Dust to Dust

Matea, Georgia and I took an impromptu trip to the Palace 9 on Oscar Sunday to see one more nominated film prior to the awards show later on that night. Not long after we had settled into our seats, I heard a mildly comical conversation going on behind me. Two elderly women had come in after us and had sat down in the seats directly behind. “You can eat popcorn?” one of them said with alacrity. “Yes,” the other said. “I thought you couldn’t.” “I thought I couldn’t, but I can. It’s fine,” replied her friend. After a few moments’ pause: “Well, we should get some,” the friend said. The woman let out a wistful sigh. “Too much work.” At this, my body must have tensed, or I must have tilted my head towards them, because Matea leaned over slightly and said, “Offer.” After deliberating for a few seconds in my head, and honestly allowing the moment to pass, I finally turned around in my seat and said to the woman over my right shoulder, “Would you ladies like for me to go get you some popcorn?” Her eyes widened. “Well aren’t you kind,” she said. Her age or her poise made her sound nearly British. (I’ve found many older, educated New Englanders tend to have an English quality to their speech.) I could tell their first instinct was to say thanks but no thanks, but as I remained turned around in my seat, I smiled brightly and said, “You should take me up on it,” in a friendly, sing-song kind of way. “Well, ok,” she said with cheerful reluctance, as if deciding something of importance on a whim. I nodded my head and lurched forward in my seat.
“We just want a child’s size,” they said before I stood to face them. I grasped Matea’s small popcorn in my fingers and said, “Would you like this size? This is a small.” I turned to find two white-haired women in their 70s or 80s sunken into two oversized, rocker-back movie theater seats. Their Brett Somers-esque spectacles shone brightly in the dim light, illuminated by the reflection of a pre-movie quiz on the screen behind me. It posed an inane question about Zach Effron to the half-capacity (no pun intended re the average age of viewer for this particular film) theater audience. “They also have the kiddie pack,” I said to the women, “which comes with a drink and candy.” I instantly felt I had thrown a wrench into the works. Georgia held her kiddie pack above her head where the women could see it. Though they both seemed to hold their breath in a moment of hurried deliberation, the diversity of colors and products in the kiddie pack seemed to delight the woman on the right, and she happily said, “We’ll take that one.” “Ok!” I said, leaning my elbow against my seatback. “Now, what kind of candy would you like?” Her accomplishment in making the first decision vanquished by the next, the woman seemed to try visualizing the candy counter in her head. Another smile gradually worked its way across her face. “M&Ms,” she said assuredly. I smiled back. “Plain or peanut?” Her eyes shot upward as if literally looking to her brain for the answer. “Let’s just do plain,” she said with a chuckle. “This is too much work,” I quipped. She and her friend laughed feebly before grabbing their purses and wildly shuffling through the behemoth bags to find exact change. When they had decided on the kiddie pack, the one on the left had asked, “How much is that?” “$6.02,” Georgia had answered. The woman on the right said, “For that?” My first thought was that she was happy with the price of this box of treats: a scoopful of popcorn, a sippy-cup-sized drink, and a compartment filled with a regular-sized bag of candy. But as they exchanged ones and fives with one another, carefully counting out the bills, I realized that these two children of the Depression had rather been shocked at the exorbitance of the price, but were too far into “taking me up on my offer” to back out now. The folding money sorted out and handed over to me, the hunt was on for the last two cents. I drove my hand into my pocket, but, of course, I never have cash or change on hand. Georgia and Matea simultaneously reached for their wallets, too, but the woman on the left, the not-quite-British one, rather gallantly interjected, “No, I have it right here.” She carefully placed the two pennies in my palm. Her skin was soft and thin like buttered filo dough. “And finally,” I said, “what sort of drink would you like?” Audible pondering sounds came from both of their mouths. “Something clear,” one of them mustered. “Is Sprite ok?” I asked. “Yes!” in unison. It had been a roller coaster of confusion and conviction for the two of them. Last decision made, they both receded back into their seats.
“Oh, hurry dear, before it begins,” said the cheerful woman on the right. I skipped off to the concession stand to meet the same teenager who had filled my personal snack order. A little embarrassed, I placed the ladies’ order. As the well-pocked youth filled the box with their selections, I hoped in the back of my mind that Georgia had correctly remembered the price, including tax, as the penny-wise elders had left her no margin for error and, as I knew, I had no other form of payment. Having put the women through what appeared to be an ultimately exhausting barrage of questions, I could not bear to return to them for an extra few cents, should the need arise. As the kid let the fizz rest and topped off their Sprite, a couple of scenarios ran through my head. I could not sneak in and get the change from Matea, as they were sitting directly behind us. I could not call her, as she is ever diligent about turning off her cell phone during any film or performance. I had decided on haggling with the now-idle gang of high schoolers behind the counter (I was the only person still filling a concession order), pleading my case on behalf of my enfeebled geriatric acquaintances back in theater number two. I’ll slip you the change on my way out after the movie, I would tell them. They’ll have no problem with this, I thought, as he punched in the PLU for “Kiddie Pack.” But no need for a convincing plea; Georgia had remembered correctly. I slid the $6.02 across the counter and pulled the box of warm, yellow kernels towards me. I unwrapped a straw and punctured the hard-plastic cup top, and made sure to get extra napkins. Back in the theater in a flash, the house lights still up, I handed over the box of goodies. The woman on the right handed the parcel over to her companion, and I placed the four napkins in her lap. They both offered a gracious “thank you,” still with a hint of pleasant surprise in their voices.
The film, The Last Station, began without delay. It told the story of famed Russian writer Lev Tolstoy in the golden years of his life, as he struggled to decide on the rightful inheritors of his legacy. By the time of his death at Astapovo Station at age 82, he had endured immense pressure from both his wife, Countess Sofya Andreevna Tolstoy, and his protégé, Vladimir Chertkov, who both had a personal stake in securing the copyrights to the author’s written works. In the end, he and the Countess seemed a typical elderly couple preyed upon by more youthful family members (in this case, a Tolstoyan Movement that had taken on a life and mind of its own). Watching the Countess being locked out of doors like a child while her husband lay dying, I felt a slight bit of pride that my own inquest into the business of two elderly folks had been for selfless and benevolent ends. I thought to myself, when I am old and nominally incapacitated, and I find out one day, to my surprise, that I can still eat popcorn, I hope some youngster is willing to fetch me a box of treats covered in teddy bears and trains, too. I will surely be appreciative then. But this day, in the dark flickering of the theater light, like the waxing shadow of the next decade of my life, nothing could be more satisfying than hearing my two new geriatric friends quietly rip open a bag of M&Ms to share.