Fresh Popcorn

Fresh popcorn aromas taunt me; the back of my throat fills with its taste; my tongue rolls inside my mouth against the cheeks, the roof, and over my teeth, all of which have become sloppy and wet with saliva. 

Nostrils flaring, I purchase my movie ticket and rush to the concession stand, above which is a hand-drawn flyer: “Only REAL butter served here.”  

The volunteer behind the concessions counter, an older gentleman, smiles broadly and asks what he can get me.

What can he get me? Well, those small white bags filled with popcorn would never do!

“Do you have a super-size popcorn?”

“We have one size, Ma’am,” he says, shaking an empty paper bag at eye level. As he leans across the counter, a strong odor of Paco Rabanne cologne assails my senses. Ugh! Does he take a bath in that stuff? I frown at him, and my nose wrinkles as I press an index finger beneath it to block the overwhelming scent. He pushes an empty, open bag across to me.

I nudge it with my index finger, slowly spinning it around, and find it is crisp but thinner than lunch bags. There are a few flat spots on the raised texture of the paper. He must have the popcorn oil on his fingers. Its paper rattles slightly as I thrust it back to him.

 “Sir, this bag has grease marks on it. Where are your vinyl protective gloves?” I smell onions as he huffs an annoyed breath in response to my calling him out on his lack of concession hygiene.

“I want a medium Coke and seven bags of popcorn, please, with some of the real butter your sign touts; please fill the bag halfway and add some butter. I want to add salt before you fill the bag with the rest of the popcorn and butter.”

“Did you say seven bags?” He slaps a pair of vinyl gloves on the glass counter and wrestles with another pair, too small for his hands. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t wear them.

“Yes. Seven. What? You only have tiny bags, and I love popcorn.” I touch the vinyl gloves, feeling a smooth yet sticky texture, cool to the touch.

“Butter on EACH of the seven bags?” He’s annoyed. Tilting his head toward the counter, he says, “Those gloves are for you to use.”

My eyebrows raise. “What?”

“You won’t want to get butter on your hands and accidentally touch your clothes.”

I eye him like a toad who just learned to speak. “Yes, I want butter on each. I love popcorn with butter. Thanks for the gloves, but butter would get on them also, so I don’t understand your point.”

“You can wear one glove to eat with, and the ungloved hand shouldn’t touch the popcorn with its greasy butter. Miss, will you have others joining you?”

“That is ridiculous! I am not wearing gloves to eat popcorn. Fill my order, please!” 

I picked up the stiff gloves, swinging them back to him. They stick to my fingers like a spatula with splats of honey, and I have to shake and shimmy my hand to get them to drop. With my hands on my hips, I dare him to continue this line of questioning. The back of my waist is damp from perspiration, and my armpits are clammy. 

A woman passes behind me, cheap Victoria’s Secret cologne trailing her. I sneeze into my elbow and grab a rough, wafer-thin napkin for my nose. All these odors! Ugh. Another clerk is making a new batch of my favorite treat. I stand still, inhaling deeply, concentrating on the popcorn aroma, but it doesn’t entirely wipe out the unpleasant medley of stench. The scratchy napkin is not helping to block out odors, and my upper lip feels scraped.

“Miss? I was asking if you have others joining you. It doesn’t matter to me, but it might to you.”

“How so?” I shoot back at him, frowning. Slightly swaying, I fear my vertigo is taking hold. I suffer from stress vertigo – yes, it is a thing! The janitorial Lysol and urinal cake from the men’s restroom waft into the lobby, and I cover my mouth, trying not to gag.

“How will you carry seven bags of popcorn and a medium Coke to your seat, Miss?” He smiles as if to say ‘gotcha.’

Heat climbs from my neck into my cheeks, a slow burn of annoyance. I’m ready to… well, never mind, you understand!

“Where are the food carriers? I could put my bags of popcorn in a cardboard carrier, return, and get the rest, right?”

“We have no food carriers! People use their hands in here. Seven bags might spill, as the seats don’t have trays.”

“Trays?”

“Yes, you know, like the highchair trays for babies.”

“Are you calling me a baby?” I growl at him, trying not to make a scene, but he is pissing me off.

“Of course not! I was pointing out some obstacles in your food request before filling it. I don’t want you to spill your popcorn - that would be disappointing to you.”

“And MESSY for you!” I interrupt, but he continues on.

“Yes, messy, but we wouldn’t be able to replace the spillage because of the situation, you see.”

His hands wave in the hair, and it stirs up the nasty cologne he wears; I turn my head away, and I’m assailed by the odors of a man crowding me. I cannot escape the flowery smell emanating from his jacket. I want to vomit; it seems every other person is off-gassing disgusting detergent fragrances that choke my sensitive membranes.

“What situation?” I shoot back at him, trying to clear my senses.

