Returning to the movies

It's a quiet weekday evening in quarantine. I am resisting the urge to drink. I am ignoring homework. I keep hitting the refresh bar on my email. On my Instagram. On my Messenger App. I don't want to crawl into my dark corner and spend the rest of the night playing video games. Well, of course I want to, but I always want to, so it isn't a surprising kind of want. Tonight I want something surprising.

What can defeat this boredom? I know people who have gone ice-fishing, rollerblading, hiking. But I'm lazy. Rephrase: What can I do to defeat this boredom that would accommodate my laziness?

I think a faraway answer: Go to the movies. Really? I haven't been in a year. I went on a Facebook tangent about how nobody should be in a theater during a time like this. Don't be a hypocrite. Go for a walk or something. Shit, the sun is setting. The sun is setting and I feel a crunching urge to sit down, an urge yanked by another urge to get up, go, get out of this apartment, do something different. Do something surprising.

Go to the movies.

Well, what's the worst that can happen?

A lot.

My world is a small one. There isn't, like, a roommate I should be considerate of.

But I do have neighbors. There's a lot I still don't know about COVID-19. A lot I don't know because whenever I look up information about it I see a death toll that terrifies me. Can COVID-19 crawl under my neighbors' doors?

The ones I can hear fighting and screaming through the walls? Screw them.

I don't mean that. But I'm not sorry for thinking about it. I'm just bored. Boredom breeds irresponsibility. Some Miyagi shit I heard one time. Probably a high school coach. Always with their bad knees.

But, really, it's just one movie. Just one little trip out. They probably have sanitizer all over the place. How about it?

I feel that old excitement again. Of wanting to get out so badly I'm forgetting things and have to keep unlocking my door. What will I see? Let's play this like the old days: See what's playing. The less I know, the better. That's how it used to be.

I remember the short drive to AMC Oakbrook. It's been over a year since I last went to see something in it. God, what was the last thing I saw there? Oh, right, "Birds of Prey." Danielle was running late, work was bad about letting her leave on time, but she got there and we drank Coke slushies and shared a popcorn and it was a good time. It was the last time I was in this theater.

But the last theater I was in had to be York Classic Cinema, in that squarish area where you could get ice cream, Chipotle, hot wings, coffee, and all kinds of crap all in touching distance. What was the last movie I saw before all this shit hit the fan? It's only been a year and my memory is so bad. Oh, yeah, it was the drunk Ben Affleck movie "The Way Back." That was a decent day, if I'm remembering it right. After the movie I crossed the tracks and spent a little time in the Elmhurst Art Museum, catching a last glimpse at the, what was her name, the Sandra Jorgensen exhibit. God, I loved that. Or maybe it wasn't her. Maybe I just want it to be.

Well, I'm here. The parking building is full of empty levels. Are things even open? Google said it was open. Google's never been wrong before.

Empty, empty. Some shuffling bodies passing by. All faces are masks and eyes. Who knows who is smiling, who's giving you the blank face of death, if they show teeth, or if they pucker one side of their mouth? I give people nods. Like a woodpecker desk toy.

One of the elevators is broken. On the way up there's nobody. On the top floor where the AMC letters shine a big bloody red, there's few people around. Some restaurants are open, the tables are spaced out, and the masks aren't on. The masks are below the chin or discarded entirely.

I push through the doors. I don't smell popcorn. Where's the popcorn? I'm close to where the popcorn should be. I ask if concessions are still open after I pick my ticket. Yeah, right over there, the booth operator says. Oh, I see, they keep the popcorn locked up now. This used to be a theater that would let you pick out what size you wanted off a shelf.

I don't remember the seat arrangements. I pick something semi-close to the screen, just how I used to like it. I ask if the chairs recline. Yes, the operator says, the chairs recline. I almost ask how far back they go. There's some theaters, their recliners basically become beds. Things get to feeling intimate in the theater as I look left to right and people I've never seen before are kicked back and relaxed like we're all sharing one big couch.

The thought of this theater being that crowded scares me.

But so far this place is kind of a ghost town. Like even it doesn't know it's open, or can't believe the luck of remaining open when so many theaters around the world are closing down for life.

The concessions cashier is a sad looking woman, somewhere in my age. Or maybe she doesn't look sad if I see the rest of her face. Masks are us.

I order old favorites, stuff I got with Danielle when we saw the “Harley Quinn” thing. Popcorn, Jalapenos, and a big, big ICEE. Coke style. I used to like mixing up the flavors but I guess I just want the Coke flavor now, nothing fancy. It's funny how much I'm enjoying the precariousness of holding all my concessions together, just barely, peeking over my popcorn to remind myself if I'm going to the screens on the left or right side of the theater.

I'm so busy trying not to fall on myself. There, my chair number glows. And the recline is just right. And look over my shoulder. Left to right. Check the time. Two minutes to showtime.

Two thoughts: “Where is everybody?” and “thank god there's nobody.”

Nobody but me.

Just me and the big screen.

I zoom in and out of "Raya and the Last Dragon." I'm not into the bits with human Awkwafina, but call me back for dragon Awkwafina, now we're talking. Yeah. There's nobody here. Am I doing something irresponsible? Is there nobody here because this is a catastrophically stupid and risky thing to be doing during a pandemic?

But there's no shame in this big, black empty room with the big glowing screen and my popcorn and my ICEE that I sucked halfway to oblivion during the trailers. Yeah, I didn't forget that: How freaking long the trailers are. Movies, in and of themselves, give all the good shit away.

New idea. New rule. When and if things get back to something resembling normal, no more movie trailers. Just try and make it in time. Have no expectations. Just be surprised.

I'm surprised now. It's safe in here. Safe in an absent kind of way. I'm not enjoying this movie the way a kid will, but it looks gorgeous up there on this huge screen. Weird. It's never looked this big. That's not true, definitely not, but right now it feels true. What a big screen, what big colors, just for me. Just for now. Just for however much of this cartoon is left.

The fantasy ends. The lights come on. I look around and, yeah, nobody to be found. The only steps are my own. There isn't even anybody waiting at the door with the broom and trash can. Probably knew it was just one guy in there, not much to clean after. I had their job once upon a time, but never in these conditions. And we never kept popcorn or candy in steel chests. We handed everything off, even got our thumbs on the paper lips of the paper bags to peel them apart for the popcorn rain.

I stand in the lobby, just sort of feeling it all. Nobody knows or cares that I'm here. This used to be my favorite thing. Why should it be so wrong? Because so many are dead, and I'm worried about being bored when I should worry about being dead. Dead and infecting a loved one so they follow me on the way down.

What grim thoughts, what a grim world.

The night is yawning for me to go home. My itch is scratched, and I'm tiredly coming to the conclusion that it was neither the right nor the wrong thing to do. But god how I wish I knew.