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I don’t resent him for anything. It’s time I contribute to the household. Not everyone can have it as easily as Jimmy, who—ugh, do all thoughts have to lead back to him lately?? I shake my brain like an Etch A Sketch and put on a big smile—my most convincing yet. “Oh, I’m gonna have a blast, Pa. I just hope you’re ready for all the movie posters I’m gonna sneak home after my shifts.”
To that, he laughs warmly and shakes his head. “Don’t you go gettin’ yourself into trouble now!”
“No way,” I return through a chuckle.
My pa drives off, and then all the humor drops off my face like rain off a windshield. I turn to face the building with a sigh. It’s Spruce’s only movie theater, boasting five proud screens and a lot of outdated technology. The big glass windows of the box office face me with one sad-looking, tired young teenager sitting there in a suspender-and-bowtie outfit that matches mine. She’s half-asleep, her big curly bush of red hair nearly drowning her round face, and she’s got her head propped up at the chin with one crooked, lazy hand. She might be drooling, but the glare of the sunlight off the glass prevents me from seeing clearly.
I wonder suddenly if Jimmy is still asleep at his house, or if he has woken up by now. Maybe he’s in the shower, washing away his thoughts. Or he could be hanging with his brother, who’s a totally annoying early-riser. Or he might be lazing around on his bed, just staring up at the ceiling, bored, sucking on his tongue. Maybe he went to church with his ma, sitting on a bench listening to Trey or Reverend Arnold talk about God and preaching their Sunday love.
Why do I care so much what Jimmy Strong is doing right now?
I blink away the thoughts, then proceed through the glass doors into the movie theater, ready to begin my first day at the Spruce Cinema 5.
After ten minutes with the manager Mr. Lemon, I find him to be starkly different than he was when he interviewed me. He is a stress-ball of uptightness this morning whose perfect part of hair is the only part of him under control; his off-centered tie, the sweat stains under his pits, and the scuffs on his dress shoes reveal a man who’s barely got it together. His tour of the building with me is ripe with about a hundred-thousand fatal warnings.
Such as: “You do not want to dump the popcorn kettle early, because the oil will burn your hands right off, and the hot seeds will jump down your shirt like molten pellets of lava. And don’t bump the popcorn tray. It’s loose and all your popcorn will fall out.”
Then in a supply closet: “You do not want to mix the wrong chemicals or forgo gloves, because these acids will make you go blind, sear your skin, or cause diarrhea if just a drop is ingested.”
And finally upstairs in the projectionist room: “You do not want to be caught with your hand here, here, here, or here.” He points at each area of the huge, clacking projector for emphasis, his eyes manic and his jaw clenched. “Or else you’ll lose a limb. And your job. And mine.”
The man has a phone call with the corporate office suddenly, so he leaves me with one of the ushers, who takes me from theater to theater to demonstrate how to sweep up popcorn off the floor, how to check cupholders for hidden napkins and candy wrappers, how to sweep under the seats as well as around them, how to hold open a door (seriously), and finally how to tell guests to have a lovely day after their feature film has ended without looking like a soulless goon in a bowtie.
There’s a perfected science to all of that, apparently.
Since there’s still twenty minutes before the next movie ends, the usher takes me to the scullery behind the concession stand where we sit atop a stack of popcorn seed bags like a pair of bums and lounge with our broom and dustpans rested by our sides.
And I’m totally not thinking about Jimmy.
Nor the sweet taste of his soft lips on mine, for that brief and fleeting moment in which our mouths were one.
Nor the feel of his breath against my face.
Nor the embrace of his strong, tight arms around me.
I’m such a fucking mess and it’s all his fault.
“This is really the majority of what your day will be like,” the usher tells me. His name is Vince, by the way, and his voice is the rope I climb to get the hell out of this thought hole I’ve fallen into. “Sitting around and waiting on the next movie to drop.”
I glance around the scullery itself, troubled. “Isn’t there, like, somethin’ to clean, or organize, or—?”
