Quote of the Blog:
Richard: I hate the movies on the planes. I keep seeing bad movies like, “My Special Trousers” or “My Magic Pants” or something.
Everyone looks confused.
Mario: Do you mean “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants”?
Richard (snaps): That’s the one!
*****
Three years ago my friend Amanda and I decided we should go to a documentary or foreign film once a month. On one such night we were supposed to grab dinner before the movie. I don’t remember if the movie started earlier than we thought or if we were late to dinner; either way, we didn’t have enough time to eat before the movie started. We were hungry, and while popcorn for dinner is something we’d done before, we preferred to find another solution. And if there is something Amanda does well, it’s come up with solutions.
Amanda: We eat in the theater.
Me: Eat dinner in the theater? During the movie? Like, take dinner in with us?
Amanda: You’ve never eaten dinner in the movies before?
She asked so incredulously I thought this must be a common New York thing. And well, even though I had never done it, I had seen people eat anything from quesadillas to hot dogs to sushi in the theater. I gave my consent.
She nodded and pulled me into a Chipotle. Chipotle? We’re sneaking burritos into the theater? I started to get nervous but didn’t want to let on. I hadn’t snuck any “legitimate” food into the theater since 7th grade:
Flashback:
Time: Saturday matinee.
Scene: Seven fourteen-year-old girls try to walk nonchalantly through the empty lobby past the ticket holder (TicketMaster) at Movies 8 in Orem.
TicketMaster: Umm, excuse me girls. You aren’t allowed to bring outside food into the theaters.
We try to look innocent. He shoots a meaningful look at the abnormally square stomach of my friend’s sweatshirt. And another glance at another friend’s bulging sleeve-ends.
Had we been crafty we would have handed over just a few items. But as we were by and large honest, obedient, kids, we handed over everything. His eyes widened as we pulled treats from pockets, purses, sleeves, and hoods. The cache grew. He called his coworkers over to see the mound: one package twizzlers, five candy bars, four bags of chips, seven Gatorades, and one medium pizza.
Just then a group of 9th grade boys walk in. Oh the shame.
End scene.
I thought about this memory as Amanda and I walked toward the Lincoln Plaza Cinema. My heart beat a little faster but this TicketMaster didn’t even make eye contact to notice the heft of my tote or the slight waft of marinated chicken.
The theater was small and mostly empty and Amanda and I sat towards the back by ourselves. It was a French film: almost all dialogue with little music and scene after scene of teachers talking with each other, lecturing in class, footsteps echoing in empty halls. I waited for a loud scene, in vain. I glanced over at Amanda and was shocked. Somehow she had managed to open her burrito and eaten half of it without making a sound! She has the art of crafty eating down.
Finally I pulled my burrito out of my bag and out of the brown paper sack. The crinkling noise filled the theater. People shifted, irritated in their seats. Excuse me while I cheer the opening serve at Wimbledon with a vuvuzela. A vuvuzela that smells like marinated chicken and roasted veggies. I slunk down in my seat and took a guilty bite.
