Signs

My contribution is in red.

Absolution, Thy Name is Biscuit

The couple emerged from their Buick as I approached. She was a pepper-haired intellectual, unattractive and meek; he was a captain of industry, stocky, gin blossomed face, dressed in casual lunch meeting attire and boisterous. Stepping out of his car, he announced, “I’m not taking a vacation. I have to work. People’ve got to work, y’know.” She, most expectedly, said nothing. In retrospect, I can only imagine the years of neglect this woman has endured being married to this guy.

We were, all three, walking toward the Borders entrance. Were you a casual observer and had just glanced at our trio, you could guess that we made up a family; I the anxious son two steps ahead and poised to scan the periodicals while mom and dad perused women’s studies and military histories, respectively.

The captain of industry said something else of work but in a more hushed voice, “It’s amazing how few people work anymore these days. Case in point.”

I could see, in the reflection of the store, as the captain of industry spoke his last word, he was glancing at me. In fact he’d even raised his arm in my direction as he said, “Case in point.”

What an asshole.

Sure I was in a t-shirt and shorts and, yeah, I probably could have used a shave, so I can understand how someone could think I’m not the most productive person in the world, but what disdain!

I turned in his direction and said, “What are you insinuating sir?”

“Pardon me?” said cappy.

“I heard what you’d said and I noticed your flagrant little gesture in the reflection of the store window,” I said. “Couple things. A) That wasn’t very nice; and B) You’re a dick. Next time keep your comments to yourself.”

He and his wife were rather taken aback. Shocked would be a more appropriate term. Perhaps they thought his words tripped my trigger and I’d go all apey and wreck their lives. But no, I walked away a justified and rational thinker.

Smiling.

Sometimes putting people in their place can brighten up a guy’s day.

Passengers

The girls are napping, Amanda is out at Subway picking up the two platters of sandwiches and I'm using the facilities.

We have 20 minutes. Time enough to finish packing up the fan, wake up the girls, make sure they have their socks and shoes on and shove off to Tumbleweed Park for Olivia's 3rd birthday extravaganza. Two months ago we rented one of the gazebos between the hours of 3 and 6 p.m. on Sunday, November 9 for this shindig.

The weather is finally cool - 72 degrees, but there's unfortunate cloud cover and a nasty bit of wind that seems to be getting nastier with every gust.

I'm now watching the Packers blow it when Amanda comes in saying, "The sandwiches aren't ready yet. I have to go back."

"Great," says I.

The girls awaken. It is now 10 minutes to go time. All of a sudden 10 minutes doesn't seem like a whole lot of time. Amanda takes on Olivia, I handle Sydney. Sydney's been fighting a little cold for the past few days and isn't too thrilled to be up.

We head downstairs, get together the last-minute items (including the green balloon Olivia insists must come along), get in the car and go. I follow Amanda to Subway in the mini-van.

The ominous clouds - those gray fluffy bastards that have been threatening rain drops all damn day - are pissing all over Chandler, Arizona.

"Are you serious," I say.

"AH YOUUU SERIOUS! AH YOUUUU SERIOUS!" mocks Olivia. A true three-year-old.

"Quiet down back there," I say.

"K, Daddy."

We pull up to Subway. Amanda gets out. She puts out her hands and shoots me a look. It's still raining. She's not happy.

While we wait for Mommy, Olivia has a fit, no, not just a fit, a skin melting conniption. Her balloon string is caught in her seatbelt and she wants it free. Mommy emerges from Subway with two giant platters and a bunch of other stuff - napkins, condiments, utensils, etc.

Olivia's still screaming.

Tumbleweeds Park is five minutes away. We get there in two.

I turn the mini-van off, Olivia stops screaming. Sydney is all smiles.

I open the car door and the wind nearly tears the fucker off its hinges. Marvelous. I stare out into the park. One of the pavilions has some sort of Mormon revival going on with guitars and speakers and cheering and grilled food. Two of the gazebos near ours are housing birthday parties that are just finishing up - you can tell by the obscene amount of litter and irritated partygoers scattered about.

Amanda strolls over to the mini-van. She'll take the girls if I start hauling stuff over to the gazebo. Absolutely.

Two of the three big-ass balloons we purchased earlier in the day are tied to the cooler, which I pull out of the van. The wind tugs at the balloons like a thief. The balloons dance and whip around. One of the balloons, a two-foot-tall Dora the Explorer bops me in the head as if to say, "Get me back in the van, dickhead. I'm not built for this kind of shit."

