There’s been a seismic shift in the world. I’m not ripping many movie theater tickets anymore.
Working at AMC was a dream. My manager called me a rip-roaring guy because I ripped customers’ tickets precisely and quickly. I never left stray pieces dangling. I’d volunteer for overtime to see people’s shocked, agape mouths as they looked at their well-tended tickets while I said, “Auditorium 2, first theater on your right.”
Now, most people get tickets on their phones. Any employee can scan them with no effort or accomplishment.
I get called into my manager’s office. He has leathery skin, and his glasses are taped together. If he let them fall apart, it’d be a perfect half-and-half split. “Jack, where’d your enthusiasm go? Several people have voiced their concerns. Can I do anything to help?”
“This job sucks. I quit.”
The world has gone to shit. I want to fix it, but I don’t know how. Anyone want to give me a sign?
I watch the Oscars, and Steven Spielberg makes a speech about the theatrical experience. “I don’t like where the state of movie theaters is heading.”
I stand up and clap. “Tell ‘em, Steven!”
“Too many people are watching films on their phones. But the best experience is on the big screen, with a group of strangers discovering movie magic together.”
“Fuck you!” I sit back down. He’s out of touch. No wonder nobody watches his movies anymore. In a cinema, the film itself is the passable dessert after a glorious entrée. And I was the best chef. Just ask the audience. I never got a complaint about my ticket ripping.
I seek fulfillment in unorthodox ways. I get a girlfriend, and when she falls in love with me, I rip her heart apart. I rip a bowl, becoming overdependent on weed, and I feel pathetic when I’m not high. I scalp Taylor Swift tickets and rip off overzealous fans. No matter how many ways I rip, the emptiness in my gut remains.
On a dismal morning, the fog outside pairs with my foggy brain. I spot an old man walking by. He has paper-thin skin. His skin’s texture calls to me. I grab him and rip him in half.
Now I’m in prison. I await the next seismic shift, hoping I’ll belong again. I stare at my steel bars. The moment they make them paper, it’s over for everyone.