Back when I was in high school, I always thought it would be fun to sneak into a movie without paying. That'd be cool, right?
On some random Saturday afternoon, I took full advantage of my recently acquired independence as the holder of a driver’s license and decided to go to the movies–by myself. I don’t remember if I had asked anyone to come with me or if the plan was always to go alone (probably clinging to some juvenile romantic notion that I’d randomly meet a hot stranger who would inexplicably want to make out with me in the back of the theater–or maybe I just didn't want to rope anyone else into committing a crime).
There were a couple of PG-13 comedies playing that I felt the need to see, fearing I'd be out of the hallway banter zeitgeist loop (I guess you'd call that "meme FOMO" these days?) if I missed their theatrical runs. So I purchased a ticket for one movie, making sure to line up the end time with the start time of the second movie so I could zip across the hallway and sneak right in. After almost leaving halfway through the first (Ron Burgundy's "enormous erection" was just a bit too much for me at the time, and I felt like it crossed a line regarding satirical comedy, leaving a bad taste in my mouth), I arrived at the start time of feature number two.
I glanced this way and that. I knew where the next movie was playing. All I had to do was walk there. Just stick my hands in my pockets and stroll right in. There's no one here! It's too early on a Saturday for people to be out at the movies. No one will even care! My heart rate began to steadily increase. Maybe I should go to the bathroom first. They didn't even have the stanchions out. No one is around to check for your ticket. Just do it! You've always wanted to! Live the dream!! It'll be so cool!!!
I then promptly proceeded directly to the box office, bought a ticket for Dodgeball, and settled into my seat in the middle of an almost-empty theater, feeling guilty about doing the right thing.
Both Anchorman and Dodgeball feature a short clip of a water-skiing squirrel. Most people probably don't remember the scene from either film, because in both cases it was, frankly, rather unmemorable. However, watching both movies back-to-back made that irrelevant little clip stand out to me. I remember being somewhat disappointed to see two big-budget films rely on the comedy of a mildly amusing animal novelty act completely unrelated to the script—just to, what, fill time?
I don't know if it was Will Ferrell's bulging pleats rubbing me the wrong way or the unfortunate lack of a mystery make-out partner that caused me to chicken out that day. Perhaps it was the simple fact that I was still too young & innocent for my conscience to curl up and die.
I've never snuck into a movie. And now I probably never will. But I came close once. And that has made all the difference.
I walked into the Egyptian embassy to get my Swiss diploma notarized. I wanted to make sure that the Egyptian authorities would recognize it officially in case I updated ID documents or tried applying for a job and needed proof I had a degree. In Egypt, renewing ID documents costs more money if you don’t have a higher education- which makes lots of sense, hey? (No, no it really doesn’t.)
I met with Mr. Ibrahim who greeted me warmly- I was the only ‘civilian’ at the embassy, and him, the person in charge. An older, balding man, he shook my hand and behaved as though we had already met. I explained my notarization needs and showed him my diploma. It took him about 20 seconds to realize we hadn’t actually met before, and he switched smoothly instead to “get to know this person” mode.
Then the typical slew of Egyptian questions came at me: Are you married? How old are you? Wow, I’d have thought you were so much younger. Why do you wear your hair like that? It would look better if you didn’t have a fringe and your hair wasn’t as messy. *Insert lots of commentary about Egyptian women vs. liberal western women*. *Insert comments about how women and men are different than one another, and only people who were raised a certain (right) way, knew that*. *Insert mention of his experiences living abroad, and particularly in the west, distinguishing himself from other “closed minded” Egyptians*. All the usual stuff.
Then throw 18 assumptions at me about how: I’m kind, so obviously this means I’m naïve and was sheltered my whole life. I probably grew up abroad, and only spent summers in Egypt. I had better be careful to never trust anyone when I travel back to the Middle East. Are my brothers controlling? What horoscope is my father? And then of course the obligatory: “I have a daughter who’s about your age, so when I meet someone like you, my first instinct is to treat you as though you were my own daughter.”
