Chapter 7

A Hearty Dose of Popcorn
(and of Reality!)


I loved my job at the movie theater. The smell of popcorn became unbearable at times, and some of the other employees required more patience than I often felt I could muster, but the time and sweat I poured into my first real job was more than worth it. I got paid six dollars an hour. Sure, six bucks an hour wasn’t much more than minimum wage, but it was a start. Besides, in the present economy, I was lucky to have a job at sixteen years old.
I had four managers. The first two aren’t really worth mentioning. Their interactions with me were minimal, or not desirable. The other two, Mike and Josh, were partners in crime. Not real crime, but more like partners in goofing off. Mike didn’t talk much, but he was all around really nice. He and Josh were really good at kicking people out when they tried to sneak in. They also had a knack for keeping us on our toes at all times. "Your lids are facing up. They should be facing down. Fix it or I’ll right you up." Not that we ever took them seriously, but there was certainly an air of respect that lingered when Josh and Mike were around. Maybe it was because they treated us like equals instead of just bossing us around. Or maybe it was their sarcasm and goofiness that drew us to them.
Mike liked the arcade games in the lobby, and when the other managers weren’t around, we would all watch and see how many levels he could beat. Or we would put twenty squirts of butter into a batch of popcorn, when you were only supposed to put three squirts per batch. Mike didn’t care. He found the neon, fluffy kernels that came out just as amusing as we did.
Josh liked music and airplanes. He could play any instrument you put in front of him. He wanted his pilots license, and he loved to tell stories.
Josh and I were an interesting match whenever we had to work in the same room, which was all the time. I had been exposed to the "real world" so little, that Josh had to clue me in on most of what was said by the other employees.
I remember one night, George and I were working until 1:30am, and Josh was the manager on duty, along with a police officer to help keep people from sneaking in. No one wanted concessions so late, and we were all sitting around talking. Josh said something about a pimp.
"Josh," I said, "What’s a pimp?" You’d think I had asked the funniest question ever. Josh and the officer were falling all over themselves laughing. George was trying desperately to stifle his own laughter.
"You can’t be serious," Josh said simply.
"Uhhh. . ." I stuttered for an appropriate response. Of course I was serious.
"You’re serious," Josh looked shocked. "And you’re how old???" A pause. "Don’t answer that," he told me. Looking at the officer, Josh sighed. "How do I explain this to her?"
The officer just shrugged, and chuckled some more. "A pimp," Josh began, "is a, well, it’s a sales manager for whores."
"Oh, okay." I was satisfied now that I had been clued in. Still a little in the dark, I pretended to fully understand everything that was ever said from then on, just to ensure that Josh would not have to find some weird way to explain things again.
That was one of many hilarious and interesting events that happened when Josh and I were working the same shift. He always kept me on top of my game, making sure my stock was always full, if not overflowing, and that I always left my money bag inside my drawer, and out of sight. He made sure that I always got lots of grief if I had an oatmeal bar for dinner, and that I was always doing everything possible to become a better employee, no matter how much he had to nag me.
As much bossing around as he did, he also did a lot of goofing off, when he could. We used the Carmike stamp in the office to decorate the desk, and he let me do cartwheels in the lobby late at night, when no one was around. Whenever I answered a question in a stupid or obvious way, he would roll his eyes and say, "Thank you, Captain Obvious."
Then I would make muscles with my arms, and say, "Captain Obvious strikes again, dum dee dum dum dum." We did other stupid things too, like when I would say, "Josh, do you have your tickets?"
"What tickets?" he asked the first time of many.
"TO THE GUN SHOW!" I would scream, making muscles with my arms, and trying to look tough, despite the ribbon in my hair. It was funny the first time, and maybe the next five, but even though the hilarity of it wore off, I had earned myself a nickname. Guns. Not only did Josh call me that, but all the other managers did as well.
Each day, I came to work with a can-do attitude, or at least I tried. I had to deal with some of the rudest people I had ever met in my life, but I learned from it, though it sometimes wore me down. Josh always told me not to let them get to me. I did my best, until one day. . .
