Yes, it's true, ladies and gentlemen - Johnny Sweatpants has thrown off the Curse Of The Haiku to claim the top spot in this week's story competition!
I cannot stress enough that he came within a hair's breadth of coming up short once again, as both AC's and Cat's stories were, blow-by-blow, on equal footing. I belly-laughed an equal amount of times at each one. Brilliance on display from everyone, as usual!
AC, you pretty much had me at "La Pauvre," which showed studiousness and great humor, and also a good devotion to all things Stan, which pretty much almost had me handing you the competition right off the bat. Alas, Cat came on strong, too, with some very powerful imagery. The three guys in MC Hammer pants were vivid; I actually think I remember ripping their tickets. And I agree with JSP, that Twizzler quarterback bit was hilarious! Perhaps Cat, if Derek (ahem, me) had gotten ONE punch in, this may have gone a different way :)
What put Johnny over the edge was actually two things: 1) the title of the movie, "An Agreeable Conversation." Not only is it TOTALLY a movie that only old biddies would go see, but also, I remember working there when The Bridges Of Madison County came out, and there were moments like that every single day. I don't think I ever checked the temps in that theater. Plus, it smelled like church - old people decaying. 2) The moment when Derek is bombarded by every single old person at once. The dialogue positively crackles; it's written so well, I felt I was living the moment. It was like Hollywood scripting - the moment just totally came alive for me.
I was hoping that one of our THREE other Showcase employees on this blog would show up to party. Alas, it was not meant to be. The guest stars in the stories were priceless; I was so hoping for some appearances from Chuck or Peter or Officer Lovitt.
So anyway, well done, Sweatpants! You've earned it! And I must stress that this was a totally unbiased decision - I would've totally broken JSP's heart again if his story didn't totally crack me up. Lucky for him...
9 comments:
Weird. This is posting UNDER the other one.
Help me, JPX, you're my only hope!
congratulations sweatpants! i look forward to your story pitch next monday.
handsome stan, please do post the original, true, and hopefully offensive Derek story ending!
Yeah, post it!!
Congrats JSP you earned this one I was laughing out loud the whole read.
Heh heh heh.
Okay, so I completely dropped the ball this week, I just now saw the JSP victory and then went back and read the stories. Having never worked at Showcase, I'm glad I sat this one out.
It's so nice when you kind of want someone to win something and they totally pony up the goods. AC and Cat's were hilarious and made me wish I knew more backstory, but "his theater" and "mugged by his own child" were totally out of the park.
I had an idea that what Derek saw was three doppelgangers of himself hanging out and laughing, but even as he observed these imposters he knew that being the original mattered for naught. Just by dint of being a threesome of him, the others outdid him on every conceptual level. That's all I worked out, and to be honest it was shaping up as a sarcastic polemic against Derek and all his ridiculous and petty inner display of posturing and snobbery.
Since I figured Derek was an analog of HandsomeStan, that probably wouldn't be a winning entry.
Congrats Herr Pants!! No more Bitterpants for you.
I was also very impressed with all three. Seriously, laughing my ass off. Well done!
Hooray for everyone! (= me) Thanks handsome one! I'll try and live up to the great intros we've seen thus far. I have an idea that could either be very interesting or else a complete bust with zero participation but now I'm determined to see it through..
AC it's been fun reading all of your stories and seeing your creative side flourish. What a strange and unexpected direction you took this one. (And the lesbian dwarf "twofer" won me over.)
Catfreeek the fact that you made Gretchen a sexual object was hilarious and also somewhat creepy. I was hoping you'd throw a description of her afro in there..
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some skipping and whistling to do.
Well done again, Happypants!
And now, here's the mostly-true, probably not that offensive, original story, written a few years ago. Everything herein actually happened to me, however, the final confrontation in the hallway wasn't QUITE as vitriolic as I've written (I think I had just read Da Vinci Code or something...). Words were exchanged, though. I must confess that the what I've written as dialogue is what I would have LIKED to have said, but then decided keeping my job was more important. Anyway, here we go...
