Movie Heist

Blogger Eric D. Snider once wrote about going to the movies and watching a crime take place. A lame, gross, petty crime -- but a crime nevertheless. He saw a group of teenage boys sneakily root through a trashcan outside one of the theaters, dig out three large drink cups, rinse out the cups in the bathroom, and then take them up to the concession stand for free refills - as though these were large drinks they had paid for and already emptied while waiting for the movie to start.

When I read his story, I was simultaneously grossed out and fascinated.

Grossed out because, uh, those cups were garbage. Garbage. Plus, who knows who drank out of it the first time before it even went in the trash? Some crusty guy with no teeth and only smelly gum-holes could have been licking the inside of that cup trying to get the last drops of his Sprite while watching Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 for the third time. I don't think rinsing it out with tepid water in the theater bathroom would take care of that kind of skeeve, you know?

But I was also fascinated. I mean, who does that? Who thinks that way? Movie theater prices are obscene, and there's no debate about that. I'm pretty sure that when evil oil company executives retire from poisoning the world and dumping chemicals into oceans, they shift careers and take over movie theater chains. They have the same morals and make the same profit margins. Popcorn costs literally next to nothing to make. Same with soda. They charge three bucks for eighty cents worth of candy and think because they put it in a bulky cardboard box that we won't notice. The profit margin on a six dollar bucket of popcorn is astronomical.

Because theater concession prices are practically criminal and because I feel like they're taking advantage of a captive audience, I've never had a problem with bringing in my own candy, soda, popcorn, and occasionally sandwiches. (In winter, you can easily tuck a footlong sub into your coat and not be detected.) But bringing in your own stuff is very different than scavenging cups out of the trash and bilking the theater out of pop, you know? Not giving the theater unfair amounts of money is not the same as just flat-out stealing from them in my mind.

So I think poorly of these random teenagers I've never met. I judge them - that's right, judge them.

But wait! As I busily judge these little weasels, I am suddenly reminded of myself in junior high. A couple of my friends, Rusty and James, had a whole scheme to sneak into the movies and they wanted me in on their plan. There were two theaters in Rexburg, Idaho when I was growing up there - the Westwood, a cavernous single-screen on Main Street, and the Holiday, a low-slung, triplex just a block off Main. Both of them had two exit doors at the back of each theater that opened up onto empty parking lots, and the plan was for one of us to pay to get in and then sneak to the back exit, pop it open, and let the other two in.

Now, I was a good kid in junior high and high school - afraid to get in trouble, not interested in making waves, and seriously scared of my dad's white hot wrath. I stalled, tried to blow it off, tried to hedge - but eventually caved. I agreed to sneak them into a late show of Beetlejuice at the Westwood. 

My justification, the only thing that allowed me to do it, I think, was that I was the one who actually paid to get in. I figured as long as I was paying my own admission, I was close enough to blameless. (I conveniently overlooked the fact that I was instrumental in helping two other people not pay.) James and Rusty each gave me two bucks - that was my cut, I guess -- and I used it for admission. Timing was crucial. If I went too early, it would look suspicious to the theater workers. If I went too late, there would be other people there who would see what I was doing and report it to the Man.

I remember my heart pounding and cold nerve sweat under my arms. I was terrified I was going to get caught and that it would be the end for me. The theater manager, a pompous little man with a pencil 'stache, knew my dad and knew who I was. If he caught me, it was a sure bet my parents would hear about it. In the Westwood, there was a short, dark hallway between the theater and the actual exit door and it would shrouded by a curtain. I slipped behind the curtain, tapped quietly on the door, got the signal tap in return, and pushed open the door. Rusty and James hustled in, and we rushed back out to the theater before anyone else came in.

I don't remember if I was plagued by guilt or how long I felt bad, but I'm pretty sure I never helped anyone sneak in to the movie again. Once was enough for me. I managed to grow up and not be a felon. James and Rusty both grew up to be good guys, each of them married with a bunch of kids. Rusty got a degree in psychology and then took over his dad's cabinetry business. James is a computer engineer and spends his weekends fishing rather than sneaking into theaters.

So maybe there's hope for the three little weasels Eric Snider saw. Maybe drinking trash soda isn't the end of the line for them as human beings. More likely than not, twenty years from now, they'll be grown men with lives and responsibilities, and they'll laugh about the days back when they were willing to drink garbage pop in order to sucker the theater out of free refills.