Two more steps and Dora tears away.

The wind carries her over the head of a family having a picnic, who seconds earlier expressed total admiration of the awesomeness of the Dora balloon to their toddler. I'm not fast enough to catch her. Knowing this, I just stand there and watch her fly away. In this wind she'll be to Queen Creek in less than 10 minutes. In this wind she'll be to New Mexico by morning. A part of me feels bad for the small animal that is sure to come across this balloon and die while trying to ingest it.

I press on.

I might have lost Dora, but I've still got the big-ass "3" balloon in tow. It might be bouncing around, but this fucker isn't escaping me, no sir. I've got a wicked ninja death grip on its string and it's staying with...

...that kid on the bike is coming pretty fast.

Anyhow, the "3" balloon is going to surv...

"Move! Move outta the way!" says the kid on the bike steering directly at me. He's got miles of bike path on either side of me, but this 10-year-old is coming right at me.

"MOVE!"

PAOOOOOWWWW!!!

It happens in slow motion. The wind pulls my beautiful "3" balloon into the path of this reckless child, who tears through it like a high school football team bursting through the homecoming banner.

I am dejected. I am distraught. I am a failure to my wife and my daughters. I couldn't protect $30.00 worth of bad-ass balloons. They're gone.

Before she even acknowleges the missing mylar, I confess that they are no more. Between the weather and this new development, Amanda doesn't want to hear anymore. I don't blame her. This was supposed to be a special day and it's already way less than stellar.

I tell Amanda I'm moving the cars closer. I'll get the small car first and haul all of the food over, then I'll get the van and drag over the rest of the goods. Olivia is running around and not listening (already). Sydney is not a happy camper in this wind.

I look in the direction from which the wind is coming. Sure enough, there's the haboub. Particulates so massive in quantity they're close to blocking out the sun.

A dust storm is eminent.

I move the small car and haul the sandwiches out to the gazebo. Amanda is laughing.

She can't stop laughing. She's almost in tears she's laughing so hard.

"What?" I say.

"Just put that stuff down. I'm not going to tell you until you put that stuff down. You're gonna get really mad," she says through the laughter.

I set down the sandwich trays. "OK, what?"

"Look at Sydney," she says.

I look at my youngest. Nothing strange. She's hanging out in the playpen shoving her hands in her mouth and smiling as usual... wait... her pants are wet.

"Her pants are wet," I say.

"Yeah, and look at her plumber's crack."

I put two and two together as soon as Amanda says, "You forgot to put a diaper on the baby." She cracks up some more. I'm not sure if I can laugh.

I have to go home and get poor little Sydney another pair of pants, so I go home and get poor little Sydney another pair of pants.

When I return, some guests have arrived - a shocker to us because the wind has now taken a turn for the worse and we're now chewing on bits of the haboub. Dust is everywhere. It's in my eyes, it's in my mouth, it's in my daughters' eyes and mouths. We're trying to keep the food covered up. We're trying to keep an eye on the kids. We're trying to have a good time. We're trying not to shiver.

We're trying.

Everyone whom we invited shows up. These are good people. These are people, who if they now ask me to kill someone for them, I'll consider it, because they showed up to my daughter's birthday party in some of the most ridiculous weather Arizona has seen in months.

Nobody anticipated this, so nobody brought jackets or hats or thermoses full of hot chocolate to keep warm. We speed things along. Not much chance for the kids to screw around on the playground equipment, but that's OK.

With extreme precision and a little elbow grease, Olivia tears through her presents and emerges with a massive haul - some DVDs, plush toys, a Snow White doll, girly playclothes accessories and whatnot.

Then it's cake time.

Frosting everywhere. Dust everywhere. Chattering teeth. Exaggerated speech. Kids running off. Frustrations galore.

All I can do anymore is laugh to myself.

The sun goes down and the wind subsides. The lights go on. It's about an hour before we needed to leave, but we're all saying our goodbyes. We can't thank our guests for hanging in there with us. They're all happy to be here.

These folks are gems. I should get to know them better. I should babysit their kids so they can go out for a nice evening. Good people, through and through.

Just about everything we hauled out of the car and the van, we've got to haul back in.

The father of the little girl whose birthday party was going on at the adjacent gazebo walks back to the parking lot with me. He's exasperated. He's so angry about the weather.