Derek was into it. When you came right down to it, it was a pretty sweet job. Rip a ticket now and then; direct the occasional person to the bathroom. Lots of down time. The only real responsibilities were checking the temperature readings in each of the multiplex’s twenty theaters (all easily fabricated; the system was rarely out of whack, which meant that you went in to any movie you wanted to see thirty minutes of and made up twenty reasonably accurate temperature readings), and periodically checking the levels of syrup for the soda fountain. And even IF the syrup levels were down, it was only a matter of telling one of the concession stand people to change the box.
Added to this pleasant mix were the constant crossword puzzle challenges from the cashier, one of those savant-type people who wasn’t quite Rain Man, wasn’t quite Stephen Hawking, whose brain activity allowed her to whip out the answer for an 8-letter “Deciduous orchid” without batting an eyelash.
And not to mention the constant flirtation with the cute concessionists. Management, so often the brunt of consternation and frustration in other lines of work, had managed, here in this suburban multiplex, to get it exactly right. The smarter and more attractive guys and girls, more or less, became ushers. The less intelligent but by no means unattractive types went directly behind the popcorn bin. This led to an arrangement that everyone found appealing, however much they wanted to admit it or not. Ushers looked down on concessionists, concessionists looked up towards the ushers, with both groups united against the (largely imagined) oppression of the Managers, who of course would constantly strut around in their darker uniforms like they owned the place.
Derek was into it. He was making a good amount of money, especially considering what he actually did, effort-wise. He figured that if he took the average amount of work he actually did in a forty-hour workweek and compared it to his average take-home pay, he was making around twenty bucks an hour. On a summer break from college, it doesn’t get much better, especially if you have no preconceptions about accelerating your descent into Adult Debt World.
Everything was going along fine until one fine cloudy Tuesday in July. Derek was at the outer edge of the popcorn counter, chatting up the fantastic-looking new girl. He always maintained, as a general rule, that if a girl’s ass looks fabulous in black movie theater polyester pants, it’s going to look fabulous no matter what you do with it. The conversation was going well, Derek was giving it a 7 up to this point. She actually had worthwhile opinions, when it came to his First Five Points of Sanity Testing for Girls: Sense of Humor, Music, Drugs of Choice, Religion, and Politics, in that specific order. The last two he rarely got to, being so enthralled with a particular woman’s opinions on the first three, he would plunge headlong into a relationship, only to find that several months down the road, she would leave him because he was an Independent, or because he felt that religion was a personal journey [a smart person would say ‘mystical experience’, a normal person would say ‘taking a shit’]. It simply wasn’t something to share; you wouldn’t conceive of trying to convince someone else of the experience you’ve just had; it was, and always should be, a very intense personal experience. If it’s good, others will discover it on their own. If not, tough titties for you. Have fun in hell.
These were the type of thoughts coursing through the lower levels of Derek’s brain as he was opening the Drugs of Choice Option on the conversation with Heather, hoping for the best and preparing himself, subconsciously, for the next round. They had cruised through the Music section almost unscathed. On his mental checklist, Mark had noted a healthy disdain for Grease and Bruce Springsteen, a solid First Album Bought (Motley Crue’s Shout At The Devil), a great First Concert (Jane’s Addiction at Crotty’s, a real dive club), and of course the inevitable Dave Matthews, which any red-blooded male realizes he HAS to embrace, fiddle and all, if he’s going to get any pussy whatsoever.
Derek had been concentrating on steering the conversation towards, “After you were THAT drunk, what happened then?” and other such feelers, when three well-dressed mid-thirties type men approached the popcorn counter. It was, alas, time to get to work.
