October 30, 2000

It was bad enough that I was working ‘til eight on a Sunday night in a building with no heat. And that I’d had an ill-advised burrito for dinner. That part was bad enough. You’d think that the gods would have taken that into consideration when they allowed me to ponder that evening’s movie options. You’d think that they’d gently nudge me in the direction of, say, some fancy schmancy art film up at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas or, perhaps, down at the Film Forum. You’d think that, at the very least, they would have guided me to a somewhat lesser evil than Blair Witch 2. You’d think that, but you’d be wrong.

I left work in the blistering cold (well, okay, so maybe it wasn’t blistering, but it was in the 30s, and don’t even get me started on the wind chill) and got to the Chelsea Cinemas just in time to not want to deal with the very long line that had formed in front of the ticket booth. Actually, it wasn’t even so much the line, as the fact that the line was outside, and I just don’t deal well with cold. Also, I am loathe to hand over $9.50 in cash for a movie I know is going to suck, but I also feel like a big nerd using a credit card to pay for one lousy ticket (for it is always one, and it is always lousy). However, with the advent of the those little ticket machine dealies that remove the pesky tradition of actually having to interact with another human being, this has ceased to be a problem.

Except when the machines are, in theory, working, yet in reality, not. But nobody tells me this. And there is no sign. And I am five minutes late for the movie already. And I keep swiping my card, and selecting the movie, and choosing the adult price even though I am oh-so-tempted to choose child, but I inevitably get caught when I do that, so I try not to do that, and everything seems fine until...authorization failure. Would I like them to keep trying?

So I press yes, because I would, in fact, like them to keep trying, seeing as I know it is not my credit card, I know I’ve paid my bill, and I know I am all kinds of flush because I just deposited two giant freelance checks into my account.

And the authorization fails again. Would I like to keep trying?

Now I am really late, and I’m hoping the previews are still showing, because, y’know, if I miss the first five minutes of Blair Witch 2, I will never, and I mean never, be able to follow its intricately woven and masterfully scripted plotline. I move to another machine, and try another credit card. The same damn thing happens. The ticket guy is looking at me blankly. There is no longer a line. But, goddamn it, it’s cold! Still, I have no other choice.

I go outside and buy the damn ticket. With cash. It’s just easier that way.

The movie is as bad as you think it might be. But I knew that going in. What I didn’t know was that, apparently, in the minutes I had been struggling with the ticket machine, my fellow moviegoers had taken a vote and elected me their official Cellphone Monitor. I found this out in a very sweet and endearing way. Let me share it with you.

Half-way through the film (sic), a happy little electronic tune can be heard from across the aisle, a few rows in front of me. It is not a ring. It is not a beep. It is a happy little electronic tune. It consists of several notes, lasts for several seconds, and is repeated in a higher key, also lasting for several seconds. Now, while I absolutely abhor cellphones, I have come to accept them as part of the deal with the devil I have made in order to live in New York. But I do have a breaking point.

After the second chorus of the HLET, the phone owner answers the phone. “Hello?” she says, and remains in her seat. She says more words. She pauses. Still more words are said. She is still in her seat. I realize that she has no intention of getting off the phone any time soon. I am stunned. I mean, literally, stunned. And no one is saying anything to her. Her boyfriend is not gently nudging her out of the theater. Nobody is sighing loudly or turning around to witness the horror. No one, that is, except me.

I have always thought myself to be somewhat afraid of confrontations. But then, that was before I lived in New York. Now, it seems, I thrive on them. I get up, walk over to the phone owner (note my restraint in not calling her anything patently offensive, like, oh, say, Feces Face, Rodent Fucker or George Dubya), and say, “Would you mind going outside...or hanging up?” To my amazement, she does not punch me in the nose or spit it my eye, but, instead, goes outside. She had no problem with this whatsoever. She simply needed some kind soul to suggest the idea to her because, apparently, it was not painfully obvious.

I go back to my seat in triumph.

About half an hour later, I am smacked into speechlessness once more when yet another cellphone goes off. And the phone owner answers. And begins a conversation. In her seat. My mouth drops open at the sheer gall that this second woman has, after the previous incident. If one hadn’t already turned one’s cellphone off prior to the movie, I was sure that one, at this point, would have. So much faith I have in my fellow Manhatannites.

She’s sitting several rows in front of me, in the middle of the row. As soon as she starts talking, after a few beats to let the blood flow back to my brain, I say, in a very loud, outdoor voice, “Could you please go outside?” The woman immediately hangs up. I am not lauded or cheered in any way. I am very bitter about this.

I am not an unreasonable person. I understand that cellphones are really quite convenient and, at times, can save lives. I have toyed with the idea of getting one myself, and, truth be told, some of my very favorite people carry them on their person at all times. They remain my very favorite people due to the simple fact that I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen them actually use their phone. They go outside or into a bathroom to make a call. They don’t had out their number like a crazy person. And, they always, always apologize for having a cellphone.

If you have a cellphone, and want to impress me while we are at the movies, here is what you can do:

A) Turn the phone off.
B) If you have to have the phone on, turn the ringer off. Put the thing on vibrate. What? You can’t feel a party in your pants?
C) If you have to have the ringer on, and it rings, turn it off immediately. Do not answer the phone. They will call back.
D) If you have to answer the phone, say hello quickly and tell them you’ll call them back. Then hang up.
E) If you absolutely must speak to this very important person, get your ass out of the theater.

F) Buy me soup. It is very, very cold out there.

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