The Worst People In The World

Story 4/8

Monday
“Would you like any popcorn or drinks today?”
“Yeah, we’ll take popcorn and…umm…ummm.”
Umm ummm, take your time.
“Umm… oh God, do I want a Coke or a Fanta?”
Surely a Coke.
“I’ll take a Fanta. Oh, and the popcorn, can it be sweet and salty?”
“Sure, do you want a small or a large for only 75p extra?”
“How much larger is a large?”
I pointed to the ‘Large’ and ‘Small’ bags on display. It felt rude to just point, so I added,
“Your choice, decently large enough to feel a bit judged by.”
“Okay, can we get a large sweet and salty and the Fanta, and that’s it, thanks.”
“Sure thing,” I said as I scooped the popcorn into the bag. I tapped their order into the system, they paid, and took their food.
“And you said you were here for the showing of… Gummo?” I asked. They nodded.
“Okay, screen 3 is just around the corner over there.” I pointed right.
“Thank you,” they said in unison.

I turned to the new guy who’d joined last week.
“I don’t think the poor girl knows what she’s in for,” I said.
“It seemed like a date, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, like kinda early stages.”
“Yeah, probably met on Hinge and they’re running through all the classic, bog-standard date activities.”
“Exactly. Like, they’ve obviously done drinks.”
“Obviously.”
“And they’ve probably done a walk.”
“Oh, they’ve 100% done a walk.”
“Probably Hampstead Heath.”
“Horribly classic.”
“And maybe dinner at one of their flats.”
“He did seem like the type to think he can chef it up. A MOB Kitchen maverick. An Anthony Bourdain worshipper.”
“I was just thinking about Anthony Bourdain!”
“He’s definitely made her ramen.”
“You think? He seems more like a steak guy.”
“Yeah, I guess. But she seemed like a vegetarian, no? There were too many bracelets on her wrist to suggest otherwise.”
“Very true. Well observed.”

We smiled at each other, and another customer came up and asked for a ticket to Gummo- beanie, chipped nail polish, and an ironic tote bag- more appropriate clientele. I served her and turned back to the newb. We discussed Gummo and its wonderful weirdness. How Harmony Korine, at such a young age, created something so feral and fever-dreamy it felt like an open wound on VHS.

Then he mentioned the bathtub scene.
“You seem like someone who would think Bunny Boy was hot.”

I suddenly got defensive. For some reason, I felt the need to explain myself because he looks nothing like Bunny Boy. So if I say I think, or ever thought, Bunny Boy was attractive, then he might think that I don’t think he’s attractive.
So I said, “I did. For like a second. But then he just became too inevitable.”
He laughed, and I smiled, knowing I had no idea what I meant by that.

Tuesday
I tried to look cute because I didn’t feel cute yesterday. My looks are beginning to define my mood and spirit, and I’m not sure if this means I’m growing up or down.
So I wore a cute outfit (I’ll let the reader decide what that means) and was ready to scoop popcorn like a girl possessed. We could only wear black and red to match the cinema’s decor, so I usually stuck to tragic Wednesday Addams cosplay with a hint of tired barista.

When I arrived, he was just putting his badge on, clearly only just arrived himself.
“How’s your day been so far?” I asked.
“Good, good. Haven’t been up to much. You?”
“Yeah, had a good day actually. Did some photography for my mate’s band then did a bit of work on this online Zine I’m working on.”
“Nice,” he replied. He looked at me for a second too long, and I imagined he took a photo of me with his eyes. Like a Polaroid.

“Hi, how are you?”
“Good thanks, you?”
“Yeah, not too bad. How can I help you today?”
“Um, can we please have 2 tickets for… um, it’s A Brief Encounter tonight, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s the black and white feature for this week,” I replied.
“Okay great, 2 tickets please.”
“Of course, and would you like any popcorn, nachos, a drink with that?”
“No, we’re alright thanks.”
“Um… can I actually get a Dr Pepper?” the husband piped up.

A Dr Pepper? This isn’t a Texan gas station in the early noughties. No one serves Dr Pepper. Let alone an independent cinema that’s barely making enough money to keep the toilet lights on.
“We don’t have any Dr Pepper, but we have Coke and Diet Coke,” I said, like a functioning, adult establishment.
“Um, I’ll have a Coke then.”
“Good choice.”

Wednesday
To celebrate the release of Wes Anderson’s new film The Phoenician Scheme, we were doing “Wes Wednesdays” for the two months leading up to its premiere. Rushmore, my personal favourite, was playing. I was extremely jealous of everyone buying a ticket and getting to watch that masterpiece on the big screen. I was glad, however, to be a passive witness to their joy.

