“The moviedromes,” I said.
“Yup. Turn going to the movies into an all-day full-surround entertainment experience—”
“Like Disneyverse.”
He nodded. “Or IKEA. Show lots of movies. A hundred instead of the multiplexes’ twenty. And add lots of razzle-dazzle: 4-D, IMAX, interactives, Hollywood-style premieres, celebrity appearances, plus theme restaurants and shops and rides and dance clubs and Wii arcades. None of which was really new.”
“But I thought you said—”
“Movie theaters have never made their money off the movies they showed. They were just a sideline, a way to get the public into the theater and buy popcorn and jujubes at outrageous prices. The Dromes just expanded on the concept, to the point that the movies have become less and less important. Did you know 53 percent of the people who go to a Drome never see a movie at all?”
“I can believe it,” I said, thinking of Kett and Zara.
“And that’s not an accident. In the two hours a movie takes to watch, you could be spending way more than the price of a ticket and refreshments. And if they can get you to see a later showing, you’ll eat lunch and dinner here—and stick around to play glittertag afterward. The longer you’re at the Drome—”
“The more I spend.”
He nodded. “So the Drome does everything it can to see that happens.”
“You expect me to believe the Drome orchestrated all that—the tickets and the vomit and the text and the sold-out sign—just to get me to buy more souvenirs?”
“No. You know that old movie we watched where the guy’s investigating what looks like a simple train accident and then it turns out it wasn’t an accident?”
“I Love Trouble,” I said promptly. “With Nick Nolte and Julia Roberts. She was a reporter—”
“And he was a scoundrel,” Jack said, grinning. “Who, as I recall, Julia really liked.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, that the train accident was just the tip of the iceberg. And so is Christmas Caper. I think there’s a whole vast conspiracy—”
“To keep me from seeing a movie?”
“Not you. Anyone. And not just Christmas Caper. The Pimmsleys of Parson’s Court, too, and Just When You Thought You Were Over Him, and Switching Gears, and possibly a couple of others.”
“Why?”
“Because they can’t afford to let the public find out what’s going on. Remember the things I told you the Dromes used to attract people—lots of razzle-dazzle and merchandise, and lots of movies?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s the problem. The old multiplexes had fifteen screens to fill. The Dromes have a hundred.”
“But they show some movies in more than one theater.”
“Right, and in 3-D, 4-D, and Wii versions, plus there are tons of sequels and remakes and reboots—”
“And Encore Presentations—”
“And rereleases and film festivals and Harry Potter marathons and sneak previews, but even if you add in foreign films and Bollywood and bad remakes of British romantic comedies and crummy remakes of all three, it’s still a hell of a lot of screens to fill. Especially when most people are only interested in seeing The Return of Frodo. Do you remember when we went to see Gaudy Night and we were the only two people in the theater?”
“Yes—”
“It’s like Baskin-Robbins. They advertise thirty-one flavors, but who the hell ever orders raisin or lemon custard? Those could actually be vanilla with a little food coloring added for all anybody knows. And so could half the Dromes’ movies.”
“So you’re saying Christmas Caper doesn’t exist?”
“I think that’s a very real possibility.”
“But that’s ridiculous. You and I saw a trailer for it. There was a preview on the overheads while we were in line.”
“Which was three minutes long and could have been filmed in a day.”
“But why would they advertise it if it doesn’t exist?”
“Because otherwise somebody—like me, for instance—might get suspicious.”
“But there’s no way they could get away with—”
“Sure there is. Most people want to see the latest blockbuster, and with a minor nudge—like a sold-out sign—you can talk 95 percent of the rest of them into seeing something else. Or having lunch at Babette’s Feast.”
“And the other 5 percent?”
“You just saw it.”
“But movies sell out, especially at Christmastime—”
“And people throw up and accidentally spill drinks and get picked up by fraternity guys and can’t go to the 10:20 showing because it gets out after the last light-rail train home. But the last showing of every movie I named gets out after the last scheduled light rail, and I’ve tried to get into Switching Gears for the last five days and haven’t made it. What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me up. “We’ve gotta get going if we’re going to make it to Christmas Caper.”
“Exciting, suspenseful, and unbelievably romantic!”
—Front Row
“But I thought you said it doesn’t exist,” I said as he dragged me out of Gusteau’s.
“It doesn’t. Come on.” He led me through Hogwarts and Neverneverland and down an aisle of shops selling Toy Story and The Great Oz and Son of Lion King souvenirs.
“This isn’t the way to the theater complex,” I protested.
“We’ve got some shopping to do first,” he said, leading me into the Disney Princess Boutique.
“Shopping? Why?”
“Because we can’t afford to have Management notice us, and the surest way to draw attention to yourself in a Drome is by not spending money,” he said, riffling through a rack of Tangled T-shirts.
“Besides,” he said, moving to another rack, this one full of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs hoodies, “this is a big date. You should have something special to wear. Something the usher hasn’t seen.” He flipped through the entire rack and then one of Twelve Dancing Princesses tutus, pulling them out and then hanging them back up.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“I told you. Something special,” he said, searching through yet another rack. “And something that doesn’t make you smell like Mrs. Claus’s kitchen. Ah, here we go,” he said, pulling out a yellow Dora and Diego Do the Himalayas T-shirt, with Diego pointing his trademark camera at Dora and the monkey, who were standing atop Mt. Everest. “Just the ticket.”
“I am not wearing—” I began, but he’d already thrust it and a bright pink Little Goose Girl baseball cap into my hands.
“Tell the clerk to deactivate the tags so you can wear them now,” he said, “and then go in the dressing room, take off your top, and put the shirt on. I’ll be in the store next door.” He gave me a push in the paydesk’s direction. “And no questions.”