Sunday January 22 2006I visited an old friend in Virginia for the weekend. We decided to see that movie everyone has been talking about, Brokeback Mountain. The theaters near my home will not show the film so I was very glad for the opportunity to go see it. Having heard many reviews and opinions about the film, I was determined to keep an open mind and base my opinion on the merits of the movie, not the hype in the press.
I guess wearing chaps to the movie was a bad idea. When we got out of the pick-up truck at the theater, we were verbally assaulted by a group of hoodlum teenagers. As they were shouting derogatory comments at my friend, one of them tossed a piece of asphalt at me, knocking off my cowboy hat. Though my instinct was to shout something, or hurl the fragment of pavement back at them, I held my tongue and just dismissed the punk kids as such.
As we made our way toward the entrance to the movie house I noticed a group of 40 or so people across the parking lot who were chanting and carrying signs: “God Hates Fags” and “Homosexuality is a Sin” and the like. There was a preacher amongst them who was leading part of the group in “Ringing in the Sheaves”. All at once, a man emerged from the non-singing portion of the crowd carrying a hangman’s noose. It was at that point I told my buddy that we should probably take a rain check and see this movie another day. He insisted that he would not allow a bunch of picketers to impinge on his constitutional right to pursue happiness (I didn’t tell him that the pursuit of happiness was not guaranteed under the Constitution. I knew what he meant).
I suggested that we try another theater but he explained that we weren’t in the big city, and this was the only theater for 40 miles. Though I was becoming concerned about the unexplainable hostility in the air, I agreed that we should just go into the movie and perhaps by the time it was done, the protesters would be gone.
There was a long line for tickets at this 4 movie cinema. Brokeback Mountain was showing on 3 screens and Chicken Little was showing on the other. So there were a lot of kids running around and raising a commotion. I thought to myself, all these kids must be here for Chick… as my cowboy hat was knocked off once again. This time, it was a blue haired muscular guy with a lot of tattoos and face piercing who was obviously trying to show off for his punk rocker friends by harassing me. I said nothing as I bent over to pick up my hat. I did not realize this joker was standing on one of my spurs causing me to loose my balance and fall to the ground.
When we reached the ticket booth we were informed that all the Brokeback Mountain shows were sold out except for 1 seat in the next show but they were plenty of available seats available for Chicken Little. So we bought one Brokeback Mountain ticket and one Chicken Little ticket assuming that I could sneak in to Brokeback Mountain once past the usher. Needless to say the blue haired punk rocker who had accosted me in the line was a bit irritated that I had purchased the last ticket of the evening and he mumbled something under his breath as he and his friends left the theater.
We had planned to go to dinner after the movie but I was very hungry and needed a snack to get me through. I went to the concession stand and asked for a hot dog. The pimply faced kid said there had been a run on them; the corn dogs too. He reached under the counter and pulled out what he claimed to be the last ‘King Size” Tootsie Roll which I bought along with a box of plain popcorn (they were out of popcorn butter too) and a Fanta.
The ticket clerk did not lie about the show being sold out. Every seat in the musty smelling auditorium was full. My buddy quickly found an empty seat but I was not as successful. We agreed to take turns standing at the back of the theater and sharing the seat he had found. As the house lights, there were 2 or 3 YEE-HAA’s! which reverberated through the auditorium. I could have sworn one of them was DNC Chairman Howard Dean. Wishful thinking I guess.
About 20 minutes into the film, the usher entered and spotted me standing at the back of the theater. I was hoping he would just turn around and leave but he did not. As he approached me all I could see was the bright red tip of his flashlight but somehow I knew I was busted. He asked to see my ticket stub and I did not even hesitate to produce it. Using the red tipped flashlight, he motioned me into the hall. “This ticket is for Chicken Little” he stated and without even a pause he continued “it’s the 3rd door on the left.”
I entered the Chicken Little movie not expecting to be confronted once again by the Punk rocker guy with the bolts in his neck but I was. He and his cohorts dragged me feet first down to the front of the theater where they kicked and stomped me quite soundly all the while being cheered on by the rotten little children who had abandoned watching the film in favor of watching my beating.
The thrashing continued for what seemed like an hour and was finally interrupted by the security guard and an unidentified patron. “Third time this week” I heard him say as he helped me up from the floor and out of the theater. He escorted me to the managers office where first aid was administered by the pimply-faced concession stand attendant whom I learned was actually the assistant manager.
He apologized for my troubles and refunded my ticket with the guarantee, in writing, that I would not sue. I remained in the office until Brokeback Mountain ended at which time I was reunited with my friend at long last.
We arrived back at his pick-up truck to find the tires slashed, the windshield shattered and a surly comment keyed into the door on each side. Oddly enough there were no other damaged vehicles in the parking lot. I was curious why our truck had been singled out for vandalism. My pal pointed out that the horse trailer had caused him to use 2 parking places and that we had probably been the victims of parking lot rage.
At any rate, I still have not seen Brokeback Mountain but my best friend said it was very good. He wrote a review which you can read here.
Copyright © 2006 Quaid Davis. All rights reserved.
