There’s something suffocating in the air of this movie theatre. Maybe it’s the buckets of popcorn that go stale every shift, or the gleam of yellowish oil fermented onto laminate countertops. It could be how the low ceilings seem to compress the air, or how the breakroom carpet is thick with mildew stench, or how the storage room floor is always browned by something which vaguely reeks of sewage. Regardless, we’ve all been engulfed by the southern humidity of Georgia’s mid-August heat battling a half dozen vintage box fans: once-white contraptions brought by my favorite manager when the air conditioning broke last week. Gianna’s dating him now: a discovery I proudly relay to the new-hire I’ve been gossiping with for the last thirty-something minutes. There’s nothing quite as liberating as spending your shift dissecting the love lives of acquaintances with a thirty-five-ish-year-old ex-felon over slush-ees.
“Hey,” he starts, “So, like, speaking of… Gianna and Morgan’s whole thing, are there any other couples here? That work with us, I mean?” His breath is heavy, smells like chewing tobacco. It reminds me of my father’s when he used to drive mail trucks (or rather, hide tins of loose-leaf from my mother).
“Well, Gianna had that whole thing with Jon. But honestly, that was weird, and it didn’t last long, I kinda talked him out of it. Like, I totally love GiGi, but she’s nineteen and Jon’s a year below me, and, I don’t know, maybe it would’ve been fine, but I kinda see him as a younger brother, you know? We’ve been on the same bus since elementary school and everything. But oh, Mae and Griffin are together, and Mae dated Alex for a while- but never bring that up near Griffin. He gets all sulky when Alex gets scheduled with her. But yeah, that should be all.” My friendship bracelet from last semester’s lunch table jingles as I struggle to open a pickle jar. Frustrated with overgrown bangs entangling my eyelashes, I put the jar down and reach into my pocket for two pink barrettes, sloppily clipping them into the blend of my hairline. I ask him if it looks weird with my pigtails. He shakes his head.
“Right, right. So, how old are you again, Percy?” He runs his fingers over his mustache.
“I turn sixteen next month.” I lift myself onto the greasy beige counter, sitting crisscrossed between cash registers.
“Whew… damn, next month. Wow.”
“What? You’re mad because you’re twice my age, and getting trained by a kid? Old man.” I joust jeering jabs at my opponent; verbally puppy-nipping the nape of my friend’s discomfort. My nose scrunches playfully in his direction as I hand him the pickle jar, paired with a silent gesture for assistance. He pops it open and hands it back.
“You’re funny. No, no I was just thinking-”
“About the dinosaurs?” My teeth crunch into a pickle. Its juice runs down my chin sloppily as I giggle at my own quip.
“About how good it is that I haven’t hit on you yet.” His face is serious. My silver tongue fails. Silence falls between us, leaking out of the concession booth. I am still.
The theatre lobby is shiny, lit with dazzling lights that sparkle off huge windows. A cove in front of the concession stand has been decorated for a little girl’s princess themed birthday. Today’s been slow; we’ve had about fifty people come through. We’re the only employees. He continues.
“Don’t act surprised, you’ve obviously been jail-baiting me all shift.” He says this with a condescending edge, as if I’ve insulted the obvious.
“I have a boyfriend.” My stomach is knotted, writhing, consuming itself with a medley of alien toxins.
“Wow, you’re a tease. Bet it’s hard for him to keep an eye on you.”
“…Go sweep theatre six.” I think I’m undergoing autothysis. Or at least indigestion.
“You’re the boss, little lady.” He shoots a wink and I cringe as he turns towards the broom closet; I pray he hears the thudding of my telltale heart; I pray that the guilt for how he’s buried me under these floorboards of perversion consumes him; I am pained by the brute fact that he will, in fact, never be driven mad with contrition and confess his crime. My face is flushed. The lobby walls suddenly suffocate me with ironic cartoon stares from a half-dozen Disney princess birthday posters.
I’ve been alone in the stand for a few minutes, and the withering acid in my abdomen has subsided, allowing me the focus necessary to crack open my algebra homework. I’m halfway through reattempting the third-to-last question when a senior customer approaches the concession stand. After ordering two cokes and a bucket of popcorn, he grabs my hand when I give him his change. Tells me I look like his wife “in her prime.” I am fifteen years old and still have two baby teeth. He whispers that my “figure is delicious.” I see his wife smile at him from across the lobby. Her purse has little kitty cats on it; her eyes are bright with gentle love.
I dive into the stale storage room. Suddenly my knees are on my chest, and my chest is full of something sticky, and my lungs are stuck together, and my ribs can’t quite hold them anymore, and I am crying, and I need to get back out there because I’m not supposed to leave the booth, and OhGodIHaveToFinishThatAlgebraHomeworkBeforeMyShiftEnds. I delve into the small notepad and golf pencil I keep stashed in my work pants: I am writing. Of this anger, guilt, fear is born resentful poetry, a stumbling analogy in attempt to understand how this feeling of venomous hatred and blatant objectification is the glamour of womanhood.
08/26/2022
aphrodite: comprehensions
subconscious to girlhood
are reflections
told by strangers:
screamed raw into her ear with no rhyme.
An annoyed voice crackles over the ancient walkie-talkie clipped to my belt, but I don’t hear what it says, and Don’tYouDareCry,Percy,You’reWearingMascaraToday. I can’t help but feel that I am selling my dignity alongside popcorn for ten dollars a bucket. Is it the cash register and uniform that separates me from the rest of humanity? Or is it the pigtails? Well, they’re uniform too- kind of- and it’s not my fault that my hair’s too short to tie up differently; and maybe I should’ve kept growing it out, but my mom said it looked cute long, and then she told me that I’m not nearly as smart as my older brother when I almost flunked geometry last year, but I didn’t even flunk it and he did, and I don’t know, I just had to cut my hair after that.
admiration of her beauty is
never seen beyond sloppy brushstrokes
of a horny painter,
nor the soft marble sculpted to the curves
of a mother’s pottery,
nor the hypotheticals of song,
of an offstage passaggio.
Pitifully, I attempt to count my breathing. My chest subsides into rhythm, and slowly, the ringing in my ears subsides. Truth weighs heavy on my frame: nothing can be done here, not today, not until every man can face me with the same respect he extends to his mirror. Not until I can face my own mirror with the same respect I extend to those men.
so perverted in nature,
to gripe for intimacy with the unknown.
stood perpendicular to her gift of beauty,
twisted curse of ugly perception.
Snot cakes the lower half of my face; my mother’s stolen mascara is slick with saltwater on my cheeks; my forehead is resting on my knees. I wonder if he’d still think I’m pretty.
Percy Leigh Mines is a first-year English Literature major at Kennesaw State University. Born and raised in Georgia, she is an aspiring editor and musician, proud sister of Tau Beta Sigma, youngest daughter of Joseph and Jennifer Mines, and devoted lover of poetry.