Devon DeLapp (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} ddelapp) wrote,@ 2004-12-28 15:35:00 |
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The Wrong Water
I haven't updated for awhile, but certainly not for a lack of recent activity worth journaling. Christmas came and went. I rode on the coat tails of my more socially capable girlfriend to a handful of holiday parties, including one at the multi-million dollar estate of former 50's beefcake, now octogenarian philanthropist and blowhard Hugh O'Brian. He is best known for his title role in the formerly popular television show, The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp. The collection of Old Hollywood, their children, and porn-stars that mingled in his Western-themed home, are worth several entries at least. They are not what I want to write about first, though.
I saw The Aviator last night. It was fantastic and rich, and I'd like to watch it a second time before I'd feel comfortable discussing it in any depth. There is just so much there! But the film is also not what I'd first like to write about from the past two eventful weeks of the holiday season. Instead, I feel compelled to record an incident that occurred last night, as I watched the movie.
About an hour into the film, I took my water bottle from the armrest cup holder. I unscrewed the plastic top and had a drink. It was as the bottle dropped from my lips that I realized I had brought a covered cup with a straw into the movie, and that this water belonged to the gentleman on my right.
I froze. The bottle hovered above my lap in my right hand, the cap in my left. I didn't know what to do. It was a quiet portion of the film, and a small miracle he hadn't noticed me taking his drink. Or at least, it didn't appear he had noticed. He was smiling slightly, and seemed engrossed in the film. I quietly screwed the top on, then let his bottle rest on my lap, my arm intentionally casually trying to obscure it from his view.
Slightly panicked, I tried to think of my options. Were I to slip the bottle back into the cup holder, inches from his resting hand, he would undoubtedly notice. I had a vision of him seeing me, seizing the bottle, then me by the collar. "Hey!" he'd yell and stand. "Hey, this guy took my water! Can't you afford your own?" My girlfriend, seated on my left would look. Her parents, in town for the holidays and in the next two seats after her, would lean forward, looking at him in shock, then at me reproachfully.
I considered just tossing it to my left, high enough to avoid Halbe's kin, with a quick, small flip of the wrist. If anyone noticed the missile, I'd just look around, as befuddled as the rest. This seemed like an unreasonable solution though. The possible errors in trajectory were numerable, and probably just as likely to attract attention.
I kept the bottle in my lap for several more minutes. I was unable to watch the movie, my worry of the man glancing over seemed just an eventuality I was now waiting out. He'd become thirsty any moment, reach for his bottle, find it gone, then with a sickening slowness like I'd seen in so many movies, he'd turn and see the bottle clenched tight in my lap beneath my terrified face, staring moon-eyed up at him.
My salvation came in the form of a shuffling, middle-aged woman. She was making her way out of the theater, awkwardly crab-walking down our row. One by one we pulled our legs aside to allow her passage. After she had moved on, I leaned forward, as though to do a completely natural rearrangement of whatever items on the floor may have been disturbed by her passing. I carefully lay the bottle on its side beneath my chair, slightly cockeyed and near the edge of the seat, as though to imply the bottle had simply hopped from the cup holder on its own volition, and harmlessly had rolled a short distance away.
The task complete, I sat up, cleared my throat, then stole a glance at the man. His gaze was transfixed on Leonardo DiCaprio, and he seemed completely unaware of my clandestine relocation. I let out a tiny sigh, then settled more comfortably into my chair to enjoy the rest of the picture.
After the credits rolled and the audience stood to leave, he and his date began collecting their garbage. He looked at his empty cup holder for a long moment, then picked up a nearby empty popcorn bag, and left the theater, an arm around his girl. He never looked at me.
After we said goodbye to her parents, I told Halbe on the drive home what had happened. I'm not Catholic in any capacity, but I felt a deep need to confess my crime. Her laughter at my personal mini-drama as we cruised down the lap-lit street was the finest exoneration I could have asked for.
I haven't updated for awhile, but certainly not for a lack of recent activity worth journaling. Christmas came and went. I rode on the coat tails of my more socially capable girlfriend to a handful of holiday parties, including one at the multi-million dollar estate of former 50's beefcake, now octogenarian philanthropist and blowhard Hugh O'Brian. He is best known for his title role in the formerly popular television show, The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp. The collection of Old Hollywood, their children, and porn-stars that mingled in his Western-themed home, are worth several entries at least. They are not what I want to write about first, though.
I saw The Aviator last night. It was fantastic and rich, and I'd like to watch it a second time before I'd feel comfortable discussing it in any depth. There is just so much there! But the film is also not what I'd first like to write about from the past two eventful weeks of the holiday season. Instead, I feel compelled to record an incident that occurred last night, as I watched the movie.
About an hour into the film, I took my water bottle from the armrest cup holder. I unscrewed the plastic top and had a drink. It was as the bottle dropped from my lips that I realized I had brought a covered cup with a straw into the movie, and that this water belonged to the gentleman on my right.
I froze. The bottle hovered above my lap in my right hand, the cap in my left. I didn't know what to do. It was a quiet portion of the film, and a small miracle he hadn't noticed me taking his drink. Or at least, it didn't appear he had noticed. He was smiling slightly, and seemed engrossed in the film. I quietly screwed the top on, then let his bottle rest on my lap, my arm intentionally casually trying to obscure it from his view.
Slightly panicked, I tried to think of my options. Were I to slip the bottle back into the cup holder, inches from his resting hand, he would undoubtedly notice. I had a vision of him seeing me, seizing the bottle, then me by the collar. "Hey!" he'd yell and stand. "Hey, this guy took my water! Can't you afford your own?" My girlfriend, seated on my left would look. Her parents, in town for the holidays and in the next two seats after her, would lean forward, looking at him in shock, then at me reproachfully.
I considered just tossing it to my left, high enough to avoid Halbe's kin, with a quick, small flip of the wrist. If anyone noticed the missile, I'd just look around, as befuddled as the rest. This seemed like an unreasonable solution though. The possible errors in trajectory were numerable, and probably just as likely to attract attention.
I kept the bottle in my lap for several more minutes. I was unable to watch the movie, my worry of the man glancing over seemed just an eventuality I was now waiting out. He'd become thirsty any moment, reach for his bottle, find it gone, then with a sickening slowness like I'd seen in so many movies, he'd turn and see the bottle clenched tight in my lap beneath my terrified face, staring moon-eyed up at him.
My salvation came in the form of a shuffling, middle-aged woman. She was making her way out of the theater, awkwardly crab-walking down our row. One by one we pulled our legs aside to allow her passage. After she had moved on, I leaned forward, as though to do a completely natural rearrangement of whatever items on the floor may have been disturbed by her passing. I carefully lay the bottle on its side beneath my chair, slightly cockeyed and near the edge of the seat, as though to imply the bottle had simply hopped from the cup holder on its own volition, and harmlessly had rolled a short distance away.
The task complete, I sat up, cleared my throat, then stole a glance at the man. His gaze was transfixed on Leonardo DiCaprio, and he seemed completely unaware of my clandestine relocation. I let out a tiny sigh, then settled more comfortably into my chair to enjoy the rest of the picture.
After the credits rolled and the audience stood to leave, he and his date began collecting their garbage. He looked at his empty cup holder for a long moment, then picked up a nearby empty popcorn bag, and left the theater, an arm around his girl. He never looked at me.
After we said goodbye to her parents, I told Halbe on the drive home what had happened. I'm not Catholic in any capacity, but I felt a deep need to confess my crime. Her laughter at my personal mini-drama as we cruised down the lap-lit street was the finest exoneration I could have asked for.
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