I'm not sure why Robbie wants to see the movie anyway,
what with all the drugs and sex and booze we're leaving behind to go
watch a film about drugs and sex and booze, but I'm game because the
cinematic variety makes for an easier time, and it never, ever leaves me
with a hangover. The party has been going since about two this afternoon
when everybody got done with their last final, so the house is a
shithole anyway, making me doubly okay with taking a leave of absence.
No one will even know we're gone unless they run out of weed or beer or
whatever else people are doing by this time in the various nooks and
crannies of the house, and start looking for someone with the top of
their head still attached to go find more. By that time they'll be so
completely out of it in the most out way imaginable that they'll
scarcely be able to tell I'm lying when I say we were here all along.
So off we go to see this film, this "Blow,"
part of some Johnny Depp film festival they’re having at the bargain
theater. Robbie wants to go to ogle Depp's five-foot wide cheekbones. I
said I’d go because I dig that Penelope Cruz chick from seeing her in
some foreign flicks my last girlfriend dragged me to down at the college
theater last year when she was on some all-black wearing kick, and it
seemed like she liked to get it on -- Penny, that is. Gina, the one in
black, didn't, which was why I split and why I hooked up with Robbie a
couple of months ago. Robbie's hot, with this long brownish hair and a
cute face and a nice ass and I'm into her big time. Penelope Cruz made
me feel the same way when I saw the movie poster where she's all done up
like a coke whore, and I just sat there thinking about how great it
would be to do her and kept running that through my mind while we waited
in line. Plus, I liked Ted Demme, rest his soul, who was like the little
bro or something of Jonathan Demme, who made "Silence of the
Lambs," which if you ask me is just about the best fucking movie
ever made, except maybe "Goodfellas" and the
"Godfather" films -- I and II only, of course -- and a few by
old guys like Hitchcock. So I figured, why not go?
We're both still a little high from the pot Shelly was
passing around. I think his name was Shelly, anyway. I thought he was a
bud of my roommate, Toby, and Toby thought he was with me, but we let
him stay 'cause he had some pretty decent shit. I spent a lot of time
with The White Album open on my lap cleaning stems and seeds, though, so
it wasn't like I didn't earn it, you know? Wandering from room to room,
where the big party seemed to fracture into about five different little
parties, I think I did the triathlon of joint, one-hitter and bong, and
each time it was more completely fucking-me-up potent than the last
time. I know Robbie feels the same way because she's grabby in the car
on the way to the mall and she always gets grabby when she's riding a
high. I shouldn't even be driving because I have a tendency to drift off
into a kind of dreamland when I'm this baked and the car sometimes feels
like it's floating.
We're running late so we buy our tickets and go in to
throw our jackets on a couple of seats halfway up the stadium risers.
You gotta have your eyes looking right at the center of the screen if
you want to see the movie the way they intended it. Those chumps that
still sit on the floor in these new theaters? Shit, they might as well
be laying on their backs for all the good it does 'em. Then we go out to
get some stuff to munch.
Robbie starts ordering like she's reading the menu from
top to bottom and the little guy behind the counter just flails his arms
around like mad trying to lasso it all in. He isn't halfway through
ringing it up before the glowing green number on the register hits a
figure that's higher than what I still have in my pocket, so I lean in
and make serious eye contact with him to suss out the barter potential
of the situation. He looks cool, so I say we're gonna pay with some
unusual currency. He quits punching numbers and looks at me like he
isn't sure if I'm putting him on or if I'm gonna stick him up. I reach
in my pocket and pull out the wad of bills, palming a J with my thumb. I
hand over the whole thing, nodding to my hand in what I think is an
ultra-smooth Bond-like gesture but which, in hindsight, probably looks
like a dude with Tourrette's ready to let loose. He looks down at his
hand, moves the bills around with a finger, and finds the J. He looks
up, smiles and says, "Exact change. Thanks," and waves us on.
We sit down and start chowing. I feel as if the squares
sitting all around us are staring, like they came to the movie as an
experiment and can't deal with what people on drugs really look like. I
meet their stares with one of my own, my mouth overflowing with popcorn
in a crazy, kernel-filled grin, and every one of them backs down, looks
away and says something to their Devo-haired spouse. Fuck 'em.