"Yeah, but it's a birthday you'll never forget, right?" I say.

He thinks about it and hrumphs out a little laugh, "You're right."

We're tired. We're hungry. It's been a long afternoon. The cars are packed up and we're ready to go back home - where we can once again unload the cars.

On the way home I ask Olivia if she had a good day.

She says, "Yeah."

I ask her if she had fun.

She says, "Yeah."

I tell her I love her.

She says, "I love you too, Daddy."

"You love your Mommy and Sydney too?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Daddy."

Yeah.

The Unscratchable Itch

The elections are over, but I’m still in presidential mode. I’ve always carried somewhat of a fondness of the history of the highest governmental office in the United States. Every four years I get so dialed into the election process, I feel more inclined to digest books and movies about American politics.

During the waning days of the 2008 race for the White House:
• I tore through Manhunt – The 12 Day Chase for Lincoln’s Killer by James L. Swanson (an absolutely wonderful, accurate and suspenseful read… I recommend it to ANYONE!).
• For the second time, I paged through Garfield by Allan Peskin (James Garfield is, in my opinion, one of the most underrated presidents ever studied, due mostly to his untimely assassination by the nutjob Charles Guiteau and, subsequently, the poor medical care he received).
• I’m currently tackling FDR by Jean Edward Smith (so far, so good).
• Next up is President-elect Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope.

Even my Christmas list reflects the current mode I’m in. I’m asking Santy Claus for more presidential bios, and my DVD requests include Oliver Stone’s Nixon and JFK.

Looking over the movies I slapped on my Xmas list I started thinking about other movie moments involving the presidency and politics, and in doing so I developed my own list of favorite political movies (do keep in mind that I’ve yet to see the movies W. or Frost/Nixon, the latter of which I’m anxiously awaiting):

• The American President: In answering the apparent disarray of his personal life President Andrew Shepherd (Michael Douglas) confronts the jabs of his election opponent Senator Bob Rumson (Richard Dreyfus) in a press conference. All of Rumson’s previous televised diatribes end with him saying “My name is Bob Rumson, and I’m running for President of the United States,” and Shepherd puts the exclamation point on the end of his pushback when he states, “My name is Andy Shepherd and I AM the President of the United States.” Man, that’s cool.

• X2: X-Men United: This movie really shouldn’t count, but it does, at least in my book. That opening scene with Nightcrawler BAMFing all over the White House just to deliver an evil message to the president is effing BAD ASS!! Yeah, the prez is simply a victim, but holy crap is that a rad scene! And that scene at the end when the X-Men confront the president in the oval office made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Mutants have rights too, y’know.

• Independence Day: TOTAL CHEESE. Bill Pullman as President Thomas Whitmore is so non-believable it actually works (well… for the movie, perhaps). When he stands out in the middle of the airfield and gives his “We will not go quietly into the night” speech and then dons a jumpsuit and goes up to fight the aliens himself – my god, how ridiculously ridiculous. Not really a political movie, per se, but it’s got the president shooting down aliens!

• The Candidate: Here you’ve got Robert Redford as Bill McKay, the unlikely Democratic candidate battling for one of the California seats in the U.S. Senate. He knows he’s not going to win, so he campaigns on the basis of bringing to the forefront new ideas and issues that have been swept aside. Pretty soon momentum starts moving in his favor and he finds himself running for an office he’s not sure he really wants. The entire movie is a gem and even though it takes place in the early 70s, its themes and emotions ring true today (I wonder if this flick is on Barack Obama’s fave list).

• Dave: The scene toward the end, when presidential interloper Dave Kovic, preserving the presidency of the dying Bill Mitchell, feigns a fainting spell and sets things right again is brilliant. At the hospital, as they wheel the real Bill Mitchell into the hospital, Dave, dressed in paramedic duds, strolls off into the nighttime and goes back to his old life. The ruse works, Bill Mitchell dies and Dave goes back home, runs for local office and makes out with the former first lady while Ving Rhames stands guard. Just a cool movie through and through.

• Mr. Smith Goes to Washington: Two words: Filibuster scene.

You got any faves? List ‘em!

Working the Afternoon Shift

It is election day +1, 2008. The mood in AZ is a mixed bag. Those who supported McCain are, for the most part, morose and a bit vocal (while I waited in line at Safeway this morning to purchase my bagel, the septuagenarian ahead of me said to the cashier, “Country’s going to Hell”). Those who supported Obama are going about their business with maybe a little spring in their step. AZ went red (again), so there’s your compromise – at least McCain won his home turf. It might not have been the overall victory they were hoping for, but keeping AZ crimson is certainly something conservative desert dwellers can hold onto.

