Movie Theater Madness

Dear Dad,

You told me to go to the movie theater at a different time, but I didn’t listen. I was too focused on telling you that you were dead, too preoccupied with trying understand your sudden appearance when I should have been listening to you. But how could I possibly have known you were trying to communicate with me. And if you really do have that much influence where ever you are, how come an agent hasn’t yet found an interest in me and my writing?

Okay, maybe I should start at the beginning. As you know, I’m in New York visiting Mom. Ever since you died, I’ve brought G3 to visit Mom during winter break so that she could celebrate his birthday with him. You used to come to our house on his birthday for a party, but since Mom doesn’t drive, we can’t do that any more. I know both Mom and G3 would be disappointed if they didn’t see each other, so that’s why I come here. Today was supposed to be G3’s birthday celebration. As part of his special day, we were going to the movie theater to watch Puss is Boots. Mom must have watched the first one with G3 at least a dozen times, if not more, when he was a toddler. It was one of his favorite movies and Mom enjoyed watching it also. It was cute. So even though G3 might be kinda old to watch an animated movie, we all wanted to see it for sentimental reasons. Plus, Puss in Boots is just a fun character.

We planned to go the 4:20 show and I was really excited because now that I’m woking, I was looking forward to being able to pay for the show. Mom was always treating me and G3, and for once, I wanted to be able to treat her. We had discussed what show—which time—we were going to go to last night before I went to bed. While I was sleeping, I dreamed that I had picked up the tickets and came home with them. However, when I got there, you were in the living room and you told me you had already gotten tickets for an earlier show and that was the one we were going to. I got angry and said you weren’t being fair. I should be able to buy the tickets for once. You refused to hear it and insisted that the earlier show would be better. Getting more worked up I said, “How can you even buy tickets? You’re dead.” And before you could respond, I woke up. During breakfast, I told Mom about the dream and I was upset with myself for pointing out you were dead. I do that all the time when I dream about you—and I don’t dream about you often. And every time I do it, I tell myself next time I will just enjoy your visit. But I never do. I don’t know why I get so upset when I see you in my dreams, why I insist only on seeing the unreality of it. I don’t know why I can’t just be content to see you, talk to you.

By the time I told mom about my dream during breakfast, I had already bought the tickets for the 4:20 show. I had detoured to the theater on my morning walk. Following breakfast, we had a game afternoon. We played Ticket to Ride which G3 had gotten for Christmas. It’s a lot of fun and I think you would have really enjoyed it as well. Even after nearly three years after your death, it feels weird sitting around the table without you, whether it’s to eat or play games. At four o’clock we put on our shoes and headed over to the movie theater behind the house. We got there in plenty of time, found our seats, and got comfortable.

Five minutes into the movie, the kid behind Mom started kicking her seat. Very nicely, Mom turned around and said, “Please stop kicking my seat.” The kid’s father, snapped at Mom, “She’s a child.” So because she is a child she should be allowed to kick the seat in front of her? Was that his reasoning? No, parents are supposed to teach their children manners. Apparently, that is lost on some parents today who think their kids are entitled to do whatever they want. When the kid kicked my mother’s seat again, she turned around and repeated her request, “Please stop kicking my seat.” At that point, the kid’s mother jumped out of her seat, and started shouting at Mom, “She’s just a child. You have no right to talk to her you f***ing c***.” Really, not only does she think her child is entitled to be rude, she thinks my mother should silently and willing put up with it. I stood up to tell her to back away from Mom at which point she started calling me a f***ing C*** and telling me that her kid was just a child and should be left alone. She got so close to me she was spitting in my face as she yelled at me. I told her just sit down and keep her kid in line, but then she started flapping her hands and phone in front of my face. I’m sure I was spraying her with spittle just as much as she was spitting at me, considering she leaned in to the point where her nose was practically touching mine. About the seventh or eighth time she called me a f***ing c*** Mom told her she should use better language. I told the women to just stop, and at some point as we were going back and forth, she thrust out her hand and nailed me in the forehead with her phone. Blood started to pour—not dribble or drip, but pour—down my face. It poured onto your sweatshirt—the Chincoteague one that is so torn and tattered but I can’t bare to throw it away since it was yours—and onto my pants. I walked into the bathroom trailing blood as I went. The cut was deep and the blood wouldn’t stop. I pressed a tissue to my head and went back to the movie, hoping that I could resume watching it, but that was not to be the case.