It's our lucky night because they show three previews.
This sucky theater usually only shows one so this feels like a total
bonus. Even if the movie sucks, it will be worth it because the coming
attractions always kick ass. They're like little three-minute movies
jammed full of action and chicks and explosions. Then the movie starts
and I can tell right away that Demme likes the same movies I do because
this "Blow" thing is a total "Goodfellas" rip, with
some "Boogie Nights" thrown in the mix. Ray Liotta plays
Depp's dad for Chrissake! Is that a fuckin' homage or what?
Robbie keeps jabbing me for candy like I'm the little
bar in that experiment and she's the chicken just pecking away trying to
get more food, but I still get into the movie. It's pretty predictable:
Guy sells drugs, guy has all the friends in the world, guy gets busted,
guy's friends leave, guy gets out and starts selling drugs again.
Lather, Rinse, Repeat, you know? But it looks cool and you've never seen
so much pot in your life or if you have you are one happy mother.
About 15 minutes in these four black guys come in, all
saggy pants and slouches like they're Jay-Z or some such shit, and they
head to the front looking for empty seats. I got nothing against
brothers, but they sure are loud sometimes, you know? When they get to
the front they only find three seats, and after a lot of "damn,
G" and "fuck that," three of 'em sit and the fourth one
heads up the stairs. The guy at the end of our row left one seat open,
so this guy parks his ass there and settles in. No problem. We can all
just get along.
Five minutes later I hear a cell phone. I hate those
things on general principles, the main one being that rich bitches are
always talking on 'em when they're driving and it makes them drive more
like shit than they do already. So I get ready to throw a glare at
whoever has it, but Robbie just catches my eye and pleads for more
candy. The phone doesn't ring again so I give her a bag of Whoppers and
get back to watching Depp sell some weed. Pretty soon I hear talking and
I look over and the black guy is jawing into a cell phone. I cut him
some slack, thinking it might be an emergency or his girl is flippin'
him shit or whatever, but he keeps it up and up and up and I'm just
about to do something when Pablo Escobar (an actor, not the real dude)
blows somebody away on screen. The sound is enough to distract me, so I
let the guy slide. For a minute, I'm in the movie, shuckin' and jivin'
with Depp, slinging weed and partying. It's that real.
Next thing I know the dude down the row is snoring, just
sawing every log within a 10-mile radius, and people around us are
laughing except this one severe looking chick in front of him who looks
pissed and keeps pulling her boyfriend's sleeve and hissing in his ear.
He shrugs her off and points at the screen. Pussy, I think. I unleash a
box of JuJu Bees and get down to some serious chewing, hoping to just
focus on the movie and block out the negativity around me.
The guy wakes up from his nap a bit later and starts
talking again. By this time Robbie is giving me the eye like, "Why
don't you go over there and say something to him," and I'm giving
her the eye like, "Hey, babe, ain't none of my business, let that
dude on the end take care of it," and she gives me the eye back
like, "Okay, then let loose with some of those Milk Duds why don't
you." Right then the guy's phone is so loud I can actually hear the
person talking to him, like he's on a walkie-talkie or something.
Meanwhile, I look up and Penelope Cruz is looking totally hot in some
skimpy dress or something, but I can tell she's not gonna shed anything
else or get any more sexy because I'm getting a real PG-13 vibe off this
supposedly R-rated movie. Now I'm mad, because the story isn't doing it
for me any more (another bust, more hard time, more selling) and Penny
is all I got unless Robbie decides to take the name of the movie to
heart and pulls an Alanis on me, which is doubtful because she is so
full of candy right now that she probably can't even bend over.
The guys down front, the three who came in with our
chatterbox, are now cranking it up themselves, yelling at the screen and
talking loud, and I realize they're the ones talking to homeboy here,
it's their voices coming through his little phone. They're talking about
the movie back and forth on those phones that have a walkie talkie in
‘em. I lose it; I get up and yell at the guy, sending the candy that
had been in my lap flying into the air. Robbie makes a stab for some of
it but only comes away with a roll of Gummi Savers.
