Popcorn, Reese’s Pieces, Cherry Coke…ACTION!

In college, my freshman roommate prayed for me. A lot. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the poster I plastered on my side of the room before I unpacked my suitcase. The words “Every time I think about killing myself, I go to the movies” circled a large cardboard paper covered with hundreds of movie stubs. I saved them all.

And I love it all. From Beauty and the Beast to Bourne Identity, Rocky to Real Steel, Aladdin to Aragorn, Madea to Monsters Inc. [I could go on and on], I can’t get enough of the worlds created by a camera lens and now computer graphics. Needless to say, I love going to the movies.

One of my favorite places in the world, even now, lies exactly seven or eight rows from the foot of a jumbo movie screen. I like my peripheral vision to frame the show and nothing more. My mind fully engages with the setting, dialogue, action and soundtrack of each scene. I cry every time. Almost every time. Especially at the “moment of grace.” A friend forgives at last. A child reunites with her parent. The bad guy put behind bars. And my personal favorite — the long awaited kiss.

So when a chatty viewer decides to park himself within earshot of my utopia, horns emerge and fangs flash. I am not happy. I boldly attempt the first stage of Operation Shut Up by shushing the rude attendee while my eyes hold their gaze of the unraveling story in front of me.

When phase one fails, I turn toward the loudmouth and try a more direct approach.

“Excuse me? Yes you. Could you refrain from talking? I can’t hear. Thanks.” I turn away before the shocked, confronted viewer realizes what he or she’s agreed to, in hopes that a little embarrassment motivates a hush for the remainder of the movie.

Just as I recompose all my senses to focus, I hear more commentary from the same corner, and I make my decision. I embrace my inner volcano. And let it out.

“Really? NO! Really? Are you serious? [I am standing now and facing my nemesis.] Is it me? Because I do NOT recall ‘Audience Participation Encouraged’ on any of the captions. Did I miss the memo? NO. Acutally, I’ll tell you WHAT I missed! The LAST FIVE MINUTES of the MOVIE TO TELL YOU FOR A THIRD TIME TO PLEASE [I can still be polite] shut up! SOOOO…what do you suggest? How about I tell YOU what I suggest? Give me ten bucks and we’ll call it even. I’ll buy another ticket and watch the movie again so I can catch all the parts YOU ruined for me. Yeah. That’ll work for me. Does that work for you?”

“SIT DOWN!” A voice calls out from somewhere in the darkness.

Great! Now I’m the bad guy.

I take the remainder of my popcorn and Cherry Coke and dump them on my enemy’s lap before leaving the theater to complain to a manager. I keep the Reese’s Pieces. Hey, those little puppies cost like a dollar per handful.

And don’t you just wish life were as exciting as the movies.

In reality, I may attempt a short “shhhhh” and after that, I simply give up and Operation Shut Up works more like Operation Wimp Out. For fear of cinema rage resulting in premature death, I gather my belongings and change seats. Moving far enough away from my flick-fussing foe to enjoy the remaining minutes of the show.

Then in a few months, I rent the DVD and catch the missed lines in the serenity of my living room. Yeah. I wouldn’t make a movie out of my life unless you need material for prison. In which case, a reality show of my waking hours would be an overnight blockbuster. And if you taped my dreams…well, let’s just leave some things to the imagination, shall we?

For the record, the suicide poster…It was a joke. I had a slightly odd sense of humor back then. If I haven’t apologized… “Sorry Roomie for all the nights you slept with one eye open. I’ll make it up to you. What are you doing Friday night? Want to go the movies?”