We had caused such a raucous that the staff of the theater tried to get us to leave. I refused to move. The woman verbally attacked Mom because Mom called out her kid for bad behavior. And then she physically assaulted me. We were there for G3’s birthday. But the staff called the police. More than a dozen officers showed up and demanded that I step into the hall. G3 stayed in the theater while Mom and I gave our statements. The woman who assaulted me kept denying that she hit me. I guess she expected everyone to believe my skin magically burst open to pour blood all over the place. Finally, after the cops reminded me that I was the victim about ten times, I said I would press charges. But first, I made sure pressing charges would not involve me having to return to NYC. The last thing I wanted was to have to pay the absurd tolls just show up at a police station or trial because someone injured me. The cop assured me that I would not need to return to NYC, that I would only need to speak to the District Attorney on the phone. One I agreed to press charges, they escorted the woman out of the movie theater in handcuffs. 

The EMT examined me, wrapped my head, and said I would need stitches. He wanted to take me to the hospital, but Mom doesn’t drive. How was I supposed to get home? Besides, the last thing I felt like doing was sitting in a city hospital’s emergency room all night waiting to be looked at. Plus, you’ve been to city hospitals, you know how bad they are. That’s why Mom had called me to take you to a good hospital when you got sick with COVID. Anyway, I left Mom to watch the end of the movie with G3 and I drove to the local urgent care. I figured they could stitch me up easily enough. I walked in and the waiting room was empty. As I approached the woman behind the desk, I said, “I’ve never been in a city urgent care that was so empty.” She said it was empty because all they could do were COVID tests. All the doctors were out with COVID. There was no one who could treat me. Lovely. She recommended I go to the pharmacy and get some steri strips to help close the wound. I drove to CVS, and well, you know I live under a terribly black cloud so of course they had no steri strips. They were completely out. Wonderful. So now I’m still bleeding, though not heavily, but at least the bandage is keeping the blood from getting all over everything. Tomorrow morning, I will stop at an urgent care en route to G3’s TKD lesson and hopefully they will be able to stitch me up. 

By the time I finished driving around Glendale and Middle Village in rush hour traffic, the movie was over. I walked back up to Atlas mall to meet Mom and G3 for dinner. At least dinner was a quiet and uneventful experience. I have a headache, but otherwise, I guess I’m okay, Nothing to worry about. Even if I don’t get stitches, the worst that would happen is I’d have an ugly scar on my head. I’m nearly 50, I think I’m too old to be vain about my appearance. Actually, I was never really vain about anything, especially my appearance. I’d say the cut would make me look tough, but its not even like it was a rugged fight. When the woman accused me of starting it, I told the cop if I wanted to hurt her, she’d be in a great deal worse shape than I was in, but I never touched her. The cops said even if I had swung in self defense, they would have arrested us both. So there is a lesson, never swing if you can walk away. I made sure of pointing that out to G3.

Anyway, on a better note, yesterday G3 and I went curling with the Boy Scouts. I can’t believe how much fun I had. When they announced the trip I had to sign up to go. I still remember one Olympic year, the way you made of fun of the sport while watching it on television. You couldn’t get over the fact that there was a sport that involved sweeping. You laughed, which meant that I laughed, and that laugher and your smile stayed with me. That’s why I went. And that’s why I was wearing your sweatshirt. I often wear it on occasions when I miss you the most. If you were alive, I have no doubt that you would have joined us. You would have excitedly driven up state to the curling club to participate.

G3 did really well, so well that the people who belong to the club, the people tasked with giving us lessons, commented that he was a natural. They even asked him if he would be interested in joining their junior league. He wants to, but the club is nearly an hour and a half away. That’s too far for an extracurricular activity. They even complimented me and asked if I would be interested in joining. It’s harder than it looks, but you always did comment about how easily I picked up new sports. The hardest part is throwing the stone. I either threw it too hard and it want too far, or I didn’t throw it hard enough. But I suspect with practice, the exact feel of when I should release the stone and how much power I should use would come to me. I was especially happy when they broke us into teams and G3 actually wanted me on his team. He is at that age where he usually wants to pretend he doesn’t know me in public. But he’s competitive—he gets that from me—and he wanted me because he felt I would be an assent to his team. I’m glad that when it comes to sports, I’m still fairly capable—capable enough, at least, that I don’t embarrass my son.

I miss you!

PS—Please excuse my typos. I do have a head wound and a splitting headache.