Derek took his position behind the four-foot silver canister, the ticket stub repository, the silent sentry of the movie theater, the inanimate object that says, “Look, pal, unless you’ve got a tiny piece of paper that was printed out twenty feet over there that I can rip in half, you ain’t getting’ in.” Derek had actually come to relish these moments. The time when HE was the ultimate authority on when the unwashed masses actually got to see the movie they had just paid for. Jacket unbuttoned, yet still formally attired in his primary-blue-blazer-with-purple-and-gold-tie uniform, one hand resting on the base of the canister, the other on his hip, his body casually blocking the entrance to everything the people wanted: With a barely-registering condescending glance at whatever ticket they produced, Derek would rip it in half, in a practiced gesture of half-amusement, half-contempt, punctuating the delivery of the stub with an “Enjoy the Show” calibrated so precisely as to let the people know that their efforts to remove themselves from the drudgery of their everyday lives would be wasted, and that they were absolutely horrible people for having actually ventured outside the house, but never said in such a way as to get himself fired.
He liked to think so, anyway. In the back of his mind, he knew that he was just a dude that ripped tickets; a well-trained monkey could probably do his job, and probably do it incrementally better. (“We’d like to congratulate Bonzo on becoming our multiplex’s first Employee of the Year {thunderous applause}”)
In any event, the three well-behaved mid-thirties guys approached Derek’s Stub Canister.
“Afternoon,” Derek said.
The lead guy, a sandy-haired, white-polo shirt with no socks type of guy, spoke in a very clean-shaven way.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
Derek ripped his ticket.
“Hey, not bad, I suppose.”
The lead guy took his proffered stub as the other two came forward.
“Thanks. And, ah, where’s the bathroom?”
This was another of Derek’s special pleasures of the day. If you were a movie patron, and you were approaching the Ticket Ripper Guy, and you had to go to the bathroom, a normal, rational person (as he figured it) would at least walk in and look around for a split second before succumbing to blind ignorance and asking an employee for the whereabouts of the restroom, which is a question that employees of any establishment never get tired of hearing. Clearly, as Derek thought, the multiplex must have bathrooms, this sort of thing should be obvious to every single person that walks in the door; and the multiplex isn’t going to hide them; a facility that caters to this many people would behoove itself to make sure that the areas for defecating and peeing and farting were clearly labeled. You know, just look around.
Alas, Derek was never going to get anywhere with this particular battle, as the unrelenting hordes of Powerade-drinking, venti-cappucino-getting, water-bottle clutching masses seemed to be in constant befuddlement at the fact that there was not, in, fact, a centrally located toilet where they could sit down, buy tickets, buy popcorn, urinate, have their ticket ripped, and watch the movie, all on one seat. Derek had reflected that there was probably some money in this idea, but it only took about five minutes for the ‘why bother’ to kick in.
As he stood at his Stub Stanchion, his Metal ‘Maybe-I’ll-Let-You-In’ Monolith, behind Derek’s head, on either side, in big laminated fashion, were the words “Men” and “Women” with corresponding arrows and the corresponding “I Can’t Read” universal symbols for Man and Woman. Derek knew exactly where these signs were. He had arranged his placement at his four-foot canister the way an actor prepares for a scene: his marks were precise, so that anyone approaching him would see him framed behind each ear by two giant restroom arrows and their according symbols.
In truth, it was a fascinating bit of mise-en-scene. If one had known enough to pay attention to that sort of thing, one would be very impressed with the attention to detail and placement.
Derek said, “Men’s room is just over there,” adding a barely-contemptuous flip of the thumb, as if any random half-retarded dog could figure out where it was supposed to pee before asking the usher, and added pleasantly, “Just follow the signs.”
“Oh, all right, thanks very much.”
“Yeah,” said the second guy, equally clean shaven, “I better go, too.”
So with that, two of the three moviegoers moved off into an odyssey of sign-following and endorphin-releasing. Which left The Third Guy, just kind of hanging out, ticket already having been ripped, waiting for his buddies. Derek knew what was coming. A conversation. He could smell it in all of their collective friendly wardrobe.
