I finished my meal quickly, watching the red clock on the wall in the kitchen. I was pretty sure the movie started at 7:15 but perhaps it had been changed to seven and I didn’t want to miss it either way. I left a few bites of pasta on my plate and all of the dirty dishes in the sink. It was more of a mess than I’d ever left before, the sort of mess one leaves on a Saturday night before going out, and this seemed quaint to me as it was Saturday night and I was going out but it was just me and there was nobody to know about the mess or worry about it but me.

I took time to brush my teeth, and in my closet I took time to find the blue jeans I wanted to wear. I put on a soft brown shirt and left both my phone and my wallet, taking just a $20 bill, and then deciding to take my driver license as well, in case the movie were rated “R” and somebody actually asked to verify my age, or—better yet—in case I met some people at the theater and we all went out for drinks together and I thought how I would only have enough money to buy one drink but that was just fine. Finally I decided to wear a jacket, as the air was cool and maybe I would walk after the movie.

It took me three minutes to walk to the theater, and the sun was going down and I felt good in my new blue blazer and my fancy watch and not carrying my phone or my wallet. I passed a few people in the street, and I felt at the shoulders of the corduroy jacket and thought that it was a bit too wide for me, and I thought about having it tailored and perhaps I could have the sleeves let down on my suit coat as well.

There was a long line at the theater, and I realized that Saturday night was special and I looked at all of the people and saw that my movie was at 7:15 but the Meryl Streep movie about a middle-aged couple rediscovering sex was at seven and I figured most people were in line for that. I moved to the back of the line and watched a man selling small books of poems from a table under the covering of the theater entrance. He had a sign that read something about supporting your local poet, and I looked for a price but couldn’t find any. I watched him for a few minutes while the line moved slowly forward and I thought that if the books were cheap I may buy one to read in line and before the movie started. He had grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses and was rather tall but unassuming, with a tie-dye shirt and tightly-laced sneakers beneath a pair of pale, ordinary blue jeans. Part of me wanted to help out this person, who was brave and seemed nice, and part of me wanted a book of poetry because I had none. The poems were his and I thought he looked like a man who wouldn’t write terrible poems, and they might even be good. I was feeling expansive, having been alone all day and having painted well and hard all afternoon, and being out to the movies by myself I felt like I was having a magical experience, and that everything was significant, and I was probably meant to buy this book of poems.

I caught his eye from the line with one finger raised and he came over holding up both books and smiling at me. I asked him to tell me about his poems and he said little more than that they were his poems.

“How much are they?”
“they’re $14 in the stores, but here they’re whatever you want, or free if you’re broke”

I thought for a moment and settled on five dollars, which he accepted and I asked him which one I should have and he shrugged as if it made no difference and told me to take the one I had chosen to leaf through. He asked me if I was a writer and I said not really, and he told me he would be doing a reading in Berkeley on Wednesday and that it would be fun, and pointed out his contact information on the back of the book in my hand and said that if I sent him an email he’d give me the details. I gave him my name and we shook hands and I thanked him profusely and then I bought my movie ticket and he went back to standing and holding up his books and smiling.

Inside I hesitated before walking past the snack bar, deciding not to spend $4 on M&M’s as I’d just spent five dollars on a little book of poetry that might, I thought for the first time, be worthless. The theater was crowded, and number three was in the back up a carpeted flight of stairs that curved to the left. I followed a couple up the stairs, and I admired the man’s shirt and pants and shoes that all fit him well and looked very comfortable. There was a hole in his rear pocket from the corner of his wallet and I found this hole somehow endearing and that it changed completely how I thought about him.

The room was nearly completely full, and quite small, and I was glad to only be searching for one seat. I found one between two couples, and the pair in the aisle stood for me to pass. I sat without taking off my jacket, thinking it would be inconvenient to hold folded in my lap. I read the first poem and it was long and humorous and narrative and very strange. I felt reassured that the man was a serious writer and there might be something in the poems for me after all.

Before the film began, an employee drew tickets for three prizes. I was so sure that I would win that I felt dismayed when I didn’t. After each number was called a funny guy behind me exclaimed “Awwwww” loudly, and I laughed each time.

Finally the movie began, and it was good and funny and sweet. I was disappointed only in the behavior of the main character. Everybody seemed to like it, especially things like Antonio Banderas showing up and the main character exchanging his typewriter for a shiny Macbook Pro.

About half-way through I began to get hot, and I wished I’d taken off my jacket before siting down. The movie was in full swing and the room was so crowded and small I felt I couldn’t stand up to take it off, and I didn’t see how I could get it off sitting down without somebody to pull the back of it for me, and to my left and right were older men and I didn’t want either of them to touch me. The one on my left smelled of booze. Not the fresher scent of a cocktail or glass of wine just consumed, but the stale stink of a drunk that had begun hours, days, or years before, and I wondered how he went out in public like that and I considered saying something about it to him after the movie.

The movie ended to a round of applause and I struggled to put my shoes back on in my silly hot jacket, and after waiting politely for a few minutes I got up and past the couple who stood for me again and went out of the room, thinking about my brown shirt and how I had started to sweat and how I’d just done laundry. I took a drink from the metal fountain in the wall and looked at a single piece of popcorn lying by the drain that hadn’t been there before and I wondered how it got there.

Outside I passed the poet, who was wearing a purple fleece over his t-shirt, and I told him that I liked his first poem and he thanked me and asked about the movie and I told him it was good, but that I still wasn’t sure what exactly I thought about it. I could have stayed and talked longer and maybe gotten something valuable out of the conversation, but as usual I felt slightly uncomfortable and said goodnight and crossed the street. I thought about walking and even sat on a bench and read another poem, but soon I thought of my phone at home and what if somebody was trying to reach me and it seemed a good enough reason to go home, so I walked back rather quickly and up the stairs to my apartment and across the room to my phone that showed no missed calls, no new mail, and nothing at all.

“Typical” I said out loud, and I changed my clothes and set to the dishes in my sink and the other things that I knew I would be glad for having done in the morning and before long I went to bed.