Concessions
I have to agree with my friend, Queleen, who writes, “Given the classiness of [McCain’s] concession speech last night, I was glad he wasn’t at least humiliated by losing his home state.” McCain’s final speech in his almost two-year campaign was sincere, graceful, dignified and, I thought, heartfelt. I really believe he meant what he said. He didn’t come off like the snarky stumping politician anymore. His words weren’t forced or edgy or slighting in any way – like his entire campaign. Yes, he looked like a man defeated, but he also showed that he will move forward and will support our new president. It’s obvious how much he loves his country and if anyone needed any further proof to that effect, last night’s concession speech sealed the deal. Were he to lose AZ, I might have felt bad for him. Here’s to McCain and his crew for a battle well fought.

Highways
Driving into work, I slid in behind a yellow Toyota FJ Cruiser sporting an NRA bumper sticker, a license plate reading “2NDAMNDT” and a piece of 8 x 11 paper with tiny red words on it. It was hard to make out anything past the first line, which read, “Obama = crap!!!!” I could at least tell whom he did NOT vote for. His driving was too slow for my likes, so I pulled past him. Inside the FJ was a corpulent gent in his mid-to-late 40s, sucking on the edge of his insulated coffee cup. He looked cool and calm until he noticed me and shot me the dirtiest look. Fully comprehending this chap’s affinity for firearms, I gunned it and left him and his bad day somewhere behind me on the 202. I had a thought as I left him in the dust: were I the type to slap political bumper stickers on my vehicle, would I be dodging that guy’s lead spray? Frightening.

And so it goes.

B.O.?
I have to wonder, especially in this culture of acronyms, and seeing as we tend to acronymize or shorten our leaders’ names (FDR, LBJ, JFK, Ike, W., etc…) primarily because it saves the media a few letters when they’re writing headlines – how do we handle President-elect Obama’s “acroname?” Are we now allowed to acknowledge his middle name, Hussein? Because otherwise we’re left with “B.O.,” evoking poor hygiene status. I don’t think that’s a great idea, and it’s certainly not befitting a man of Obama’s new stature. So maybe we could stick with “BHO?”

GOP’s Future
As they replayed the moment she walked off the stage, smiling but deflated, a local TV commentator noted that Sarah Palin is the new face of the GOP. Seriously? I mean, I really enjoyed SNL’s portayal of her (solid humor, Tina, solid), but Palin (vast inexperience and all) seems to have had a rather deleterious effect on McCain’s campaign. However, it also seems like she wants to run in 2012. If it’s true that she’s the new face of the GOP, I really hope they start teaching her about the position she’s gunning for (The account of her telling eight-year-olds that as Veep, she’d be in charge of the Senate is classically laughable). If they can’t teach her, maybe they can find a better candidate. Right… and maybe in the next four years Palin will find the time to read up on the Bush Doctrine too. It’ll be interesting to see what she does, but in four years, if she aims to do what we all think she’s gonna do, the jokes on SNL won’t be as cute. By that time they’ll just be sad.

Propositions
When my wife and I went to the polls, we had to bring a cheat sheet with us. I even found myself tapping her on the shoulder to ask, “WTF was this prop all about again?” I understand the formality of politics and the necessity of certain legal terminology, but for crying out loud, I’m a really intelligent guy but even I couldn’t understand the wording of more than half of the propositions I was to vote on! “A ‘yes’ vote means you support that which does not support supporting supporters in an area which supports supporting those who support supporters who support supporting supporters who supported that which was supported in court of June 2007.” WHAT?! The cheat sheet came in handy, but maybe, for future elections, we could turn the jargon down a bit?

Ads
I always feel a little empty the day after an election when I turn on the TV and the only advertisements I see are for cars or beer or erectile dysfunction pills. I kinda miss the pandering, mudslinging ads that rape the airwaves during election season. I enjoy them because they’re asking me to take part in something that really doesn’t cost me anything (directly). I don’t have to buy their product to vote for them, I just have to agree or disagree with their messages… and that’s EASY! All they want is my vote given freely. Granted, I have my own thoughts and utopian ideals, and, for the most part, no advertisement is going to sway my vote… but the entertainment value of these ad spots, which help force me to see through the bullshit is priceless.