“Hey, have you seen this movie?” the third man asked.
Oh dear God, Derek thought. If you’re going to ask an usher if he’s seen a movie, at least have the courtesy to ask him how many times he’s seen it. Have I seen this movie? Good God, man. Should he be told that he has just blown ten dollars, and more, after the popcorn? (Got to get back to Heather the popcorn girl…) Should he be told that what he is about to see is just another Hollywood version of a story that was told better in probably ten different other past versions? Should he be told that he has bought a ticket simply because of the deadening effect that relentless advertising has had on him, coupled with his almost crippling need for social interaction? Should he be told that he is representative of the type of mush-brained person that everyone targets: movie marketers, politicians, advertisers; the type of person that goes to movies on a Tuesday afternoon? The type of person that just makes you want to vomit in terror at the thought of the future?
“Yeah, it’s not bad.”
“Really?” said the third guy. “Because I haven’t been hearing too many good things about it.”
Well, why the hell did you buy a ticket? And, why the hell are you talking to me?
Derek said, “Well, different movies for different people. I don’t really listen to critics.”
With this, Derek realized that every word out of his mouth was an invitation for about ten more apiece from the third guy.
“Yeah, critics can really distort what you’re supposed to think and feel about a movie. We like to go in with an open mind, and experience it for ourselves.”
Derek narrowed his eyes. That was an odd remark.
The third guy continued, “It’s all about making up your own mind, you know?”
Derek had already grown tired of this conversation. It had gone far beyond the usual 1.4 seconds of patience he usually allotted for customers who started to speak to him.
“I suppose it is,” he slowly replied, with what he hoped was a note of finality.
“I’m glad you think so,” the third guy continued, obviously either missing or ignoring the note. “That’s something we always talk about. People can have such a big effect on the choices we make.”
Derek was getting uneasy at the repeated use of “we” and what it was supposed to refer to.
The guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “Maybe you’d like to come down and get together with us sometime. We just kind of hang out, you know, play volleyball, cook out, things like that. You know?”
As Derek took the card offered by the third guy, his two friends emerged from the bathroom. Derek couldn’t help but notice the Christian cross emblazoned in the four corners of the third guy’s business card.
“All right,” the third guy said cheerfully, “I’ll see you around then!”
The men made their way down the hallway. Derek continued to stare at the card, looking up occasionally at their retreating figures.
“Excuse me!” Derek shouted. “Hey!”
By now the guys are a good two hundred feet away in an almost-empty movie theater. Derek’s voice halted them.
“Yeah, I…” Derek began briskly walking down the hallway. “Don’t think for a second I don’t know what you’re up to.”
“Up…to?” said the third guy.
“Oh, yeah.” Derek replied, closing the gap. “Being nice, friendly, just having a little chat to pass the time. I see what you’re doing, and I don’t like it.”
“I’m not so sure I –“
“I couldn’t help but notice here that you, well, I don’t know,” he was now face to face, “that you tried to convert me.”
The three guys were taken aback. The third guy spoke up.
“Well, hey, now, no one’s trying to convert anyone to anything here-“
“Bullshit. You sat there talking my ear off, being ‘friendly’ with only one goal in mind: get me into your little youth volleyball barbecue group so you can really go to work on me. If I show up, that’s more than half the battle. You guys are the field agents, the scouts, out trying to develop new recruits. The more troops you bring in, the more souls you’ve saved, the greater you’ve strengthened Christianity, the better your chances for getting into Heaven, and therefore the easier you sleep at night, am I right?”