The fluffy yellow kernels came barreling out of the popper at full speed. I picked up the popcorn scoop, and filled a large bag. After pouring the so-called butter (it’s actually oil) onto it, and setting it carefully on the table, I filled an icee for the customer, and then a medium Sprite. Lids, then I took the money. Their total was $12.50. That’s a lot to pay for snacks at a movie theater, but hey, what did I care?
The next customer stepped forward. "Hi. Would you like to try our popcorn combo? It’s two medium drinks and a large popcorn for eleven dollars." I’ve said this line so many times, it had become second nature. I looked into the eyes of the young mother standing before me, a child about a year old balanced on one hip, and she’s holding the hand of a second child, about three. One of her eyes is a little swollen and slightly purple.
"No, thanks," she responded quietly, looking nervously around. What’s her story, I began to wonder. "Um," she hesitated, still checking her surroundings. Her children looked anxious too, but my job is not psychology. I just sell concessions at a movie theater. She was very petite, wearing a khaki skirt, and a striped tank top. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled hastily back in a ponytail. Her kids, both boys, were cute with blue eyes. Their blonde hair about halfway combed, and their bangs pushed out of their eyes. They were dressed alike in jean overalls and red t-shirts.
Suddenly, a grungy man walked brusquely up and stood next to the three-year-old. He was somewhat older than the young woman, but definitely her husband. Dressed in faded jeans with holes and a white t-shirt covered in stains, he seemed out-of-place in the theater, and especially out-of-place next to the young woman. His facial hair was unkempt, and his hands were rough and calloused. His stomach hung over his belt, and I smelled alcohol and tobacco resonating off of him. Not someone I would want to get in a brawl with.
"Can’t you make up your god-damned mind?" He asked her, slightly slurring his words, and jerking the three-year-old’s hand out of his mother’s. Embarrassed, she fumbled for a response of some sort.
"Um, I g-guess I’ll have a medium popcorn, and two kiddie combos," the woman said quietly.
"Kiddie combos?" the man roared. "Those kids don’t need no fucking kiddie combos. They just ate dinner, dammit." The one-year-old’s lip began to tremble, and suddenly I didn’t like the position I was in. I shifted uneasily behind my register, unsure of what to say or do. I looked around to see where my managers were. Unable to spot any of them, I became slightly more uneasy. I hesitated, but I didn’t have to wait long. "Just give us a damn large popcorn and a large Coke." I rung up the items, and hurried to prepare them as quickly as possible. I had seen enough, and I wanted to help the next customer in line.
"$9.45 is your total, sir. Would you like any candy with that?" I asked with as much politeness as I could muster.
"No!" he spat. "Just hurry it up, would ya? We’re in a fucking hurry, here." He tossed his debit card in my general direction, and I hesitated before swiping it.
"There’s a ninety-nine cents service charge," I said as calmly as I could, not making eye contact with this brute of a man. I glanced quickly down at the name on the card. Gregory Whitefield.
"What!?" he roared. "You think I’m fucking crazy? I spend ten dollars on this shit and you want me to pay another damn dollar of my hard earned money to use my fucking debit card?" And with that, he snatched the debit card out of my hand. He shoved his wife away from the counter, and drug the whimpering three-year-old behind them.
I was a little shaken by the entire ordeal, but I bounced back soon enough. The rest of the night went smoothly. My customers were in good humor because Harry Potter had just come out, and that always revs people up. As I was wiping down the counters, about to go upstairs and count my money, I looked up and saw the foursome exiting. The baby was asleep, in his mother’s arms, but for the first time I noticed a large bruise on the woman’s upper arm. She glanced at me helplessly as they neared the door, and I realized she was stuck where she was forever. She was going to live like this forever, with no way out, no hope. I silently thanked God then and there for all the blessings I didn’t realize I had.
My prayer of thanks was short lived, when my manager Josh yelled for me to come upstairs with him and "count out." Counting out is when the manager counts my profit for the night.
I followed him silently up the stairs, my mind still reeling from what I had witnessed, and that was in public. I was afraid to let my mind wander as far as what went on inside their house. "Long night?" Josh asked over his shoulder.
