Sit down and buckle up…you are NOT gonna believe my recent traumatic movie theatre-going experience.
So Sunday night, Jimbo, Sax and I head down to a nearby, newly redone theatre to catch “The Hundred-Foot Journey.” (Indian family opens a gaudy but delish Indian joint across the road from Helen Mirren’s stuffy, Michelin-starred French restaurant in picturesque French countryside.)
The theatre is packed. (First bad omen.) But we find some decent seats up in the front—not great but not neckache-inducing either.
After the movie starts, this 20-something guy comes and sits next to me. RIGHT NEXT to me. (Second bad omen) I detest sitting next to anyone in the theater, but I figure it’s time to get over my phobia and just deal for the next 2 hours.
Soon my neighbor pulls out a bottle of red wine and takes a swig from the bottle. Which I didn’t love, but since Jimbo and I have been known to sneak in libations occasionally, again, I tell myself to chill out.
This guy is pretty rude throughout the movie. Texting, swigging, rumpling his freakin’ popcorn bag and his CANDY bag he snuck in from the candy shop next door. Not fun.
Twenty minutes toward the end—CLINK!—he drops his wine bottle. Red wine torpedoes up my leg, soaking my white pants and sandals/bare feet.
Not wanting to make a scene, I hiss:
“Dude! You just spilled your wine all over my pants. NOT COOL.”
He mumbles something smart assed.
By the end of the movie, steam is pouring from my ears. After the lights come up, I read him the riot act. He is belligerent. His mom (sitting one row behind us) actually comes to his defense and shushes me.
Jimmy calls him an f**ing dick. Not wanting the situation to escalate,
I tell Jimmy to ease up. The punk tells us his name is “James Doe”
(name changed to protect the douchey),
and his dad owns the theatre, and boohoo if I didn’t enjoy my movie going experience.
Then he says to Jimmy, “Yeah, bro, you better keep walking!”
Jimmy wants to shove the red wine bottle where it don’t shine, but shows restraint.
As I am reporting him to the supervisor, James Doe strides up and repeats his story to the supervisor. Obviously hammered, this guy has NO FEAR. He plays like a drunk, entitled kid proclaiming to own the theatre, and tough shit if I spilled wine down your leg.
Deal with it.
So! I get home and call my friend who, in fact, owns the theatre. (She has partners so I don’t know if this punk is telling the truth.)
She says absolutely not, and she is going to get to the bottom of this. She asks me to describe him.
That’s when we go all CSI!
I ask Saxon (known for his attention to detail) what the guy looked like.
He doesn’t miss a beat: “Aloha shirt. A’s cap. Jeremy Renner with baby fat.”
Next day my friend pulls his image from the movie theatre surveillance cameras, sends it to her partner, supposedly the kid’s “dad.”
Her partner recognizes the punk as a kid his son went to school with but hasn’t seen for several years.
BUSTED! James Doe gets an unexpected phone call.
Writes a grammatically atrocious apology letter to the “theatre owner” (doesn’t bother to research the owner’s name—nice.) and offers to pick up my dry cleaning bill to get my jeans “back to normal.”
I am tempted to tell him my pants are permanently damaged and demand a $200 gift card to my favorite boutique, but instead savor the fact that justice has prevailed,
and we royally busted James Doe!
Also, I take solace in knowing that he must have one hell of a candy/red wine hangover.
I am thinking of going into the P.I. biz.