Movie Heist

The very funny writer Eric D. Snider once wrote about going to the movies and watching a crime take place. A lame, gross, petty crime. He saw a group of teenage boys dig three large drink cups out of a theater trash can, rinse them out in the bathroom, and take them to the concession stand for free refills - as though these were drinks they had paid for and already emptied while waiting for their movie to start.

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

Grossed out because, uh, those cups were garbage. Garbage.

But I was also fascinated because who does that? There’s no question that movie theater prices are obscene. In fact, I'm pretty sure that when oil company executives retire, they shift careers and take over movie theater chains. They have the same morals and profit margins. Popcorn costs literally next to nothing to make, and so the profit margin on an oily eight dollar bucket is astronomical.

Because concession prices are practically criminal, 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.) But bringing in your own stuff is very different than scavenging cups out of the trash and bilking the theater out of pop. Not giving the theater unfair amounts of money is not the same as just flat-out stealing from them.

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

But as I condemn these little weasels, I am 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. The main theater in town - the Westwood -- had two exit doors at the back that opened up onto an empty parking lot. The plan was for one of us to pay to get in, pop open the back exit, and let the other two in.

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

The thing that allowed me to justify it was that I actually paid to get in. I figured as long as I paid, I was close to blameless. (I overlooked the fact that I was helping two other people not pay.)

Timing was crucial. If I went too early, it would look suspicious. If I went too late, there would be other people there who would see what I was doing and report it to the Man.

The night of our heist, my heart thumped and clammy nerve sweat collected under my arms. In the Westwood, there was a curtained hallway between the theater and the actual exit door. I slipped behind the curtain, tapped quietly on the door, got the signal tap in return, and pushed it open. Rusty and James hustled in, and we rushed back to the empty theater.

I enjoyed the movie. It’s actually one of my favorites, but I felt bad about my crime for a long time. I know never helped anyone sneak into the movies again.

Happily, 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. They spend their weekends fishing rather than sneaking into theaters.

So maybe there's hope for the kids 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 root through trash to get free refills.