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There are many ways to measure your maturity. One such test: entering a darkened movie theater after the trailers have started to roll. It’s difficult to see this unfamiliar space in the flickering reflections of the screen, and all you can really make out are a hundred twinkling eyes looking back at you, annoyed at your lapse in cinematic courtesy, hoping that you’re not going to sit next to them (not unlike boarding a Southwest flight, but with significantly reduced visibility.)
For the young and socially awkward, this can seem akin to standing before St. Peter and his host of angelic clerks as they pour over the unflatteringly long list of your earthly transgressions. The personal centeredness necessary to confront such a situation comes with age and worldly experience. I no longer inwardly wince when I step into the dim movie house arena, but even for me, one further interpersonal challenge must be overcome before we can reach our seats.
Up there, near the center, three rows down from the back, there’s the exact number of spots we need, so the seating search party begins the ascent. Relief flows improbably uphill alongside us, as row after row of film fans gratefully realize that we will not be hunching along in front of them, knocking their knees and stampeding upon their drinks to reach those empty seats just past them. No purses or jackets must be relocated, and they can once again reassign themselves to the suspension of their disbelief.
I often feel, upon reaching the row with the seats we want, like the shark in Jaws, once the attack’s begun and the swimmers know what’s in the water. Everyone in the row can do the math fairly quickly: Let’s see, there’s four of them, and there’s only one empty seat there, two over there, and - just great! - these four right next to me! Once, my intended target’s concluded the calculations, there is the silent surrender to Fate. Talking to strangers, for most folks, is as gleefully anticipated as a trip to the dentist.
I don’t mind. I enjoy interacting with the natives. I had that fear once, but I eventually realized that on the absolute scale of fearful things, speaking to someone I don’t know ranks much closer to dropping your toothbrush in the sink than to having your hands hacked off by a dull paper cutter. And I’m not reticent or whispery when it comes time to talk.
“Are these seats available?” Clear as day.
Now it might be the deafening intensity of the THX or the SDDS or the Dolby Digital 7.1, but I think it’s a deeply-ingrained sociocultural phenomenon that likely dates back to a time when group entertainment meant sitting around the wondrous camp fire with your fellow cave dwellers, trading tales, and some thoughtless Cro-Magnon stumbles in late. Either way, the fact is that no matter how well the enquiry is enunciated, the communication has already broken down.
It really doesn’t matter if you choose to say, “Are these seats available?” or the diametrically opposed “Are these seats taken?” because the interrogatee will look at you like you’re Charlie Brown’s teacher.
This unfortunate soul must now guess what you’ve said, and whether the seat is indeed available or taken, and promptly respond to this hulking black mass looming overhead, “Waha wah ha.”
At this point, all the talking is like cocktail party diplomacy during a time of war: pointless jabbering when actions are all that matter. Now is another measure of maturity. The weak and squeamish, confused and inconfident, typically opt for a hasty retreat, soft-shoeing backwards into the knees and over the feet of their recent victims with the tentative gait of a cat walking backwards on a slim windowsill.
Stronger souls, assuming the required etiquette is now complete – conversational clarity be damned – simply take the seats and establish a defensive perimeter of armrests and crossed legs. So remember, the next time you’re approaching the closed doors of the movie theater, and the muted echo of surround sound filters out to meet you: you’re not just late for the movies, you’re entering a rite of passage.
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