"Yeah, something like that." I responded, not wanting to tell him about what I had seen. He would give me his "life sucks" speech, and tell me not to worry about it, that I can’t fight everyone else’s battles for them, that I needed to focus on my own battles. Typical Josh. More or less, a get-over-it and move on rant.
Once inside the office, I shook those thoughts from my head and focused on counting my money, and filling out the stock inventory sheet. Math seemed unimportant compared to the lives of the lady and her boys. Handing my money to Josh, he counted it, and recounted it. Two times total. He looked at the computer screen and told me that I broke even. The stock sheet was three dollars off, so I was free to go.
"You okay?" he asked, looking concerned. This is the problem with my normally peppy personality. You calm down and people think you’re depressed. I gave him a weak smile and told him I was just tired. "Well, if you need to talk, I’m here."
"Talk to you?" I almost laughed at the idea. Josh isn’t exactly your touchy-feely, easy-to-talk-to manager. 
"Yeah," he said. "When I take off my tie, I become a normal guy. I’ve done it for other employees. There’s Manager Josh, and Normal Josh."
"Well, thanks. I might take you up on that." I smiled. "Have a good night."
"You too," he said, getting up to put the money in the safe.
I headed for the door, and as I reached out for the doorknob, I spun on my heels. "Josh, do you have a second now?"
"Sure thing," he said. "But I have a feeling this will take more than a second," he grinned knowingly. Sitting down in front of him, I sighed, and for the first time I realized that I was scared for these people’s lives.
I quickly relayed the events of the evening, about the woman, the kids and the grungy man, with a beer belly and a dirty t-shirt, careful to leave out the bruise portion of the story. "How old are you?" he asked. I was a little taken aback, but I told him I was sixteen. "You’re biggest problems in life right now should be school and homework, and what color eye shadow to wear. You can’t worry yourself with the woes of the world, and the problems that exist in every society." I had known his response would be similar to this one, but it felt good to tell someone how scared I was. But still, his answer wasn’t satisfactory.
"But— " I started. He didn’t let me finish.
"You’re job isn’t to fix everyone’s problems. Just make sure you turn out to be the best person you can be, and remember that you can’t make anyone else’s life perfect."
I nodded. I knew he was right, but it was hard to accept. I’m not sure what I wanted him to do about it. More than listen and lecture, though. I guess I wanted him to go protect the lady and her boys, or go beat up that guy, give him a taste of his own medicine. Do something. Anything. But instead, he kept talking to me.
"Keep your chin up, kid. Things’ll look brighter in the morning." I doubted that, but I was too dumbfounded to argue. This was a completely different side to Josh than I had ever seen. The usually sarcastic and pessimistic manager was being optimistic and caring. Shocker.
"Thanks, Josh." I got up quietly, and for the second time that night said to him, "Have a good night."
"You too." He searched my eyes for a minute, sensing there was more I wasn’t telling. Unable to read my face, he went back to his crossword puzzle. I hesitated before leaving. It was after midnight, but something told me I needed to finish the story. The bruise changed things from a grumpy husband to a possible battered wife situation. I sat back down and looked at Josh. He looked up, not the least bit surprised, and said, "I figured you left something out."
I just stared at him. "C’mon spit it out," he told me.
"Josh, she had a bruise. One on her shoulder. And one of her eyes was purple and swollen." He stared disbelievingly at me. "Really. I’m worried. It’s beyond just gruffness. There’s something wrong there." The words sounded much worse than they had before I had said them.
Quietly, almost inaudibly, Josh responded. "I’ll call Social Services tomorrow and have them send someone to investigate. It’s not your fault, and you did the right thing by telling. I can’t promise they’ll do anything, but maybe it’ll help you to know that someone else is taking care of it."
I wasn’t buying it, and he could tell. He continued, "Okay, how about this? You can be here when I call. Tomorrow, I come in at three. You’ll be here on your shift. We’ll call, okay?"
I nodded, and hoarsely whispered, "Okay."
"Wait."
Startled, I looked at him, confused. "What?" I asked, unable to imagine what he could possibly need from me.
"You don’t have his name do you? We can’t do anything without—"
I cut him off. "Josh," I said quietly, "I got his name. He was going to use his debit card."