“Have you seen Rushmore?” I asked him.
“I haven’t. Only seen Fantastic Mr. Fox. Probably one of the best films I’ve ever seen. Letterboxd Top 4 territory.”
“And you weren’t motivated to watch anything else after that?”
“Nah, I mean… that film’s so different to his others.”

“Hi,” I said to the approaching family.
“Hi, can we get four tickets to Rushmore, please?” the younger brother asked.
“Of course,” I replied, flipping the tablet around to show the available seats. They picked four seats at the back. Good choice.
They wanted two small popcorns and four Cokes. I didn’t know if it was cool or cringe. They left, and I turned back to him as he gave two thumbs up.
“Aw, friends, let’s all get the same drink and go to the cinema!”
I rolled my eyes.
“It was a bit odd, wasn’t it?” I succumbed to the nastiness.
“One of them should’ve taken one for the team and just got a lemonade or something.”
“I would’ve.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“Anyway, what were you saying about Wes Anderson?”
“Oh nothing really. Just that all his films feel a bit… emotionally stunted. Every character talks like they’re on lithium and there doesn’t seem to be any…mess. Just a bunch of pastels.”
“Woah, that is harsh. You just don’t get it.”
“I probably never will.”

Thursday
You know that feeling you get when you really fancy someone and then suddenly “come to”? You wake up and can't shrug off a certain ick and distaste. You find yourself totally lucid and see them as a normal person.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t happened to me yet. I was still in the horrible depths of a crush on a man who was aggressively average. I was disappointed in myself. There was nothing really that exceptional or even odd about him.

I had tried to find any reason to find him interesting because I had this unexplainable interest in him. This spiritual urge to believe he was the one. But everything presented to me in the physical world was screaming: no.

“Get up to much after work?” I asked.
“Yeah, my mate invited me to a gig. Think you’d quite like the band.”
“Oh yeah?” I replied, cool and nonchalant. “What was the vibe?”
“They kind of reminded me of Television, but also had like a punky edge. Like The Replacements. But they had one song that was basically a rip-off of a Strange Boutique track.”
“Whoa, that’s a bit of a shoegazey curveball.”
“That’s what I thought too. But yeah, somehow it worked. I’ll send them to you on Spotify.”
“Cool. Sounds good.”

Three guys approached with the unmistakable air of a group chat.
“Hi, can we get three tickets for Ballerina, please?”
“Yeah sure, where do you want to sit?”
They scanned the tablet and chose three seats in the middle. The middle middle. Middle row, middle of the row.
“Any food or drinks?”
“Nah, you’re alright thanks.”
“Cool.”

They tapped their cards, paid separately, thanked me, and headed off. I turned and we both rolled our eyes.
“I’m surprised they knew the name of the film and didn’t just say ‘the new Ana de Armas one’.”
“Could you not tell they were men of culture? The North Face jacket over oversized Patagonia jumpers and denim jorts.”
“It was the Patagonia that got me. Always the Patagonia.”

Friday
“You know, I saw you reading on your way in. The book looked cool.” he said.
“Oh yeah, it’s a pretty trippy cover. I’m reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Have you read it?”
“Oh that’s what you were reading…yeah I’ve read it too.”
“And?”
“Too self-indulgent for my liking.”
“Oh no, I love it. I love when an author throws you into their world. Like, when something drags, and you have no choice but to surrender to it.”
“Yeah, but don’t you ever feel like, ‘No, I don’t want to learn about the mechanics of a motorcycle’?”
“But it’s not about the motorcycle. It’s about learning through the motorcycle. It’s a metaphor.”
“Everything’s a metaphor when you’re a white guy in crisis.”
“Okay, yeah. But sometimes the white guys write bangers. I mean, you have Kerouac. Or... Richard Linklater if he journaled.”
“Oh God, don’t get me started on Kerouac.”
“You didn’t like On The Road?” I was gobsmacked.
“Oh wait, you mean the stream of consciousness of a man who thinks emotional instability is a personality trait?”
“You strike me as someone who would treat On The Road like it was the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita and Criterion Collection box set all in one.”
“Na, wasn’t for me. Found it too performative.”
“How very interesting,” I replied. “Makes sense why Zen didn’t tickle your fancy. You clearly don’t like subtlety.”
“Haha, no not that. I just don’t like when a book acts like it’s trying to fix me.”
“God, you wish the book cared that much about fixing you. You don’t need fixing anyway. You just need a metaphorical oil change.”
“I bet you highlight the whole book.”
“Well, only the bits that resonate.”
“Which I bet is every little thing.”
I smiled. I liked the way he challenged me. I liked the way I wasn’t ready to come to. I liked the way it felt like he knew me, or at least had an idea about me. An expectation. I forgot what film we were showing that Friday night.