Ritual and Remarkable

A love letter to the movies and the people you go with.

Our small one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a small complex on Copper had soft beige carpet. As long as I refrained from wondering what it had collected over the decades, it always felt nice under my bare feet.

I would walk from the shower past my wife to our small closet and look for an outfit. I'm not sure why, but we always dressed up to go to the movies. Maybe it was because we were twenty-somethings and didn't have any other excuse, and our weekly trip to the movie theater was as good an excuse as any.

Once we were dressed, we would give each other a good look up and down, an eventual approving nod, smile, and then out the heavy steel door. The stairs down to the carport were covered in green felt that always reminded me of an old putt-putt place. If we were lucky there weren't any syringes (or their owners) to step over to get to our 1999 green Subaru Forester.

The drive to the movies was the perfect time to debut the new mix CD that I made for her that week. I would insert the disc, turn up the volume loud enough for effect, but not so loud that I couldn't make out "This song is amazing!" that I so badly wanted to hear every time.

The soundtrack for our drive to the theater is sacred. It has been since the very beginning of our relationship. We were in college when we went on our first "date" (the first time we went off campus together). It was a warm, early fall evening and she picked me up in her black 1994 Nissan Pathfinder. Her best friend was in the front and I sat in the back middle seat so I could see them both.

After we exchanged "hi's” and "hello’s”, my then crush blasted the stereo (too loud to hear me say "This song is amazing!") and started playing "Waiting for the End" by Linkin Park. It was the first time I had heard the song and it was forever imprinted as the perfect soundtrack for our first drive to our first movie together.

As soon as we pulled out of the carport, we would stop at the Walgreens on the corner of San Mateo and Central to pick up Haribo Goldbears (for me) and Junior Mints or Rolos (for my wife). Depending on our mood, we would either talk, sing and dance, or drive in silence listening to the music, content.

We would take San Mateo all the way to McCleod, then take the back road to the Cinemark Century Rio 24 off Jefferson. We would occasionally go to other theaters, but Rio 24 was always my favorite. The Rio 24 was everything a movie plex should be. When we pulled into the parking lot and saw the neon lights, massive banners advertising the latest blockbuster, I knew I was at the movies.

The first time I ever went to Rio 24 was also the first and only time I have been to a movie theater with my dad. I was eleven years old and he had just moved to Albuquerque. On my summer visit, he agreed to take me to see Tim Burton's Planet of the Apes on a packed Friday night showing. I remember approaching the box office and crossing the enormous concrete walkway in awe. We didn't have theaters like that in Gallup.

I loved the movie and Michael Clarke Duncan’s character, Attar, reminded me of my dad. Enormous, intimidating, strong and loyal. While we were leaving the auditorium, I asked my dad what he thought. He looked down at me with a smile and said “Super cool.” (which is essentially a 95% on Rotten Tomatoes for my dad’s movie rating system). I asked my dad to go to the movies and he loved it. I felt so much pride you would have thought that I was Tim Burton himself.

Every time I walked that same path to the box office, my wife's hand in mine, I felt a little bit of that same wonder that I did when I was eleven. We didn't buy our tickets online then, so it was always an exciting game to guess if we would be in an auditorium in the left wing, or the right. I always preferred the largest screen to the right, but never minded going all the way to the depths of the left wing to screen twenty-three.

These days, when my friend Josh and I go to the movies, we send screenshots from the AMC app to pick the exact time, screen, and seat that are most ideal. There's no fun in guessing, but we still have our own traditions.

Josh used to live in a huge apartment complex on Eudora right off of Colorado. It was almost exactly halfway between my work office and home. We would pick a showtime that was in the early evening so I could go right after work. I would look forward to it all day–during meetings that dragged, while reading emails from people asking dumb questions, and in the middle of client lunches.

The time we went to see Cocaine Bear, I found a podcast interview with Elizabeth Banks to listen to on my commute because I knew that Josh would have done his homework and I wanted to come prepared. As I left the office and set out to Eudora, I allowed myself to finally get excited.

I park along the street out front and text him that I am outside. He lets me into the building and we catch up on life. Usually about ten minutes before the movie starts we start walking up Eighth Street towards the AMC 9 that we affectionately call the Mothership (which is the best AMC theater in Denver).

As we slowly make our way to the theater, we talk about life, and movies we've watched since we last hung out. We talk about the movie we are about to see and I'm glad I did my homework on the way over. Not because Josh would care, he's just happy to be here with me walking to a movie, but because it allows us to have this shared moment.

Josh always prints his ticket. I made fun of him the first time I saw him bypass the attendant scanning digital tickets on iPhones so he could go to an empty kiosk "because that's the only way you can get your ticket printed." As I laugh at him, he explains that he's done it since he was a kid. I've happily joined him in his tradition since.

There are a few ticket stubs I wish I still had. Like that uncharacteristically hot afternoon in September when I was ten. My grandma decided on a whim that we should go see a movie. They were playing Remember The Titans at the Twin Cinemas in the mall. Good enough for us.

We endured the blazing heat radiating off the blacktop parking lot and the glare bouncing off the windshields as we walked toward the west entrance. As soon as we got through the doors we let the air conditioning blow relief over our faces. The box office was just across the walkway from the Orange Julius in the food court. We grabbed the tickets (that I wish I kept) and went to the screen on the left.

I remember looking at my grandma's smile when Creedence Clearwater Revival needle dropped, and her eyes well with tears when they threw a brick through Coach Boone’s window. She was from the South and I think the beautiful and the horrendous scenes that took place on the screen deeply resonated with her. I'll never forget that spontaneous trip to the movies.

Chandler worked later than us, and usually couldn’t make the showtimes we picked. But as soon as the movie was over, Josh would text him to see if he wanted to meet us for dinner or drinks. If it was drinks, it was always at Bar Car–a dive right across the street from the theater. It's long and narrow, and we always made our way to the very back near the restrooms. If the open lounge seating wasn't occupied, we would take it. It was usually open because I think most people assumed it was a VIP section–or at least as close to a VIP section as a dive bar could get. It isn't roped off, but it is slightly elevated and has the only velvet-cushioned seating in the place. On multiple occasions someone headed to the restroom with blush cheeks and a smile on their face would say "What, are you guys some sort of celebrities?" or "Is this a party? I want to sit here!".

Chandler would grab a drink from the bar and join us in the back. He didn't mind that we spoiled Cocaine Bear–or whatever movie it was that week–and would want to hear all about it. Like the walk from the apartment to the Mothership, we hop from talking about the movie we just saw, other movies, and life. We share honestly from the heart but also look for any opportunity to roast each other with an inside joke.

We are always laughing. Hearing Chandler's boisterous laugh that fills up the entire corner, and seeing Josh's head rock back and eyes disappear into a squint is medicine. The release of laughter, the bond we share over a fifteen-dollar movie ticket, and a six-dollar beer and shot is cathartic.

When I look through the bar out the windows and see the night is as dark as it will get, and remember that I work in the morning, we reluctantly accept that it's time to pay our tab and go home. I feel sleep weighing on my eyelids and I do my best not to start another deep conversation that will keep us standing in the parking lot for another thirty minutes.

When we finally get to the apartment on Eudora, I say goodbye to my friends with a hug. I apply just enough pressure so that I won't pop a rib but hopefully, they know how much I appreciate them. I drive home in silence. This is one of the rare times I don't want music or a podcast to fill the dead air. I'm filled to the brim with life and gratitude.