“Okay, let’s back up a minute. If you get seven bags of popcorn, it will be hard to carry; there is no tray in the cinema seat upon which to set bags of popcorn; you must hold it in your hands, along with your drink.” He waves his vinyl-covered hands in a theatrical flourish. I can’t help but grin at the silly clown he has become.

“Wait, there aren’t drink holders in the seats, either?”

“Now, I didn’t say that.”

“You did just say that! You said I must hold my popcorn in my hands along with my drink.”

His tightly stretched smile enlarges as he attempts to hold his temper. A stench of onion overcomes me when he leans in conspiratorially and says, “I meant that you must carry the items into the cinema in your hands. We don’t have carriers, carts, or food deliveries to your seat. The food goes with you. In. Your. Hands. Yes, to your question, the seats have drink holders. However, there is nothing upon which to set numerous bags of popcorn. If you try to place them in your seat next to you or all the bags in your lap, the popcorn will end up on the floor. Is that clear? Oh, excuse me, I’m so sorry. I meant to ask, does that make more sense? I don’t want you to be unhappy.” I feel the spongy, yet rigid, vinyl of the glove when he puts his hand on top of mine.

I jerk my hand out from under his, banging it accidentally. After the first surprised second, it throbs non-stop. I bite my tongue from the pain, and a welt rises on its side. That is it. Dammit!

I slam my other hand hard on the cold glass counter for emphasis. “You don’t want me to be unhappy! Okay, let me explain. I was happy the minute I walked to the door and inhaled the popcorn aroma that was wafting onto the street! I was happy when I laid eyes on your lovely concession stand operated by someone who appeared to be a kind gentleman. I was happy when I noticed the sign telling customers the cinema uses only real butter!” 

My tongue is sore, my right hand is still throbbing, and my left is stinging from my emphasis slap. OW!

My mouth salivates from the non-GMO Amish popcorn, topped in real butter, continually popping before my eyes. Drool wets the corners of my mouth, and I wipe it with my aching hand. The welt on my tongue is disturbingly painful, but I still crave the popcorn. Should I not get salt? They say salt heals wounds. 

Looking right, left, and behind me, I find people are lining up. I am holding up the line. No, wait, the guy behind the counter, refusing to fill my order, is holding up the line, not me! 

“Thank you, Sandy, for helping with the concession stand while I assist this young lady.” He grins macabrely at me and winks. He winked!! What an asshole!

The customers are grabbing their tiny bags of buttered or non-buttered popcorn, candy bars, and drinks, rushing to get a seat. Some in line are glaring and muttering. 

“What an entitled hussy,” a woman with a walker whispers. I stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on the counterman.

“What is the hold-up?” a guy grumbles, and Sandy waits on him.

Then, a tall, slinky blonde in a floor-length fur coat pushes her way to the counter, crowding me over. The coat brushes my arm, and the silky softness raises hackles. It is natural, not fake. I turn sideways, facing her. Real fur. Where is PETA? 

Her stained red lips, outlined in burgundy, are set in a tight, thin line. “What is the problem here? Why are you holding up the line and making us all miss the opening credits?” she stares down at me from her five feet ten-inch model height.

I straighten myself to the five feet six inches I barely reach, squaring my shoulders so sharply that pinched shoulder blades twinge; before a spasm sets in, I relax them. The arch of my eyebrow is barely manageable, but I refuse to soften it, even as my feet squawk in my pointed boots. ​What was I thinking wearing these boots to a movie?

“What is it to you? I am placing my order, and the concessionaire can’t seem to fulfill it.”

“Oh, an exceptional order just for you, I see! Is it something  they don’t offer, like hot dogs or pizza?”

Giggles float up from the end of the line, which I ignore, my attention on her. I feel sweat between my breasts, and the hair at the nape of the neck is damp. I focus my fury on her.

“How many animals died for your ugly coat? Shame on you!” I hiss at her.  “Shoo – go away, find a seat for your furry ass, Dearie," and I wave my hand to dismiss her. “Disgusting! Who wears real fur, especially to the movies?” I want all to hear while I rub her coat scum from my forearm in distress, as I ponder the many souls of furry creatures killed for her coat.

As the furbearer stomps away, I turn to the counterman. His mouth is hanging open, as is Sandy’s.

The nerve of these people! I just wanted some delicious popcorn, and they don’t offer a large. Then Ms. Model Extraordinaire, in her real fur coat, decides to select tonight for her slumming and thinks she can butt in.

Spinning to face him, I feel a surge of vertigo and grab the cold hard glass counter. Squeezing my eyes shut, I hang on until the spinning stops. 

“Miss? Are you all right?”

This outing for a movie and popcorn is now a non-event. I peek out with one eye and slowly turn my head. Finding I am stabilized,

I turn and leave, promising myself never to come to this cinema, no matter how tasty their popcorn.