Deep Reflection and Thursdays

I generally work every Thursday. From the hours of 3:15 PM and 11:30 PM, I am locked away in the box office. Surrounding me are three whitewashed walls and a tinted glass window. In the six foot void between the two sits my chair, a computer, and a jutting microphone. These are my instruments of torture, my slow and painful death.

First, there is the chair. It’s more of a stool with a plank serving as the “back.” This plank is neither padded or stable. The slightest amount of pressure applied to it sends the whole chair flying backwards, and it is difficult to serve a customer while lounging Roman-style.

What is, perhaps, more painful than anything else is the computer. It taunts. There are a total of two pages to stare at. The first is twelve solid, gray blocks, each displaying one of the sixteen odd movies the theater is playing that week. On the second, there are approximately six blocks, each one an R rated feature, each promising a terrible delay and almost certain embarrassment as I am forced to ask for the ID of everyone appearing under 30.

Of course, there is the occasional interruption. My manager’s sometimes walk in, but their visits consist of thirty-second niceties before thrusting a times list or a schedule at me. They inquire about my school or my sister, but the look on their faces is blank and gray. For they, like myself, have been trapped inside the box that is the back office for longer than I have, and talking to another human after several hours of solitude is awkward.

“Hey, Megan.”

“Oh, hey ___.”

“How are you doing today? How was school?”

I stare mindlessly at the parking lot. “Fine.”

“Good. Here are the times for tonight.”

“Thanks.”

No, socialization is entirely confined to opening and the weekend. Then we are fresh, or at least busy. Our mouths are well lubricated and running nonstop. Between customers there is no moment to catch your breath. Rather, you continually plead with the snake-like line creeping around the building. “I can take the next person in line! Over here! In the middle! I am still open!” In the brief span between the seven o’clock and eight o’clock movies, our brains are already running full force and chatting becomes fun, relaxing, and necessary.

This is not true of Thursdays. No, Thursdays are the days of quiet reflection and endless contemplation. They are the days of small children viewing “Alvin and the Chipmunks” with their grandparents. They are the days when the popcorn goes stale, and that which is lucky enough to be served is the batch we made at three o’clock that afternoon, cleverly disguised by a teaspoon of salt and warm bags. They are the days when the cashier counts the gray boxes on the computer screen.