for me, leaning against the banister of the stairs that bisected the audience. The other seven had left as the lights had come up.
“Get stood up?” he asked.
“Yes,” I lied cheerfully, “and I’ll never forgive her.”
“That bitch,” he laughed.
“You?” I asked, not wanting him to say yes.
“Nope.” He smiled, and we turned together down the stairs. “Did you like it?”
“Yeah. I’m a story teller too.” I turned my back to do my part in keeping the theater clean. Peter Gabriel ended, and a DJ prattled about the Eagles.
“Never would have guessed.”
He sounded hollow, as though he spoke upward from the base of a canyon. I turned, and he was gone.
As I left the theater, the ticket taker smiled and hoped I’d enjoyed the show. I assured him I had, and for the sake of consistency, briefly ogled him.
“Don’t get many singles coming to the theater.” He opened the door for me. “You’re the only one I’ve seen tonight.”
Outside it was raining softly. My car was one of three in the parking lot. I turned it and the radio on, and Peter Gabriel told me, again, what he liked about my eyes.
back to the archives
