34 in the reliability of our regulars, the orders we have waiting on the counter by the time they make their way to the concession stand. Tradition even bites at the fingers tasked with changing the marquee during the cold months of winter. When I had already seen the movie (maybe even twice), I would often end up sitting on a stool in the corner of the concessions stand, one hand gripping a book and the other shoved into my bag of popcorn. I kept a bundle of paper towels nearby in an attempt to keep my pages safe from buttery fingerprints. I was so low to the ground that it was easy for my eyes to catch the signatures that decorated the areas of walls, shelves, and counter you would certainly miss at first glance. I recognized a majority of the names. Most of them had babysat me or worked at the theatre when I was barely tall enough to grab my candy from the counter. They remind me of the board of wood that sits at the top of the creaking stairs, and just before the opening to the marquee. It serves as another tradition: the signing of your name during, or after, your final shift. Forever making your mark on the establishment, or as close to forever as you can get with a painted square of wood that lives inside a one hundred-year-old building. I am not even sure if everyone has signed it. Maybe this tradition is forgotten by some, or maybe endings come too quickly no matter the situation. I had always planned to sign it—even taken a second or two to imagine where I would add my name to the others—but circumstances change and the letters remain unwritten. I cannot remember the last time I worked at the theatre, or if I had any indication that it would be my last time greeting customers and scooping popcorn into those bright-colored bags. I do remember worrying about my graduation being cancelled, but it seemed unfathomable that the pandemic outbreak would last throughout the summer. Ultimately, the end of my senior year of high school was completed at home, and my graduation was transformed into a parade, but I never had that final shift at the Strand. Losses that do not begin to compare to the devastation that is Covid-19, but ones that leave a strangeness in their wake all the same. I wondered if returning to the Strand as a customer would feel strange, but it felt remarkably normal. I walked under the lights and through the doors with my ex-coworker turned long-time beau. We were greeted with familiar smiles as time spent in line was not only for the tickets, but the pleasant conversations. Shortly after wrapping my fingers around our paper tickets, I tucked them safely into my pocket, making sure they wouldn’t be crinkled after the movie. When ordering our popcorn and drinks, I reached for a straw, hesitating once my eyes caught the sight of a new, un-jammed straw dispenser. We laughed as we sat in our seats, realizing that this was only our second time going to the theatre together outside of work. Instead of actually watching the previews, Preston and I spent the minutes before the movie began trying to recall all the times we had sat together while working, and complaining that the seats we chose (in the middle-ish of the theatre) just were not the same as the seats in the back. But we were too lazy to move. It wasn’t until halfway through the movie that my mind drifted, going past the blue curtains and up the creaky stairs. It landed on the board of signatures—the one missing mine—but I quickly pushed the thought away and instead let my fingers brush against the soft paper that sat safely in my pocket. I’m in no hurry to add my name to the others. I want to keep the theatre as mine for just a while longer.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NzkyNTY=