Dave and I decided to go to the tiny movie theater here in Saguache to see Star Trek. So imagine those small theaters you see from the 40’s…small…holds about 70 people or so…or maybe closer to 50…hard to say.
We are late (imagine that) mostly because I could not get his attention at the snack counter to make his selections.
We walk in after the opening credits and I slink into the seats nearest to the door and make myself as small as possible.
Dave, for some reason, decided to throw all manners in the tube for the evening.
He starts grabbing huge handfuls of popcorn and stuffing his face. I look over and both cheeks are puffed out and he’s munching so loudly the lady, Mrs. Peterson, three rows up makes a sideways glance backwards at him. The rancher dude in front of us clears his throat. People start to shift uncomfortably.
Dave doesn’t seem to notice and rattles the bag around and grabs another handful. I grab his hand while it’s in the bag. He doesn’t take the hint. I give him an evil sideways glance. It has no effect on him what so ever.
I quietly and quickly tell him to hush. His reply (right at a quiet moment in the movie), “what?” was not so quiet.
I wanted to crawl under the seat. Everyone knows everyone in this town. He was making a spectacle of himself.
He ask in his not indoor voice, “Where are the Whoppers?”
I told him I didn’t get any whoppers because he was too busy chatting with the neighbor behind us to tell me exactly what he wanted…so I guessed and went with popcorn. Seemed like a safe choice.
“But we always get Whoppers!” he hisses in the darkness.
He settles for another handful of popcorn.
And another.
And another.
Rattle, rattle goes the bag. Chomp, chomp, chomp goes Dave.
Rattle, Chomp.
I want to die.
All of a sudden, he starts to sputter. And cough. And really, REALLY cough. Uncontrollably.
I sink lower into my seat…wanting to be teleported into another space.
He is obviously choking to death and no one makes a sound. No one moves a muscle. We all want him to just die.
He starts to perform some sort of self heimlich maneuver.
All of a sudden a golfball sized mass of popcorn flies out of his mouth and grazes Mr. Ranchers cheek in front of us. Momentum continues and it clears the shoulders of the couple in front of Mr. Rancher. And lands softly into Mrs. Peterson’s beehive wig three rows up.
I. am. mortified. Dave is still sputtering and loudly slurping the last remnants of Pepsi.
Without missing a beat, he leans over, “I’m going to go get some Whoppers. Do you want anything?”