“I am not going anywhere with you,” I said. “I am going to the 2:20 showing of Christmas Caper. By myself.”
“That’s what you think,” he said.
“Watch the sparks fly between these two!”
—The Web Critic
Jack had sauntered off before I could demand to know what “That’s what you think” meant, and I couldn’t go after him to ask for fear of losing my place in line, so I spent the rest of the wait to get tickets worrying that the 2:20 would be sold-out, too, though there were only a couple of dozen people left ahead of me, they were all going to something else, and the schedule boards were still showing tickets were available.
But there were three other lines, and the ticket seller on mine apparently had the brain of a character in Dumb and Really Really Dumb. It took him forever to make change and/or swipe people’s cards and then shove their tickets at them. It was a good thing I wasn’t trying to get a ticket for the 1:10. I’d never have made it.
It was half past before I even got close to the ticket counter, and then the guy three people ahead of me couldn’t make up his mind whether to see Zombie Prom or Avatar 4. He and his girlfriend spent a good ten minutes trying to decide, and then his card wouldn’t swipe and they had to use his girlfriend’s, and she had to search through her entire bag to find it, digging out handfuls of stuff for him to hold while she looked and standing there to put it all back after they’d finally gotten the tickets.
This is exactly what Jack was talking about, I thought. What if they were doing it purposely to keep me from getting in?
Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. You’re seeing conspiracies where they don’t exist. But I still looked anxiously up at the schedule board as I came up to the counter, afraid the NO TICKETS AVAILABLE would blink on at the last minute.
It didn’t, and when I said, “One adult for the 2:20 showing of Christmas Caper,” the ticket seller nodded, swiped my card without incident, handed me my ticket, and told me to enjoy the show.
“I will,” I said determinedly and started toward the entrance of the theater complex.
Halfway there, Jack suddenly reappeared and fell in step with me. “Well?” he said.
“They weren’t sold-out, and I didn’t have any trouble getting a ticket. See?” I said, showing it to him.
He wasn’t impressed. “Yeah, and in Romancing the Stone, they found the diamond,” he said, “and Whoopi Goldberg got Jumpin’ Jack Flash an exit contact, and look what happened.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re not in the theater yet, and if you don’t make it by 2:20, they won’t let you in.”
That was true—it was part of the Drome’s security precautions not to let anyone in to a movie after it had started—but it was only 1:30. I told Jack that.
“Yeah, but the line to get in could be really long, or the line to buy popcorn.”
“I’m not buying popcorn. And there isn’t any line to get in,” I said, pointing over at the usher standing all alone in the entrance to the theaters.
“At the moment,” he said. “You’re not there yet. A horde of middle-aged women could show up for the new Fifty Shades of Grey before you get over to the usher. And even if you do make it into the theater, the film could break—”
“The Drome doesn’t use film. It’s all digital.”
“Exactly, which means something could go wrong with the digital feed. It could be contaminated by a virus, or the server could crash. Or something could trigger the TSA’s alarms and send the whole Drome into lockdown.”
“Like setting geese loose in a theater?” I said. “What are you up to, Jack?”
“I told you, I’m not up to anything. I’m just saying you might not get in. In fact, I’m almost certain you won’t. And if you don’t, I’ll be at Gusteau’s.”
“Nothing is going to happen,” I said and started across the remaining half of the lobby toward the entrance and the usher.
The lobby was getting more crowded by the minute with gaggles of excited children and texting teenagers and families arguing about where to go first. I pushed past and around them, hoping a line wouldn’t suddenly collect in front of the usher and prove Jack right, but the usher was still standing there alone, leaning on the ticket stand and looking bored.
I handed him my ticket.
He handed it back. “You can’t go in yet. The movie’s not over. Excuse me,” he said, and reached around me to take the tickets of two eight-year-old boys who’d come up behind me.
He tore their tickets in half and handed them back. “Theater 76. Up the stairs to the third floor and turn right.”
The boys went in. I said, “Can’t I go in and wait in the hall outside the theater till it lets out?”
He shook his head. “It’s against security regulations. I can’t let anybody in till the movie gets out.”
“Which is when?”
“I’ll check,” he said, and consulted the schedule. “1:55.” Ten minutes from now. “If you don’t want to wait—”
“I do.” I moved over against the wall, out of the way.
“Sorry, you can’t stand there,” a manager said, coming up. “That’s where the line for Dr. Who: The Movie has to go.” He began busily cordoning off the space.
I moved to the other wall, but a bunch of little girls and their parents were already lining up there to get in to see The Little Goose Girl, and the sole bench near the door was occupied by a mother vainly trying to talk her two daughters into relinquishing their virtual-reality glasses. Shrieking was involved. And kicking.
I was going to have to wait out the ten minutes in the lobby. Hopefully Jack’s gone off to Gusteau’s, I thought, but he hadn’t. He was standing just outside the entrance with his hands in his pockets and an “I told you so” smile on his face. “What happened?” he asked.
“Nothing happened,” I said, walking past him. “The 12:10’s not out yet.”
“So you decided to have that talk with me after all. Great,” he said, taking hold of my arm and propelling me through the lobby toward Pixar Boulevard. “We can go to Gusteau’s and you can tell me what excuse the usher gave you for not letting you in and why they wouldn’t let you wait there in the entryway.”
“I don’t have any intention of telling you anything,” I said, wrenching my arm free of him. “Why should I? You didn’t tell me you were planning to get yourself expelled a week before you were supposed to graduate.”
“Yeah, about that,” he said, frowning. “I wasn’t actually going to graduate—”
“Of course not,” I said disgustedly. “Why am I not surprised? Was that why you broke into the dean’s office, because you were flunking out and you were trying to change your grades?”
“No,” he said. “The fact is, I wasn’t actually—”
“You weren’t what?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said. “It’s classified.”
“Classified!” I said. “That’s it. I’m not listening to any more of your paranoid fantasies. I am going to go stand over by the entrance until this movie gets out,” I said, pointing, “and then I am going inside, and if you try to follow me, I’ll report you to security.”
I fought my way back to the entryway through a mob of cloaked and hairy-footed Hobbits who were obviously on their way to The Return of Frodo, a bunch of old ladies going to see a special Nostalgia Showing of Sex and the City, and the mazelike line for Dr. Who, which now extended ten yards out into the lobby. By the time I made it to where I intended to wait, there was no longer any reason to. It was already two o’clock.