The New Adventures of Box-Office Barbie

FADE IN - EXT. MOVIE THEATER

FRIDAY, MID-JUNE, 2002

5:55 PM. You wish there was a slow-motion button that you could use on life for dramatic effect because this would be the perfect moment. You can picture it in your head: a raging orchestral theme playing in the background; a shot of the setting sun on the horizon; your feet walking (maybe through puddles); the name tag being adjusted; the ponytail being tightened; the shirt being straightened; then — wham — slam it back to a wider shot of you, real-time, striding across the parking lot, bag slung over one shoulder, expression fierce enough to scare the shit out of Hannibal.

You shoulder open the glass doors and are greeted by your two compatriots for the evening  —  Emily and Camille — who are lounging against the box office counter, conserving their strength.

"Hey, Jessie," Emily drawls as you enter. "You working box tonight?"

"Yeah. I'm on six to close."

"Awesome, I'm gonna go see if I can take my break now. I've been working all day."

Emily got on at three, which doesn't really qualify as "all day" in your book, but that's Emily. She has a talent for complaining, and she practices it a lot. It's not fun to be scheduled up in box with Emily, but it's better than working concessions. Nobody likes concessions. People sell the souls of their first-born children to avoid concessions. There's just something about the combination of customers and oily popcorn that makes a person want to sprint headfirst into a brick wall. There's a rumor that one employee did that a few weeks ago to avoid an open-to-close weekend shift. Poor bastard.

You drop your bag off in the employee room, and by the time you return, Emily has disappeared on break so it's just Camille which is fine because Camille, quite frankly, rocks. Camille has pen wars with you during off-times, and the two of you reenact scenes from pirate movies. You're always the roguish but good-hearted pirate because you can act drunker than she can, while she is better at keeping a straight face and parodying the noble and stupid romantic lead.

You enter the tiny world of the box office, which is set up differently than many. The main thing is that there is no glass. This is not a walled-off dome of safety with a Darth Vadar voice box to speak to customers through. There's just a half-wall and counter space to serve as a barrier between you and the battlefield outside. That means direct contact with the customers and the automatic assumption that the box office is local headquarters not only for ticket sales but also theater cleaners, managers, bouncers, new projectors, free money and magic wands. As if you have a jack-in-the-box in the employee closet that can just churn out whatever the customer wants. Speak to a manager? Sure you can! Let me just go into my room, turn the little handle, and tada! One pops straight out of my ass! Hope you enjoyed your show, please come again!

You have a reoccurring fantasy when there are dozens of people in your line and they are all shouting about one thing or another. You imagine disappearing into the employee closet and reemerging as the ULTIMATE THEATER WARRIOR! Metal plates on your legs, enormous space boots, massive torso armor, a Storm Trooper helmet, and around your arms are TICKET CANNONS and thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka — you just shoot 'em out — thunka-thunka-thunka — the crowd is falling back before your onslaught — thunka-thunka — white paper missiles! people are going down! — thunka-thunka-thunka — take that, O whining mob! — thunka-thunka — you deserve a raise.