After about two hours of this, and not a single step closer to me getting my diploma notarized, Mr. Ibrahim finally seemed to realize I was not as green as he initially took me to be. He ended with this: I’d like to give you some advice regarding marriage. You are obviously smart, educated, have lived in the West, are beautiful, not just outside (though you should really think about doing something with that fringe), but also inside- I can clearly see you have a good heart. Therefore, know your worth, and don’t undersell. You must expect an “advance payment”, and not just a post-marriage one (at this point I wasn’t sure whether he was speaking figuratively or about a dowry?). Afterall, a Mercedes-Benz and a Fiat 182 aren’t going to go for the same price, right? Do you see what I mean? I mean the engines, speed, safety features, luxury, seats and interiors, they just can’t go for the same price.
I thanked him and said I “wouldn’t forget his advice”. “So… about the diploma, I know you must have other important things to get to, and I don’t want to take up more of your time,” I said. “Ah, yes!” he replies, “You can come back another day to pick it up.” Sigh.
I'm so boring I listened to a podcast about rumble strips on the drive over. But at least it kept me awake.
And at least I showed up to your TED talk or whatever it was, front row seat to your success. Figuratively. Literally, the seats were nosebleeds. I know, not literally.
Waited in line to shake your hand. Words irrevocable flit behind my eyes, almost too sweet not to say. I shuddered. Almost.
Dust burning off the radiators on the first morning below freezing. No patience for web players that are not youtube. Throw the blankets off, water in a mug, think about it again. Maybe I'm a rumble strip? Or could be.
“life is a journey, not a destination”
I changed my squinted focus from the loopy cursive on her white shirt to her wrinkled forehead scrunched so hard that it was starting to fold over itself.
“I’m so sorry, but we had to rearrange the seating and you will now be in the emergency exit lane. We will be more than h a p p y to compensate you should you choose to fly with us again.”
my teeth couldn’t help but grit over the script. traveling seems to bring out the worst in people… especially your butterscotch-loving grandma who seemingly doesn’t believe in sunscreen. I once believed airports were fascinating and thrilling, which is why I bolted to work here after high school. there was this romanticized image in my mind of meeting world travelers and noteworthy individuals excited to share their experiences.
now it’s different days, but déjà vu filled conversations.
scratch that.
more like confrontations.
I barely noticed grumpy grandma flip me off and fume waddle away to find an underpaid and overworked manager.
sure, sitting shoulder to shoulder with strangers while your back slowly transforms into a bruised peach from the toddler sitting behind practicing karate isn’t ideal… but it’s not scurvy from traveling months on a boat or dysentery from cutting cross unmarked trails in a covered wagon.
it’s time I quit, risk the cheap seat, and see far off places for myself.
Who pays for this?
Peering out, eye-level is raised
Above the flappy flight of city birds,
Where the sky seems closer than the field —
Today’s matchup: Distant Greens vs. Adjacent Blues.
Who pays for this?
A hollow shout, my dampened voice is lifted
Beyond, to hail a vendor of Amber Brew,
Industrial Corn Lite, Americana in a can —
Two for the price of Dorothy’s Ruby Shoes.
Who pays for this?
Your ears perceive the muddled songs
Below, announcing new attempts,
The Distant Greens will take their swings —
But we see only replays from the giant screen.
Who pays for this?
A bitter taste? Or maybe, not so bad?
Within the bowels of the arena, processed meats
Boil and fry and steam; their aroma floats —
Extra mustard greases the gullet for consumption.
Who pays for this?
Flowing hair flying about our eyes
Aloft, our altitudinal viewing still belies
The price of admission, to partake from afar —
From Very Afar — the beautiful game in its glory.
Who pays for this?
Damn the distance, damn the score.
I paid for this, this beautiful game,
And From Very Afar, we’ll sit atop the world —
‘Til the Greens or the Blues cry victorious!