Stunned, it was his turn to stare now. "Okay, good. Write it down here," he instructed me, sliding a scrap of paper and a pen in my direction. I carefully lettered out the man’s name G-R-E-G-O-R-Y W-H-I-T-E-F-I-E-L-D, using my neatest penmanship. Josh watched every move my hand made with perfect attention. When I had finished he looked up. "Now go home and get some sleep, kid. You’ve had a long day." We said our good nights for a third time, and I silently got up and left the room.
I headed downstairs, where I finished cleaning. I clocked out, and took off my vest. Josh’s words played again and again in my mind. Things’ll look brighter in the morning. I knew that by 3PM tomorrow, things would be looking a lot brighter for one family, at least.
You’re job isn’t to fix everyone’s problems. . .you can’t make anyone else’s life perfect. I sighed and got into my mom’s van, more determined than ever to make a difference, no matter what Josh said. My battles could wait a little while. Other people didn’t have as much time.
The next day, right on schedule, Josh walked into the theater, clocked in, and glanced over at me. Nodding his head slightly towards the stairwell, I knew the time had come. He spoke quickly with the other manager, and he too nodded at me. I followed Josh up the stairs, just as I did every night when I counted my money. But today was different. I had no money, but I was about to do something much more important.
We reached the office, and Josh unlocked the heavy, wooden door. I clenched my teeth, trying to calm my nerves. I sat in the chair at the front of the desk, and Josh sat in the office chair behind the desk. "You ready?" He asked. Not that I could have said no, or backed down at this point. I had come to far, and now I had a responsibility to this woman and her children to help in any way I could. Josh picked up the phone book, and riffled through the pages. He found the number he was looking for, and picked up the phone. The phone on the other end rang three times before a lady answered. "Hello," Josh said into the receiver. "This is Josh Minton from Carmike Cinemas." He hesitated. "Yes, one of my employees reported a potential spouse-abuse situation yesterday." A pause. "No, she did not witness the actual abuse, just a very gruff man, who pushed his wife and kids around, and the woman had a swollen, purple eye. As they were leaving, my employee saw a bruise on the woman’s upper arm." I couldn’t hear what was said on the other end of the line. "Yes, we have his name. Gregory Whitefield. Yes, thank you." Another pause. "Uh-huh. Goodbye."
He looked at me. "They’ve had complaints from neighbors twice this year, after they heard yelling and violent sounds coming from the house. Someone’s going to go over there and check it out."
"Thanks, Josh. I feel better now," I lied. For some reason I couldn’t understand though, I didn’t feel any better. I guess I thought there would be this huge weight lifted off my shoulders. Instead, the load only seemed to increase. I got up to leave, unsure of what to do now, other than go back downstairs and wait on customers.
"Hang tough," was all Josh said. But something inside of me knew that I wouldn’t be the one who needed to hang tough. This woman and her children needed to hang tough. In fact they were probably going to deal with a lot in the next few days, and I worried for them. I let Josh’s words from last night resonate inside me. You can’t worry yourself with the woes of the world, and the problems that exist in every society. With that in mind, I went downstairs to continue selling concessions.
After that ordeal, I trusted Josh a lot. It was like we had this mutual understanding that I could talk to him if I ever needed to, and he would always be there to listen. We began to talk about how hard life could be, and how it really never got much better. The hurting just changed forms. He explained it like this. "When you’re listening to your car radio, and the volume knob is halfway turned, slowly, your perception of the volume changes, and the music gets ‘lower’. What do you do?"
"Turn it up?" I ventured, unsure of what he was getting at.
"No, you have to listen harder. Pay more attention," he explained. "That’s how life is. Things always suck about medium, but if something good happens, then your perception becomes that life should suck less. You’ve gotta put more effort into enjoying life and moving on when bad stuff happens. Understand?"
I nodded. It made perfect sense to me. Josh dropped out of college, but he became a definite role model for me. I looked up to him, and his attitude towards life. He was a good guy, and I liked working for him.
And then all of a sudden, for three days, Josh didn’t come to work. I watched out the glass windows every day, from behind the concession counter, for his yellow, beat up Saturn. It never pulled into the parking lot. Finally one of the other managers told me that Josh had been transferred to a theater in Virginia. He was gone for good.