Oh, by the way... I approve this message.

Change You Can Believe In

There’s no rhyme or reason as to why I do this: If I learn of a movie that’s in production and it’s based on a book, stipulating of course that the story or premise is up my alley, I’ll seek out the source material. It’s a habit I wish to curb because were I not to read the books movies are based on, I might enjoy the movies more. When I saw “Forrest Gump,” having read the book the week previous, I spent more time comparing the stories than I did enjoying the movie. I’ve done the same with “Munich,” “No Country for Old Men,” “Jackie Brown,” “Million Dollar Baby,” “Cold Mountain,” “Mystic River,” etc., etc…

I’d recently learned about a movie in production called “Men Who Stare at Goats.” Nice title, I thought. So I looked into it. Sure enough, it’s based on a book by Jon Ronson. Looking further, I found out that it’s about the U.S. Army’s research into military applications of the paranormal… and it’s non-fiction. Whoa! Isn’t that, like, the basis of every single Indiana Jones movie (‘cept it’s the Nazis or Russians seeking out these mystical MacGuffins)? Sounding fairly badass, I decided I ought to check this book out.

I called Barnes & Noble and asked if they had a copy of it.

“Yes,” the rep replied. “We have one copy left. Would you like me to set it aside for you?”

“Absolutely!” I said. Hours later, I arrived at the bookstore.

The demure sales associate in charge of the set-aside tomes pulled the single copy of Ronson’s book off the shelf and handed it over.

The damn thing was WRECKED!

Several pages were dogeared and smudged. The front cover was bent and the top corner of the back cover was torn off. It looked like it had sat in a puddle in the middle of a busy street for a day or two.

I held it up parallel to my frowning mug for the sales associate to see. She made an “ew” face as she reexamined the book.

“You got any other copies of this laying around?” I asked.

She checked the system, came up with a big goose egg, but offered an alternative, “If you want I can order you another copy.”

This would mean days of waiting, which just wouldn’t do. In waiting days for this book, I probably would change my mind and not want the damn thing. I wanted it now.

Then I had a thought.

“How ’bout you sell it to me at a discount!” I said. This was a great idea. In this depressed economy I’m sure bookstores are feeling the effects of fewer and fewer purchases and to offload a crappy looking paperback at a discount was probably something they’d consider, right?

The sales associate hemmed and hawed and said, “I’ll have to ask my shift manager.” Shit, I thought, but I was convinced I could still snag this book at a miniscule fraction of the cover price.

“Then ask away!” I said.

Moments later the manager greeted me as she slunk around the register station. She was round, pleasant and dolled up in a way that made me guess she was going to enjoy her evening after her shift ended.

“Hi, what can I do for you today!” she said.

I held up the book and asked her if she could sell it to me at a discount, y’know, since it was in pretty bad shape.

She looked it over and said, “There’s nothing wrong with it?”

“Are you serious?” I asked. “Look at it again! It’s been through the ringer! Looks like a dozen four-year-olds with chocolate on their hands used it to play catch!”

“Sir, it’s a paperback and sometimes the cover can crease if people don’t put it back on the shelf properly,” she said defiantly.

“That’s your excuse?! Look at the thing! Were you a grocer and this book were an apple with bruises and bite marks all over it, you’d pitch it! If it were a dented can of peaches, you’d throw it in the clearance bin!”

“But this isn’t a grocery store, sir.”

“No kidding, but you’re the manager of a bookstore that sells NEW BOOKS! I’d expect this kind of quality from a used bookstore or even a garage sale.”

“Sir, if you’d like I can order you another copy.”

“No, I don’t want another copy. I want this one and I want to know why you won’t sell it to me at a discounted price.”

“Sir, all of the pages are intact. You can still read it.”

“Yes, I can still read it, but it’s WRECKED! I’m very particular about my books. I like the way they look on my shelf. Yeah, I’m THAT guy. So do you wanna sell this to me at a discount or should I just take my business elsewhere?”

She gave me a dirty little look as she searched around in her skull for a compromise.

“I can sell it to you for five percent off the cover price,” she said, smiling, obviously satisfied with her decision.

I was appalled.

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” I said. “Put it back on the shelf.” And I walked out.

As I write this, it is a day later. I was right: I changed my mind. I don’t want to read Ronson’s book anymore. May that copy forever sit on the shelf of that B&N branch for an eternity (not like anyone’s gonna buy it in it’s current condition anyhow…).