As they stumble to respond,
“No, wait, I’m not nearly finished. You all do this shit all the time. You are the reason that this world is so fucked up. You honestly don’t realize that you’re completely wrong; you’ve backed the wrong horse, you’re holding a “Go Directly to Jail” card. Your minds are imprisoned, probably willingly, by the clutches of a completely invented and contrived religion. The noble ideas of Jesus Christ have been perverted and distorted for two thousand years, leading to war, bloodshed, mistrust, and fanaticism. Do you realize that things like Northern Ireland and Israel are wars of interpretation? That none of the warring factions have turned so much as one cheek? That they are all cheerfully ignoring and or breaking over half of the Ten Commandments with every breath they take? And don’t get me started on the Bible Belt here in this country. Have you ever seen the Christian Broadcast Network? Talk about worshipping false idols! Anyone that bothers to do the courageous thing and think for themselves instantly sees the house of cards that Christianity is built upon, a structure so full of contradiction, half-truth and outright lies that its only a matter of time before the whole thing comes crashing down.”
The first guy stepped up, “Now, look, I’m not sure what happened back there, but I can assure you –“
“The only thing that you can assure me of is that you’ll all go home right now and blow your brains out, so there are three less brainwashed fuckheads polluting the gene pool for the rest of us.”
“Could we talk to the manager?”
“Guess what, God-boy? I AM the manager.”
“Well,” the second guy ventured, “it seems you’ve got a lot of anger towards Jesus –“
“No, shithead. My anger isn’t directed at Jesus, my anger is directed at the people that use brainwashing and corruption of the mind in Jesus’ name without batting an eyelash! If Jesus walked in here and bought a ticket, I guarantee you he would not stop to chat up the usher about what a fantastic religion he’s got. He would be secure in His knowledge that He knows the true path, and that in time, the usher would find his own way to Him, not through the contrived bribery of volleyball and barbecue, but through true individual enlightenment.”
The third guy seemed to recover his wits a little. “You’ve obviously thought this through, but maybe there’s a way for Jesus to shed more light into your life, and help you find some peace.”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about. Your Jesus has no bearing on my life, because as far as I can tell, the majority of assholes like yourself are nowhere near following Jesus’ path of living by His example. Jesus let people come to him, and his teachings were profound enough to gather millions of followers. And it’s the followers that have ruined everything. If you’d all shut up about your religion for a while, the ‘unconverted’ out there would wonder what big secret you’ve all got, and would come bashing down your doors to see what it is exactly that’s making you all so happy. They would have chosen to find you, on their own, giving you the much more satisfying feeling that you have in fact chosen the correct path, and you didn’t need to browbeat and coerce anyone into it, which, I would imagine, ultimately leaves you with a hollow, empty feeling deep in your hearts, a feeling you’ve conditioned yourselves to completely ignore.”
The first guy retreated toward their theater a little, motioning for his acolytes to follow. “Maybe we can talk a little more when we get out of our movie.”
“Yeah, I’d love that. I’ll be near the popcorn counter, preparing to burn in hell.”
With that, the guys turned and walked, a little shaken, towards their door. Derek, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, turned and walked back towards the lobby. Suddenly he turned.
“Hey!” he called.
The three men stopped. “Yes?”
“Yeah – Darwin! Dinosaurs!!!!”
With that, Derek paced back to his canister, dumping his stubs through the slot with a frustrated shove. He stared down at the metal can for a moment, reliving the episode, letting his frustration subside. When he looked up, Heather the popcorn girl was staring at him. Blinking once, he ventured with a smile, “So where were we?”
Heather slowly responded, “I was about to tell you how drunk I got at a concert and felt that my life was spinning out of control, and how Jesus helped me through it, but maybe now I won’t.”
She turned back to the artificial butter dispenser she had been cleaning. With an enormous sigh, Derek grabbed his clipboard.
Time to check the temperatures.
HS I had not previously had the pleasure of reading your story before. However, I did have the extreme pleasure of working with you on that particular day. You ambled over to the cashier counter after the encounter a little stunned with yourself but gleaming with pride. As I remember it we had a great extended conversation about organized religion & cult religions verses individual spirituality after that encounter. Great retelling of the events, my only regret is that I didn't get to hear your conversation with the offenders.
hah! heather the popcorn girl finally had her moment. :)
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