Enjoy the Show

Tuesday

"Would you like to upsize your popcorn to a large for an extra twenty-five cents?" 

"Would you like a candy bar with that?"

I'm one of those smiling idiots behind the concessions counter at the local movie theatre. I'm the guy who tries to sell you shit you don't want.

"Would you like a drink with that?"

"Would you like some M&Ms?"

And always with a smile—everything with a smile. I would sell you the Ebola virus with a smile.

Would you be interested in a deadly, fast-spreading virus for an extra twenty-five cents?

I would smile until the muscles in my mouth told me to stop. And then I'd smile some more.

I work at one of those big movie theatre chains that compete with other big movie theatre chains that drive smaller theatres out of business.

Big. Everything is big. Except my pay cheque.

In the movie theatre industry, bigger is better. Size does matter.

When these huge chains appear out of nowhere like weeds in the spring, you can almost hear the them competing with each other. They taunt one another like children in the back seat of a car.

"I have twenty screens. Ha!" one theatre will say.

"Oh yeah! I have thirty screens. So ha!" another theatre will say.

"Well my screens are bigger! So double ha!" And it goes on.

Soon there will be one hundred-screen multiplex theatres with screens the size of small cities.

I am the guy with the stupid white wrinkled buttoned shirt that has purple and yellow-striped epaulettes on each shoulder.

I am the guy with the black pants that's two sizes too small because they didn't have a larger pair to give me. They, my bosses, the theatre managers, said they would be getting more pants in soon. That was three weeks ago.

I look like a recently divorced pilot.

"Would you like popcorn with that?"

"Would you like an O'Henry bar?"

Smile.

I am the guy with the curly blond hair.

I am the guy with the pimply face.

I am the guy with the popcorn fingerprints on his pants.

And what do I do this for? For a shitty job, with shitty pay, with shitty hours.

And the customers. Don't get me started on them. Calling them morons would be offensive to morons.

One time I was ushering the theatres and this kid asked me how does he get into the theatre.

Do you mean which theatre are you in? I ask him. Because that would have been a moderately stupid question, one that I get all the time. Let me tell you, those huge black numbers printed on the tickets are terribly hard to read.

But no. He wants to know how to get in the theatre. I look at him. I look at the doors to the theatre. I look back at him. With a smile, I tell him to go through the doors.

"Here's your change," I say. "Enjoy the show."

Smile.

I'm a machine. Someone gives me an order, I process it. I smile. I say, here's your change. Enjoy the show. Then I smile again.

Smile.

Change.

Enjoy show.

Smile.

The line never ends. It's discount Tuesday.

Even though I'm only an hour into my six-hour shift, I'm looking past all the impatient people waiting for my smile.

I'm looking past the box office where people are deciding whether to see the I-want-to-kill-myself sappy romantic comedy starring some British guy or the yeah-right-he-should-have-died-like-twenty-times action flick starring some muscle-bound actor extraordinaire.

I'm looking out the front doors. I'm looking at freedom. It's sunny outside. It's the end of spring.

But I'm trapped. I'm a prisoner of the theatre. Well, actually, I am a prisoner of economics. I need money to buy stuff. I need a job to make money.

But right now, I need some Aspirin.

I'm handing a large popcorn to some woman with an insanely thick black hair coming out of a mole above her upper-lip when I feel something jabbing my left shoulder.

"Dude. I think that old guy's staring at you," Jim says. He's at the cash next to mine.

"Where?" I ask.

"Dude. By the washrooms."

"Yeah. I've seen him before," I say. "He just stands there looking at me."

"Dude. That's creepy. Why don't you do something about it?" Jim asks.

"I don't know. Like what?"

"I dunno," he says.

That's Jim. He's my only friend around here. I can't stand the assholes who work here. But Jim's cool. He's one of those guys who can't go a sentence without saying "dude."

He works here full time like me. We both practically live here. I'm taking a year off before starting university. He's a bit older than me. His parents made him get a job after he got kicked out of university. Apparently, he exposed himself to a few female students.

And his professor.

And his dean.

This guy is not normal. But maybe that's why I'm friends with him. He doesn't try to be someone else. Take me or leave me, he says.

I have the strangest conversations with him. Man. The shit he likes to talk about.

The other day, during our break, he's sitting next to me in the break room. He's leaning back on his chair and he asks, "Do you know why tighty-whities are bad for you?"

"I wear boxers," I tell him.

"No. Dude. Not you. The general you," he says.

"Something about sperm count," I say.

"Yeah. Tighty-whities decrease your sperm count. Do you know why?"

"Hadn't thought about it."

"Dude. Your balls need to be at a certain temperature to produce sperm. Tighty-whities make it too hot."

"You don't say," I say.

"Your balls need breathing room," he says.

"My balls need to breathe?" I ask.

"Boxers, dude. They're not too tight. They give your balls some breathing room."

"That's great," I say.