Could You Be Any More Ecstatic?

Pursuing the bad guy is romantic. Entire books, movies and lives are dedicated to serving up justice to evildoers. Even as a young lad, I knew I lacked the courage to be a police officer, but I was always pulled toward the challenge of pursuit in the name of justice.

I was 17 and an usher for Ridge Cinemas, Marcus Corporation’s newest satellite theater in New Berlin, Wisconsin. It was the first cinema in the state to offer stadium seating – which guaranteed continuous patronage. In this theater’s infancy, lines typically snaked out the door and down the sidewalk, even for the late shows of some of the crappiest movies ever produced (“Eight Heads in a Duffelbag” anyone?).

My duties were to clean theaters after showings, help out with the snack stand or tear tickets whenever needed, clean the bathrooms every half hour, sweep up the hallway and kick people out of theaters in which they didn’t belong. I took a lot of pleasure in the latter. Usually I’d find kids sitting in an R-rated movie who entered with the false intentions of seeing “101 Dalmatians” and I’d kindly direct them to the movie they bought the tix for. Sure I was “that dick” who kicked them out, but I did it in the name of justice. Granted, I’ve snuck into plenty of movies in my time, but I’ve never been caught – they were, by me. Poor saps.

One night in particular, all of the screens had something on them and aside from a couple patrons scuttling to the restroom or getting a refill on their popcorn at the snack stand, there wasn’t much activity in the lobby. Blessed downtime was one of the few perks that made this gig tolerable; you could goof off with your fellow employees, get some homework done, take a break and eat a meal, call your girlfriend, or prepare for the next rush if you were so inclined.

I was milling around the snack stand sweeping up miniscule bits of refuse and chatting with my school buddy Justin. Justin feigned productivity, wiping the same area on the counter over and over again. He’d shown up late for his shift because he had (finally) broken up with his cheating girlfriend, and I had to cover for him. He was more brokenhearted than angry, but talking about the situation and tossing little bits of straw paper on the floor for me to sweep up seemed to calm him a little.

“I should have seen it coming,” he said.

“You’re better off, man,” I said. “Fuck it.”

Justin then looked up from the spot he was cleaning, stared down the corridor to the south half of the screens and said, “What th…”

Three girls, about our age, huddled closely together and visibly shaken speed-walked our way. Justin saw them dart out of the movie they were seeing and as soon as they saw Justin and I in our theater-issue tuxes, they bolted our way.

“Th-there’s a man in there and he’s staring at us a-an,” said the one in the middle.

“It looked like he was touching himself!” shrieked the one on the left.

Justin and I gave each other a knowing glance. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that he and I were thinking the same thing.

Could it be? Here in this theater? Could it be him?

Cut to six months previous: When I started training for my job, Marcus Corp. had me work out at West Point Theaters in Brookfield, since the Ridge was still under construction. West Point was full of “lifers” – people in their late teens and early-to-mid 20s who’d started working there and never left because they liked their hours, they could work whenever they wanted, they were all a tight-knit group of friends and/or they got promoted to junior management positions. They knew the ins and outs of the biz, they knew how to get around certain duties – hell, they even knew how to rob the place after hours and never get caught (in theory, to be fair). They also knew the histories of West Point and other Marcus theaters in the area through and through. They’d all, at one point in their careers, trained or worked at another Marcus satellite. Since the job was 20 percent actual work and 80 percent cush, and since I was a newbie, I spent a lot of downtime learning novel’s worth of area theater history and folklore.

One of the legends I’d heard was of the Brookfield Beater. The Brookfield Beater was a guy who would case the clientele for pretty girls, follow them into their theater, sit in the same row as them but a few seats away and stare. Then when the movie started, when the time was right for him, he’d unzip his fly and shake hands with beef – which prompted the girls to run away screaming, at which he’d put it away and make his escape out the fire door. Sometimes his staring was enough to prompt the girls to move away from him or cause complaint. According to legend, he’d been seen at Marcus’ West Point, Westown, and South Town theaters, as well as the Silver Spring AMC and a few of the budget joints that showed second-run flicks. Also according to legend, he’d been caught by police either at West Point or Westown (the legend changed depending on who told it), and was put away for a while. But who knew for how long?

A few weeks into my job at the Ridge, Adam, one of the fellas I trained with at West Point said, “Hey Ben, didja hear? They think the Brookfield Beater is at it again!”

