Mutton is at the movies. He snuck in to sleep. The first shift of ushers are long-term employees, oblivious to man such as Mutton sleeping in the back row, but the second shift is manned by high school kids, proud of their first job and their tiny scrap of authority. You can't just sit through two movies, if you only bought a ticket for one. You only bought a ticket for one movie, Mutton. You can't sleep here.
When Mutton was a teenager, and if he had worked in a movie theater, he would have gladly let someone who appeared to be homeless sleep in the back. Nam vet or old alcoholic, someone harmless. They didn't harm shit. Now, if the guy had started whacking it or yelling, he would have been asked to leave, but Mutton never would have made back-handed comments at the guy, even if he did think the man smelled like pee. Mutton had always picked up hitchers, smoked a doobie with them. He was always kind to animals.
Mutton, are you going to sleep? Hey!
When Mutton wakes up, there are three guys standing over at him saying “Hey! Junkie! You suck dick for coke?”
Mutton! These kids are fucking with you. They're asking you if the sixties were cool and what Woodstock was like! Did you do acid? Are you a crackhead? There are three of them. High school boys. In this haze, their faces are lit up like old statues in the ashen movie-light. You're pushed back into the corner, away from everyone. No one's even watching this movie. You weren't bothering anyone. Were you snoring?
Once, you went to this party. College party. Maybe ten years ago. You had come in behind some kids, after you had been in town a week or so. You thought this was Barry's house. He invited you over to play chess and drink a beer. You sit at the kitchen table. Mutton, you don't actually speak to anyone and ask if Barry's here. Why not? Are you shy?
The stereo is playing a song, repeats “This is how we do it.” Some girls in the corner start laughing. Their big bracelets swing on their wrists as they whisper through their beautiful mouths behind their hands, looking at you. They're talking like a wave, a joke is being shared and rising. You're wearing your big sunglasses and a jean jacket, like a popular professional wrestler of that time, Brett “The Hitman” Hart. A guy drinking beer out of a stone jar is asking you if you have the password. You look up, through your pink plastic lenses. You don't say anything. He waves his hand at you, come on, urging you to speak. You don't belong. He is very big and wearing a rugby shirt. His hair is tied back in a ponytail.
“Get the fuck out!” he screams and kicks your chair out from under you and you crash back on the kitchen floor and roll into the dog food dish, sending kibbles all over the floor. The room echoes with laughter. Everyone is bellowing--they've never seen anything so funny. You get to your feet and someone grabs the guy. He has his fist raised and ready to plunge into you like a piston, until you are gone. You don't look back as you get to the door. They all have money. They will all be shielded from making the kind of decisions you have made. They have been chosen. They are all saved.
So here, in the theater, you know enough to not respond to what they say. You and these kids are two different species. They will go to college and stay with their tribe of mean, pampered assholes who nonetheless rule this life. You can't be hurt, can't even really understand what they're saying and you don't know why you should be ashamed. But you can't stay. You know if you tried to fight, they'd relish beating your ass and then they'd call the cops and get you charged with assault.
So you push past them, step over a row of seats awkwardly, and go out the emergency exit and it's snowing outside, behind the theater, where you belong.
