The Future

I took my son Ian and my grandson Ryan to the movies to see the latest Harry Potter movie (as everyone in the bible-belt knows, a Satan-inspired film). I’m not a fan; I haven’t read any of the books, Rowling’s work ethic bothers me—yes it’s a political statement—live your beliefs and all that. But we went anyway, arriving forty-five minutes early; I figured this was plenty of time.
It was not.
We got in the line to purchase popcorn and soft drinks. The line wasn’t outrageously long but it was moving slowly. Very, very slowly. I am not a naturally patient person—and inefficiency is a pet peeve. The world is an inefficient place. I lose my patience often. How hard could it be to shovel popcorn into a bucket and take too many hard earned dollars for it? We were fourth in line.
Eight minutes later, while we were still fourth in line, I looked over my shoulder and noticed a line forming over by the ticket taker. I sent Ian to investigate. He returned with a report that this was the line for the Potter film. Damn it. I looked behind the concession stand and several teenage boys were moving in slow motion. Like they were on Quaaludes—or they were zombies. I decided this was Satan’s work and they were indeed zombies: dull-eyed young men lumbering along as though carrying a great weight.
Twelve minutes in line and we were number three, it was not promising. I sent Ian and Ryan to stand in the other line, after all, the tickets had cost me over twenty dollars.
Ten minutes before the show, Ian’s line began to move. I worried for their safety amidst the J. K. Rowling-Daniel Radcliffe faithful, a faction of minions. I worried that there would be a stampede. The hoard of people disappeared into theater 5. I was second in line.
In front of me were a woman and her daughter who appeared to be seven or maybe eight. The little girl was dressed all in pink, with matching finger and toenail polish. Did I mention that she was about eight? I’m sure Satan himself did her nails. She had a Gucci bag.
“Like, what do you want?” asked the zombie-boy behind the counter.
“I have no idea, I have to read the menu,” replied the little girl.
“Cool,” was the zombie’s response.
This was not cool. The menu consisted of popcorn, in many sizes, hotdogs, microwaved pizza, and nachos. How hard could this be? I decided her mother must be a zombie too or a Stepford wife. We had been there for fifteen minutes—how could her child not know what she wanted? In fifteen minutes, Ian and I could plan everything he was going to eat for the next week! My son and grandson had moved beyond where I could see them and I had forgotten to remind them to save me a seat.
“I think I’ll have pizza.”
“We gots no pizza.”
The English teacher in me cringed, the mother in me was embarrassed. But this only confirmed for me that Satan’s minions were in possession of the concession stand. Obviously, English was not the first language of the blue-eyed, blond headed, southern drawling zombie.
The little girl studied the menu again, “K, I’ll have nachos.” She began rummaging in her bag and then she began to cry. “I didn’t bring my wallet, mama.” She was sobbing when the zombie returned.
“Will that be it then?” He was oblivious to her crying. He was oblivious to everything around him. He had no clue that the slow moving line was quickly becoming a hostile crowd of over-worked and underpaid parents who, here in the bible belt, remembered when Catholicism had been a good thing – back in the days of the Inquisition. There was mumbling behind me.
After a protracted scene, the little demon’s mother paid for the nachos and finally it was my turn. 1 bucket of popcorn, a medium Sprite, and a cherry icy. It seemed straight forward enough.
“Which icy do you want?” asked the zombie.
“The cherry.” I might have sounded a little edgy at this point. Maybe.
“Yeah, but from which machine?”
I watched as he pointed to one icy machine and then to a second, identical machine. I was dumbfounded. It was clear the zombie could not process the order with out my choice. “The one on the right.”
The zombie looked t his hands, “Your right or mine?”
I smiled and looked at his hands, “Yours.”
After he got the icy from the machine on his left, he proceeded to drop the popcorn bucket six times before he finally managed to get it filled. Zombies are not very coordinated.
I paid him with a card so he would not have to think about change and then pushed my way through the line that had disintegrated into a chaotic mass of angry consumers who were bordering on rioting.
Ian did remember to save me a seat and jumped to assist me when I entered theater 5 juggling 3 large, round containers. But I fear he is the minority, and the pink Gucci girl and zombie are more the norm. This is our future. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

copied from my blog at http://mejones.net