“Really?” said I.

“Yeah, Jessie told me about a complaint back at West Point a couple days ago. Some dude was spankin’ it next to some girls,” said Adam. “Man, I hope he comes here. I’ll beat the shit out of him!”

Yeah, right, I thought. Probably just hearsay.

But rumor traveled like lightning throughout the entire Ridge staff, and even though we’d never had a formal meeting about the situation, assistant managers, like my good friend Mark, were stepping up and making sure the ushers remained vigilant.

Mark approached me a few nights before as I was making my rounds and said, “Ben, you see anything strange or out of the ordinary in the theaters, anything at all, come get me, deal?” He was serious…and Mark was never serious.

The pale trio withering before us and an earful of folklore was just enough for Justin to leap the counter and follow me down the corridor in a full-on sprint. We were gonna kick this guy out of here like never before.

There were two doors for every theater; I pounded through the door on the right, Justin on the left. Whatever happened with those girls left the theater in disarray and fear. People were standing and pointing. An elderly gentleman and his wife said in unison, “He left out the fire door!” At this point it had been no more than 20 seconds from the time Justin saw the girls until now – but 20 seconds was enough to give anyone a decent enough head start.

Justin loyally behind me, we breached the fire door and ran out into the crisp Autumn air. Behind the theater was a strip of asphalt that ran the length of the building, connecting one end of the parking lot with the other. It was access for dumptrucks to slide back there and pick up our overflowing dumpster. I looked left, and saw nothing. I looked right and saw a man in the distance dimly illuminated by the fluorescent lights in the parking lot.

He was running.

Justin took off ahead of me. I tried to keep up, but Justin was a better athlete than I. Given enough time and distance, Justin had the endurance to catch this guy. Justin would have tackled him and, with me close behind, we could have nabbed the Brookfield Beater.

But something about that just didn’t sound right to me.

He’s called the Brookfield Beater, I thought. That’s…

We reached the far edge of the theater when I yelled, “Justin, STOP!” Justin pulled up, “What! C’mon man! Let’s get him!”

“Dude,” I said, huffing and puffing. “If that’s the Brookfield Beater, do you really wanna touch him? I mean, what if he finished up in there…”

Justin got it, “Aw f… Gross! Yeah. You have a point…”

We walked around to the front of the theater slowly, catching our breath. Mark pounced on us the second we walked through the front door, “Did you see him? What’d he look like? Where’d he go?” Mark, flanked by the three girls who reported the guy, was already on the horn with the cops.

“I dunno,” I said. “We just saw him running. He took off past the parking lot. He’s still out there.”

Mark played relay man as the 911 operator had some questions for us. Which way was he headed? What was he wearing? How tall was he? What age did he look to be? All questions we didn’t know the answer to.

The police arrived and started taking statements. They spent over an hour with the girls as they tried to get the story straight. When they got to Justin and I, we explained that we gave chase, but realizing what this guy might have been doing in the theater, we pulled back. The police were already checking the theater out for any “evidence” the guy might have left behind, but they came back with nothing. The guy must have pulled up shop and darted out the back as soon as the girls left the theater looking for us.

We must have recited that story to every single staff member who was on that night. Pretty soon word got around the school that we’d scared off the Brookfield Beater. There were so many versions of the story by the time everyone heard it, and it was so tiring trying to correct it that we just decided to let people believe what they wanted.

A couple nights later, I was back at work. All of the excitement of the pursuit had died down. Business was the slowest I’d seen since the theater opened. Things had changed a little. Ushers gained a new duty: patrol the perimeter of the theater every once in a while each shift. It was arbitrary, but it staved off teens trying to sneak in the back door from time to time. We also had a full time rent-a-cop patrolling the parking lot, courtesy of the corporate offices. He was a nice guy. Gave Justin and I props for running after the guy, even if we didn’t really get a good look at him. Every once in a while when I took out the trash, he’d slide up in his rent-a-cop LeSabre and ask, “See anything tonight?” My answer was always, “No.”

The rent-a-cop stuck around for a few months until, rumor has it, the Brookfield Beater struck again, this time at South Town, Marcus’ dilapidated theater in West Allis.

From then on, it was business as usual. Except, years later, when the Ridge garnered its own “lifers,” Marcus theater legend included something to the effect of, “Right here at the Ridge, two of our own almost caught the Brookfield Beater. That’s the closest they ever came to nailing that bastard.”