"What the fuck is your problem, asshole?" I
yell at the guy. A couple of people clap and a few give "yeah"s
of solidarity, but they sure aren't getting my back in any "we'll
keep him from beating your ass" sort of way. I wish they would,
because now that I get a look at him I see he's a big guy and it's
obvious he's drunk and I realize maybe this isn't the smartest thing
I've ever done. He doesn't even look up so I say again, "What the
fuck is your problem?" and lean in and tap him on the chest with my
middle finger just in case he hasn't figured out that I'm talking to
him.
"You talkin' to me?" he asks, making me think
the finger wasn't enough. He looks up, glowering pretty good, and I'm
thinking, "What the fuck am I doing?" but I'm saying,
"Yeah, I'm talking to you. Why don't you hang up that fucking phone
or go down and sit with your friends? I didn't pay 10 bucks to hear your
annoying ass talk the whole time."
He gets up then, and he's about a foot taller than me
and looks like one of those football players a few years out of college
who are still big but the muscle has mostly turned to fat, but it
doesn't matter because you know he could just totally pound you. "Whattayagonna
do about it?" he says, looking at me like he really is interested
to know because he's too drunk to act without having a reason to react.
We're only about five feet apart and he's teetering, but I don't know
how to fight so I do the first thing that pops into my head which is to
use it and I lean over and run at him and hit him in the stomach with my
noggin and drive him back against the wall. He lets out a huge breath
that's all wheezing and coughing like a first-timer trying to clear a
tube, and then falls to the ground. My head and neck are killing me, but
I'm fired up now, just pissed, and I slide over to the guy and start
kicking him, just kicking and kicking and kicking until his side is a
soft lump and his ribs are powder.
The guy is an ox, though, and gets he up and comes at
me, throwing punches and kicks that land about half the time but I feel
so pumped I don't even feel 'em and I punch and kick back. He's taunting
me for some stupid reason, asking me if I'm some kinda fag for punching
like a girl, which is not the thing to ask me because it's not like I
don't already take enough shit for having a girlfriend named Robbie
(she's really a "Robin" but she hates the name even though I
told her there are some cool Robins in the world. The only ones I could
come up with, however, are Robin Wright, who is only cool because she's
married to Sean Penn, and Robin Zander, the singer for Cheap Trick, who
really is cool but is a guy and didn't help my argument). By now the big
fella's homeys in the front have taken an interest, but they can't get
back to help him because of the crush of people now watching the bout.
So, they just shout encouragement like "fuck him up, G," or,
"You gonna let a white boy beat yo' ass?" and I swear it does
more to push me than it does him. He's dazed, so I move in for the kill.
I grab him around the neck and his eyes bug out like Bart Simpson and I
just squeeze and shake trying to get him to pass out. He collapses again
and I can't hold his weight so I let him fall. I grab his cell phone off
the floor and jam it into his mouth and push it completely down his
throat and clamp his jaw shut. I'd let it end there, I really would, but
his buddies are still jawing down front so I pick him up around the
middle and just chuck him all the way down to the front and he crash
lands on that fuckin' ghetto squad down there and knocks 'em all out
like bowling pins.
After the applause thins out I sit down and try to
concentrate on Depp's latest score. I'm just getting into it again,
finally figuring out that the one guy is Pee Wee Herman -- which is now
totally messing with my mind -- when Robbie leans over and asks if
there's any more candy. I feel around and come up with a box of
Raisinettes and hand them to her. She puts her head on my shoulder and
starts popping 'em in her mouth. I can feel her jaw working as she
chews, but it's okay because the movie is getting good again. But
wouldn't you know it, that big fucking guy is back in his seat and
talking on that damn phone again.
Copyright 2008 by John Kenyon
John Kenyon is a newspaper editor
in Iowa who keeps the blog Things I'd Rather Be Doing (www.tirbd.com)
where he writes about music, books and movies, with a particular focus
on crime fiction. He has published stories with Thuglit, Muzzle
Flash and Powder Burn Flash.
