Death Race 9:50

I'm sitting at the computer. The screen is the only light in the room and it dusts my face, arms, and chest with fluorescent power. I'm here trying to remember the events that led me here.

I worked later than usual, went to my sister's and changed the oil in both cars, watched some TV, and listened to jazz on the radio as I went home to help Alicia put the kids in bed. And with six quarters in my hand I hopped in the car and drove the 5 minutes to the theater.

I'm wearing my tight jeans, the ones whose seams—if I put more than a cellphone and my wallet in the pocket—make permanent indentations in the skin of my legs. I have to hold the quarters in my hand, which makes it hard to drive, so I put them on the passenger seat, on top of my jacket.

When I pull up the the theater and park, I grab my jacket and I hear the jingle of quarters as they ricochet off the passenger door, seat belt, and dash board. I'd like to curse, but no words come. Instead I fumble through the dark car feeling for six quarters. When those have been gathered up, I spill out of the car like a drunken man with a broken leg. I have no idea why, but the quarters incident has affected my equilibrium.

After I get my ticket, I wander into the theater checking my watch to make sure I'm still on time. An usher stands a good 20 feet in front of the ticket-taking podium. He's a short Asian teen, with long stringy hair. As I pass him he walks with me, and I hand him my ticket. He tears it without looking at it and hands it back to me, and there is this strange moment when we are walking in-sync toward the velvety ropes that divide those with untorn tickets from those with torn tickets. And for a moment we look as if we could be having a friendly conversation.

The theater is mostly empty, as it is most nights, but I prefer it that way. I think about the way that we can all sit in a mostly-empty theater and watch the same movie and have the same experience without out knowing each other and not wanting to know each other, but craving that shared experience. And the lights dim, the trailers start, and we all share together, alone.