Page 2 of Perfectly Us
I pass a kids’ movie and peek down into the auditorium, groaning when I see buckets of popcorn tipped over in the aisle that I’ll have to clean later, then move on to an action one where dudes are blowing up buildings and walking away from the explosion like total badasses. When I get to the horror movie, it’s on a graphic sex scene where a chick is riding a dude, her big tits bouncing and flopping everywhere.
I curl my nose—again, I know—and move on to the last theater. It’s one of those old black-and-white movies, a special anniversary edition that was released back into theater for one weekend only. I turn on the volume so I can hear it in the projection room and perch at the window to watch.
The handsome lead actor cups the woman’s face in both his hands, calls her beautiful, and they dramatically kiss. Soft music plays in the background as they begin to dance on the patio of the fancy hotel. The camera pans out before transitioning to a different scene. And I swoon… just a little.
I want a silver-screen romance, some dashing gentleman in a rocking suit to swoop in, knock me off my feet, and take my breath away. Maybe that’s cheesy, but I don’t care.
The house lights turn on in the auditorium as the credits start to roll. It’s my cue to stop daydreaming and get the hell back downstairs so I can clean the theater for the next showing. I leave the projection room and take the stairs down two at a time, burst through the door into the employee area, then out to the main lobby with a broom and dustpan.
“Waste of money,” a dude says, arm thrown around a girl’s shoulders, as they exit the theater.
She laughs and cuddles closer to his side, promising to make it up to him later.
I wait for the auditorium to clear, smiling at the customers who pass me like I’m invisible. Basically everyone I work with hates cleaning theaters and whine if I need help, but it’s not too bad. I enjoy the repetitiveness of it, just me, a broom, and the gallons upon gallons of spilled popcorn.
The shit I find when cleaning is crazy. Sometimes I wonder how the hell someone was able to sneak in an extra-large fountain drink from the convenience store, a chili dog footlong, and chalupas from Taco Bell. And the audacity of them not to share it with me.
I find the switch beneath the curtain on the wall and flip on the light before rolling in a trash can and start cleaning. I bounce a little to the song from the ending credits as I sweep, dump the contents into the trash can, and repeat.
“Need help, man?” Ruben asks, popping his head around the corner.
“Nah. I’m good. But, dude. Look at this.” I hold up yet another empty chili dog footlong container. “How the hell did someone sneak this in? Like seriously?”
“That’s some Houdini shit right there.” He crinkles his nose, which is pretty adorable, but I keep that to myself. “Let’s just hope you don’t find another used rubber.”
I make a gagging sound and sweep more popcorn into my dustpan.
Ruben comes up the stairs and gathers drinks from the cup holders. That’s the type of guy he is. I say I don’t need help, but he does so anyway. “Can you believe we’re actually done with school?”
Graduation was last night. The ceremony took place on the football field, and the humidity almost suffocated me to death by the time my name was called for me to walk up and get my diploma. There were a lot of tears as we threw our hats in the air.
One chapter of my life closed. Turning the next page is exciting and scary all at once.
“The end of an era,” I answer. “You think they’ll tell stories about us years from now?”
“Maybe about you.” He laughs and dumps the cups of soda in the trash. “That penis sculpture you made in art class will go down in history.”
“It was supposed to be a lighthouse, goddammit.”
Ruben laughs harder. “Hate to break it to you, Al, but I don’t think you have a future in sculpture making. You might be good at making dildos though.”
“Don’t make me swat you with my broom.”
Once the theater is clean, I move on to the next one. Ruben helps pick up trash, and we talk about random things, just like we always do. Our conversations are weird. We could be talking about superheroes one second, and that somehow segues into one about space, and then we’re discussing philosophical shit.
“If you were a doctor and someone died on the operating table, would you take their organs to donate to people who needed them?” Ruben asks.
I empty the popcorn from my dustpan. “Is the person an organ donor?”
“No. But before the operation, you heard about a teenager who needs a heart and will die if he doesn’t get one soon. The dead dude on your table is a perfect match, and his heart is strong and healthy. Would you take it anyway to save a life?”
“I think so. Maybe.” But these are all hypotheticals, of course. I’ll never have to actually make this choice. But as a future psychology major, the question piques my interest. “Would you?”
Ruben chews the corner of his bottom lip, his brow set in a hard line. Hewillbe a doctor someday. That’s his plan anyway. He comes from a long line of doctors, and it’s expected of him.
“I’d ask the family of the deceased,” he finally answers.
“And if they say no?”
